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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

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thanks to you now, i made another tag for my fics rec but with ✨the crème de la crème ✨

i love it, truly 🥹❤️‍🩹

PPL GO READ THIS GEM PLS IT’S WORTH IT!

symptoms and causes | ch. 01

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

ღ wc 13.1 k

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood / abuse, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note so exited to start this series!! dive in and let me know what you think—i love hearing your thoughts! & pls like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world !! ♡ (fanart in the header)

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

next chapter ->

"Who's that?"

Every gaze in the room turned towards you.

"She's my student—," Dr. Geto responded, a trace of amusement twisting his lip. He didn't have to follow Dr. Gojo's stare to know its target. "—a first-year medical student."

A murmur rippled through the group of students, their eyes stinging like needles in your neck. You were acutely aware of your position—the youngest, the least experienced, an outsider among those who had studied for years.

"What?" Gojo's voice sliced through the air. He turned his scrutinizing gaze towards Geto. "You brought a fucking first-year into my operating room?"

Ouch.

Geto chuckled. "Relax, Satoru. She's good."

Gojo's expression tightened. He turned back to you, those unnervingly bright blue eyes raking over you from behind his surgical glasses. It made your skin crawl. "You, first-year. Bypass, endovascular, or direct microsurgical approach?"

The air in the operating room was thick.

Dr. Geto and Dr. Gojo had been circling the issue for at least half an hour, dissecting strategies as if the patient weren't laid skull open before them, the aneurysm a ticking time bomb in the patient's brain.

None of the students dared to move, too terrified to even breathe. It was a test. But hesitation wasn't in your vocabulary.

"You should do a hybrid approach. Start with endovascular coiling to reduce the risk of rupture. Parallel prep for a bypass, using intraoperative Doppler for flow assessment. Stabilize, then microsurgical clipping. Definitive closure."

Silence filled the room. Somehow the eyes of the other students stinging even more now. Your boldness given such a complex situation was either brilliance or audacity—perhaps both.

Geto's laughter broke the tension. "I might've forgotten to mention—she's my best student."

Gojo's gaze lingered on you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "That's some complex shit you suggest. The endovascular coiling has to be precise to reduce the risk of aneurysm rupture, and then we switch to microsurgery in an already compromised field."

"Complex, yes, but you have no other choice. The endovascular phase provides stabilization, making the surgical field less treacherous for clipping," you countered.

"And the risk of thrombosis?" Gojo pressed.

"Could happen."

"Could happen?" Gojo repeated. "That's your statement on that?"

"It's either the hybrid approach, or the patient is dead anyway," you said, maintaining his unyielding gaze.

"Is this woman serious?" Gojo murmured, almost inaudibly. His gaze shifted to Geto, seeking perhaps a silent judgment or agreement. Geto, following the exchange with an unreadable smile, seemed more amused than concerned.

"So?" Geto prompted.

Gojo's gaze snapped back to you, his eyes raking over you as if searching for a flaw in your logic. His silence stretched taut between you, a wordless evaluation. Finally, the verdict, "Let's proceed with the hybrid approach."

You exhaled sharply, only then realizing you'd been holding your breath.

A flurry of activity erupted as the nurses prepared for the surgery you'd proposed. You watched closely as the surgeons moved with practiced precision around the patient's exposed brain tissue—both undoubtedly the best neurosurgeons in the country.

"Your name," Dr. Gojo demanded, his focus still on the task at hand. "What is it?"

You gave your name in response.

He repeated your name, as if testing how the name felt. "Do you always approach problems with such boldness?"

"If the situation demands it."

Something in his masked face shifted, a subtle expression that might have been a smile. Whatever it was, it seemed out of place.

"Interesting."

─── ·✧· ───

The corridors of Tokyo Medical University were bustling with life, echoing the footsteps and chatter of students. Lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces, you stood somewhat disoriented in front of the map of the University. Finding your way to your anatomy class felt like an impossible task, especially with less than four minutes on the clock.

It was your first day.

And already the middle of the semester.

Definitely not a good start to come late.

The university you used to attend was half this size, and somehow you already missed it. But who would turn down the opportunity to study at the country's most prestigious medical university? Especially with the chance to learn from the most renowned neurosurgeons teaching there?

So here you were.

Two minutes left.

All of a sudden, someone ran into you, causing you to fall to the ground.

"Whoa, sorry! I'm so sorry!" You looked up to see a guy with tousled black hair and noticeable dark circles under his eyes. He quickly extended a hand to help you up. "Are you okay?"

Brushing off your clothes, you nodded and accepted his hand, feeling a surprising strength as he easily pulled you back to your feet.

"You new here?" he asked, studying your face. "You seem a bit lost."

The subtle irony in his comment almost coaxed a smile out of you, especially considering his own worn-out look. "Yeah, it's my first day, and I'm already running late. I'm trying to find Dr. Ieiri's anatomy class."

"No way, that's my class too! Come on, I'll show you, but we need to make it quick," he responded, already moving ahead with a sense of urgency. You hastened to keep pace with his swift strides.

"I'm Yuta Okkotsu, by the way," he introduced himself as you weaved through the bustling corridors. "So, what's the story behind your mid-semester transfer?"

"I was at a different medical school, but then got this offer to transfer here."

Yuta's eyes widened slightly. "An offer to transfer? That's pretty impressive. You must be quite talented."

"I'm not so sure about that, I think I just got lucky."

Yuta led the way through the bustling corridors, his familiarity with the campus evident in every confident turn he took. Finally, you arrived at the large doors of the auditorium where Dr. Ieiri's anatomy class was supposed to be held. Pushing the doors open, you both slipped inside, but there was no sign of the professor yet.

"Made it," Yuta gasped, a grin spreading across his face despite the shortness of breath. "With, uh, time to spare!" He glanced at his watch. "Okay, maybe not."

Yuta, still catching his breath, gestured towards a group sitting near the back. "Come on, you can sit with us. My friends are cool, I promise."

As you followed, you noticed a girl with striking green hair. She was leafing through a thick textbook with an expression that suggested she found the content less than challenging. "That's Maki," Yuta whispered to you. "Don't let her scare you—she's actually really nice."

Maki looked up as you approached. "New student?"

"Transfer student actually," Yuta corrected. "Is Inumaki also running late?"

Before Maki could respond, the doors swung open. But instead of Dr. Ieiri, Dr. Satoru Gojo stepped in, his presence as commanding as when you first saw him.

No way.

The room fell into an instant hush. Dr. Gojo sauntered to the front of the auditorium, his silver hair gleaming in the gentle sun.

"Good morning, class," he began, his voice effortlessly filling the hall. "Dr. Ieiri is unavailable today, so I'll be taking you through the nervous system."

He scribbled his name on the board, one hand nonchalantly tucked into his trouser pocket. Turning back to face the class, he rolled up his sleeves, his captivating blue eyes even more striking without the barrier of surgical glasses.

As his gaze swept across the students, it abruptly landed on you. For a split second, his confident demeanor wavered, replaced by a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

"The first-year?"

Following his gaze, all heads turned towards you—dozens of stabbing eyes.

Fantastic, center stage yet again.

You locked eyes with Gojo for a heartbeat, maybe a minute, maybe a year. Heat spread all over your skin. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then he cleared his throat and regained his professional poise.

"As I was saying," he turned his attention back to the class, "—since Dr. Ieiri isn't here, we'll dive deeper into the nervous system. So listen well."

His eyes met yours one more time before he launched into the lecture.

─── ·✧· ───

As the lecture came to an end, the students began to gather their belongings. You also began to pack up your notes, still processing the intense lecture Dr. Gojo had just given. It was clear—he was not a professor who took it easy on his students.

"Should we grab a bite? We've got a few minutes before the next class," Yuta suggested, glancing at both you and Maki as you made your way towards the exit. But just as you were about to step out, Dr. Gojo's voice halted you in your tracks.

"Not you, first-year."

The remaining students cast curious glances your way as they continued to file out of the auditorium. Yuta paused, his gaze shifting between you and Dr. Gojo.

"I'll catch up later," you said to him. He nodded before disappearing with the last of the students.

Turning back, you found Dr. Gojo leaning nonchalantly against his desk with his arms crossed. His intense gaze was focused on you. The room quickly emptied, leaving only the two of you.

"I'm curious, what brings a first-year into an operating room?" he finally broke the silence.

"Dr. Geto invited me to observe."

"Dr. Geto?" he echoed, pushing himself off from the desk and taking a few steps closer. "How did you come to know him?"

"He invited me to transfer here," you explained. "He's overseeing a research project that I'm a part of."

"You what? You mean you're working with him on the neuroprosthetics?"

"Yes," you simply said.

He paused for a moment, then let out a chuff before taking a few deliberate steps closer. "Tell me, what did it take for you to get into this university? To become part of Suguru's team as a mere first-year student?"

Your brows furrowed slightly. "Are you insinuating something, Dr. Gojo?"

His lips curled into a half-smile, his approach halting just a breath away from you. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of suggesting anything untoward, like a student getting ahead by... unconventional means. That'd be highly inappropriate, wouldn't it?"

The air around you seemed to thicken as he loomed closer, his tall frame nearly casting a shadow over you against the backdrop of the window.

"I didn't know you were even Suguru's type," he continued.

Was he for real?

He knew nothing.

Nothing about the countless hours you'd poured into your studies. Nothing about the sleepless nights spent devouring research papers. Nothing about the relentless drive that had earned you recognition in the scientific community despite your young age. And here he was, accusing you of fucking your way up the ladder.

"Why? Are you jealous?" The words slipped out before you could think.

Gojo's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. "I can see why Suguru took an interest."

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, yet you found yourself unable to look away. It was as if he was trying to read your very thoughts, peeling back layers with nothing but his piercing blue eyes.

For a moment, his gaze drifted downward, lingering on your lips. Your pulse quickened, a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Too bad, I'm on the neuroprosthetics team too," he remarked. "We'll be seeing quite a bit of each other, it seems."

Suddenly, he stepped back, breaking the intensity of the moment. "Make sure you live up to the expectations, first-year. I won't go easy on you just because you're a rookie."

With those final words, he turned away, leaving you standing in the midst of the empty auditorium, your mind racing.

Was he for real real?

─── ·✧· ───

"Ugh, I hate that guy!"

Geto looked up from his desk, a single eyebrow raised in response to your dramatic entrance into his office. "That guy?"

"I mean Dr. Gojo," you clarified, pacing the room. "I can't keep up with his arrogance."

He leaned back in his chair, regarding you with a calm, measured gaze. "He's not as bad as you think. You just need to get to know him better."

Know him better?

Yeah, that was the least you wanted to do.

"He just accused me of sleeping with you to get into this university!"

The words tumbled out of your mouth, more bluntly than you intended. Your relationship with Geto had always been somewhat informal, feeling more like a friendship. But this level of frankness was a step further than usual. But the anger and frustration boiling inside you made it impossible to hold back.

Geto couldn't suppress a laugh. "Sounds like something he would say," he mused, interlacing his fingers behind his head.

You stopped pacing the room and turned to face him. "Ha?"

"Listen," Geto began. "Gojo is a good man. He's always worked hard, so it might be a little irritating for him to see someone new get the recognition he's worked for years to get."

"But I've worked hard too," you countered.

"I know," Geto leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "That's why I invited you here, to be part of my research team. He'll see your potential sooner or later." A warm smile played on his lips.

"So I just have to wait for his approval?"

"It looks like it," Geto shrugged.

Great.

"Besides we need him on this project, so it's best if you two find a way to get along. You'll learn a lot working with Gojo," he added.

You sighed. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Gojo is not easily impressed. But I have a feeling that you made quite an impression on him with your boldness in the operating room the other day. Not many students would suggest such an approach as you did."

"Is that a compliment?"

"You can take it as one, yes," he replied with a chuckle. He then stood up and began packing his bag. "Oh, and also, we're starting work on the project tomorrow, right after your last class."

Fantastic.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes," he confirmed, nodding. "I think it's best we dive right in. Gojo will be there too, of course. It'll be a good opportunity for both of you to start fresh." His smile widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

You couldn't help but feel he was somewhat enjoying the situation.

─── ·✧· ───

The air was filled with the sterile scent of preservatives.

Anatomy class was in full swing, the only sound being the quiet murmur of focused students. You stood at your desk next to Yuta, Maki, and Toge, each of you meticulously dissecting and examining organs under the microscope. But your mind was elsewhere, lost in a blur of thoughts about the research project starting later that day.

As you sliced an organ in half with a practiced hand, your gaze drifted unfocused, the image under the microscope blurring. A wave of nausea washed over you. Perhaps it was the onset of the flu, or perhaps it was a convenient excuse to avoid facing Gojo later.

"Hey, you okay?" Yuta's voice pulled you back to the present. You realized you had been staring blankly at the tissue sample for longer than necessary.

"Yeah, just thinking about the project later."

Maki glanced over, her eyes sharp behind her safety glasses. "With Dr. Gojo, right? That's going to be—interesting."

You paused. "What do you mean?"

"Dr. Gojo, well, he's notorious for being an ass," Maki said, her focus still on her own dissection. "He's undeniably a genius, but he's also—brutal. He has a way of pushing students to their limits, often too far."

Fantastic.

Just what you needed to hear.

Your stomach churned. "I had a feeling about that."

"His standards are high, and he's not exactly gentle in his criticism. If you don't meet his expectations, he'll let you know, and not kindly," she continued. "He's made more than a few students question their life choices."

"Yeah, I've heard similar stories. You either meet his expectations or you're pretty much done," Yuta added.

The thought of working with Dr. Gojo was getting more fun by the minute.

Maybe you should call in sick.

Toge contributed his one-word insight, "God complex," which seemed to perfectly sum up the mood of the conversation about Dr. Gojo.

"But—," Maki interjected, finally looking up, "—he's still the best in his field. If you can handle the pressure, he's undoubtedly the one to learn from."

Yeah, but what was the price for that?

You let out a tired sigh.

Returning to your task, you carefully aligned the organ under the microscope. Gojo was intimidating, no doubt, but you had worked your ass off to reach this point. You weren't going to back down just because he was a dick. After all, Geto was also working on the project, so how bad could it possibly be then?

You glanced up from the microscope to adjust its focus. However, you couldn't help but notice Yuta. He glanced at Maki over his microscope with this look—that certain look.

Interesting.

─── ·✧· ───

"Your idea is just ridiculous!"

"Oh really? Yours is just shit!"

You didn't know how it ended up like this. It was barely two minutes into the discussion about a critical aspect of the research project, and here you were, shouting at each other. The entire lab had gone silent, all eyes glued to the heated exchange. Geto, leaning against a counter, watched the scene unfold with an amused smile playing on his lips.

"Your approach could compromise the entire neural interface integration," you argued. "It's too aggressive and doesn't take into account the potential for neural tissue damage."

Gojo was standing so close, that you could see the flecks of color in his eyes, feel the heat radiating off him. And could probably spit in his face.

Maybe you should do that.

His approach was risky—dangerous even. How could he not see that?

"It's necessary," Gojo countered. "—playing it safe doesn't always work."

Yeah, you know that. But not in this case, not with this patient. It was borderline reckless.

"There's a fine line between a breakthrough and recklessness," you shot back.

"You're so naive," he retorted, stepping even closer. "You don't understand when it's time to take some risks."

You stared at him. "Taking risks? No, you're just being insane!"

"You—" he started but Geto quickly intervened.

"Alright, that's enough for now," he said, placing a hand on each of your shoulders, physically creating space between you and Gojo. "Let's take a break."

But Gojo's eyes never left yours, unbroken even as Geto gently shoved him backwards. You stood there, your breath ragged, your heart racing. Around you, the lab slowly came back to life as the others resumed their tasks, occasionally stealing glances in your direction.

"Could you get us some coffee?" Geto asked, pressing a few bills into your hand.

Yeah. Sure.

You nodded. The unexpected surge of adrenaline that had coursed through your veins didn't leave you needing caffeine, but hell, you took anything that would get you away from him. As you made your way out of the lab, you could still feel his gaze on you.

Taking your time, you wandered to the cafeteria. Okay, maybe you just didn't find the way. But you didn't really care. The university was already empty at this hour. The moonlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows that danced along the walls.

By the time you returned to the lab, the coffee had grown cold in your hands. Geto immediately perked up at your return, pushing himself away from his desk and walking over to you. "Ah, great," he said with a smile, taking a cup from your hands. "Thanks."

Your gaze shifted to Gojo, who hadn't moved an inch, his attention seemingly absorbed by the computer screen in front of him. Without a word, you placed his cup on his desk.

The rest of the evening was a blur of lab work, discussions, and planning.

You were focused on analyzing a blood sample to identify specific markers and genetic predispositions to determine if a patient was eligible for research. Normally an easy task, but your concentration began to waver.

Glancing at the clock, you noticed that it was well past midnight. The lab was quiet, most of the equipment was turned off, and the only light was the dim glow of a few workstations. Geto had left some time ago, urging you to do the same, but you stayed. It would take longer to continue your work tomorrow than to finish it now.

However, each test you ran seemed to produce inconclusive or erratic results. You rechecked the protocols, ran the tests again, but the results were still the same. Exhaustion was clouding your judgment, leading you to make mistakes you wouldn't normally make.

After yet another failed attempt, you let out a sigh and rubbed your tired eyes.

How was this so fucking hard all of a sudden?

"Let me help you," said a voice from behind you. It was Gojo. You thought he had already left, or maybe you were just so focused on your own task. You felt his presence close behind you as he leaned in to examine the blood sample results on the screen.

"See here," he said, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. He reached around you to steer the controls, his arms encircling you. Your skin heated. "The centrifugation speed and time must be precisely calibrated. It affects the separation of cellular components, which is critical for accurate marker identification."

You nodded slightly, even though you already knew that. Somehow, you were now a bit ashamed of your own sudden stupidity. As the sample was prepared and placed for analysis, his presence remained close, his body heat and the soft cadence of his breathing a constant distraction. The results started to display on the screen, this time showing the definitive patterns you had been seeking.

"No need to thank me," Gojo said, straightening up—giving you some much-needed air to breathe. "You should go home, it's late."

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Yeah, you should really go home.

As Gojo moved towards the door, he paused briefly, his hand resting on the handle. "Burning out won't do you, or the project, any good."

You watched him for a moment. Somehow, in the dim light, his features softened the usually sharp lines of his face. "Are you concerned?"

"Concerned that you mess this project up," he said with a grin on his lips.

You let out a tired sigh. "Of course."

─── ·✧· ───

Another day. Another fight.

The tension in the lab was palpable as you and Gojo stood across from each other. The issue had resurfaced. So had the friction between your methods. Your opposing views seemed like an insurmountable chasm.

"You're not considering the long-term implications of your approach," you insisted, your voice tinged with frustration. "We need to think about patient recovery, not just the immediate results."

"The primary goal is to ensure the success of the procedure. Your 'cautious' tactics might compromise the project's objectives," Gojo retorted.

You bristled at his words. "It's not about being cautious—it's about being thorough and responsible. We can't afford to overlook potential complications."

The debate intensified, each point you made met with a sharp rebuttal from Gojo. As the argument escalated, he took a step closer, his blue eyes locked on yours. "Your method will not work, first-year. Playing it safe will kill this patient."

His proximity was overwhelming, and for a moment, you lost your train of thought, caught up in the intensity of his gaze. "My method will keep him alive," you managed to say, trying to regain your composure.

Before he could respond, you glanced at the clock on the wall and realized with a start that you were late for your class. "I have to go," you said abruptly, the urgency of the situation breaking the tension.

"We're not done with this discussion," Gojo snapped.

"Yeah, whatever," you said as you hurried out of the lab and rushed to your class.

Gojo let out a low hiss under his breath. As you left the lab, Geto approached him, his expression serious despite the hint of a smile on his lips. Some might say he looked scary.

"Satoru," Geto began. "Can we talk for a minute?"

Gojo turned, his posture stiffening. "About what?"

Geto crossed his arms, leaning back against a lab table. "Could you please stop pissing off my precious student?"

"Ha?" he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Are you seriously siding with her?"

"I am," Geto confirmed. "I wanted her on this project because she and I are on the same page."

"Of course you are."

"Satoru, I don't want to throw you off this project, so please try to find a middle ground with her. Give her a chance."

Gojo exhaled sharply, the lines on his face softening slightly. "Your approach is too cautious. It won't work."

Geto maintained his calm demeanor. "We'll see."

"Fine," Gojo finally conceded. "I'll try to—work with her. On one condition."

"And what's that?" Geto asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We do it my way if your approach doesn't work," Gojo said.

"Fair enough."

Gojo looked away, his gaze settling on the empty space where you had stood moments before. There was a brief pause, his mind racing.

"Suguru, what exactly do you see in her?" Gojo asked after a while.

"Hm?" Geto looked at Gojo thoughtfully. "She has potential, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, potential," Gojo echoed, his voice trailing off slightly.

Geto tilted his head.

─── ·✧· ───

The sun streamed through the windows of the anatomy classroom, casting a warm glow across the rows of desks. Despite the bright light, your eyelids felt heavy, the endless fights with Gojo replaying in your mind and robbing you of much-needed energy.

You sat beside Yuta, Maki, and Toge, struggling to focus on the lecturer's words.

"Rough day?" Yuta whispered.

You propped your head up with one hand, blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to clear the fog of fatigue. "More like a rough week."

"You look like shit," Maki remarked.

"Thanks."

As the lecturer continued discussing the intricacies of human anatomy, your thoughts drifted back to Gojo. Despite all the arguments you had with him, all you could think about was the memory of his intense gaze, his closeness, his soft voice, even his scent. It made it impossible to concentrate on the lecture.

Yuta nudged you gently when you almost nodded off, your head dipping forward. "You really should get some rest after this."

Suddenly, an announcement woke you up in an instant.

"Now we'll do a quick test." Dr. Ieiri announced. "It's crucial for your upcoming exams."

A collective groan echoed through the class. You froze, your heart sinking. A test was the last thing you needed right now.

Yuta turned to you. "You got this," he said, trying to offer some encouragement.

You weren't so sure.

As the test papers were distributed, you stared blankly at the questions. Your mind, usually sharp and focused during exams, felt sluggish and unresponsive. One by one, you read through the questions, trying to recall the knowledge you knew was hopefully buried somewhere in your tired brain.

Fuck.

It was all questions about something like skin, bones and that shit. You could recall every little detail about the brain, but bones? Fuck, you really should have paid attention in that class.

Panic set in as you realized that you might actually fail this test.

─── ·✧· ───

1:07 AM.

You were still wide awake.

Tossing and turning, you found sleep elusive. Everything that had happened lately was replaying in your mind. You had barely been in Tokyo for a few weeks and your life was already so different. You barely had time to fix up your apartment, the moving boxes still there, waiting to be opened. And then the anatomy test—

You needed a distraction, something to focus on that wasn't your own disappointment.

So you decided to head back to the university lab. Maybe immersing yourself in work would help clear your head. The quiet, empty streets at this hour were oddly comforting as you drove to the campus. Upon arriving at the lab, you were surprised to see the lights already on. You pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar space.

No way.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, unable to hide your surprise.

Gojo hunched over a microscope, deeply engrossed in his work. He looked up, his expression one of mild annoyance. "I could ask you the same," he replied.

Nice.

Even in the lab, it seemed you couldn't escape his presence. He was always there, haunting both your mind and your reality.

"You shouldn't work so late. You're still a student," Gojo remarked.

You glanced at him. "Yeah, you've already told me that. But I want this project to work just as much as you."

Gojo looked your way, his striking blue eyes catching the dim lab light. "Don't you ever take a break? Go out? Maybe party or so?"

You observed him for a moment. His hair was disheveled, giving him a more relaxed, approachable look than usual. "I'm not really into the party scene," you admitted.

"I guessed as much," he responded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he returned his focus back to his work.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, somewhat hurt.

"It's not a criticism, just an observation."

Setting up at a nearby workstation, you began reviewing some data on a patient you were about to perform surgery on. He was the first to receive a transplant directly into his cerebral cortex, hoping to bypass the damaged spinal cord and allow direct brain control of a prosthetic limb.

It was the first time such an operation had ever been performed. And Geto would be the one to do the surgery. Gojo would have normally, but he refused. He was still convinced it was the wrong approach. Even though all the data showed otherwise.

Sipping from your coffee, you glanced over at Gojo, finding a strange comfort in his presence. He worked with a focus and intensity that was almost mesmerizing.

3:23 AM.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on your eyelids as you completed the final analysis. Now all you had to do was wait for the results. You rested your head on your hand, sinking lower and lower until your head touched the cool surface of the desk. Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt.

Time passed unnoticed until a gentle touch caressed your cheek. It jolted you from sleep. You flinched slightly, your eyes fluttering open. Your gaze slowly traveled up, finally locking with Gojo's eyes. He stood beside you, his thumb lingering just a moment longer on your skin, stroking lightly over your cheek.

"You hungry?"

You straightened up, pulling back a little. Suddenly conscious of the close proximity. A warm flush spread across your cheeks.

Gojo pulled up a chair, turned it backwards and faced you. He unwrapped a small meal he had brought from a nearby bakery, the scent of fresh pastries filling the air.

There was a casual ease to his movements. Like everything he did. Whether he was slicing through a brain or just existing. He always seemed so unbothered. As if he knew he would never fail at anything anyway.

Blinking tiredly, you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the lingering veil of sleep. As you moved, a jacket slipped from your shoulders. His jacket. He must have draped it over your shoulders while you slept. It smelled like him.

"Keep it," he said before you could part your lips. "The body cools down after sleep."

"Always the doctor, aren't you?" you replied with a hint of a smile, pulling the jacket back around your shoulders. "Thank you."

Reaching for the pastry he had brought, you became acutely aware of his gaze. The intensity in his eyes that sent shivers down your spine.

"Tell me something about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" you asked, taking a bite of the pastry.

"Everything."

You chuckled. "That would take a while."

"I've got time."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling his gaze still intently on you.

"Tell me how Suguru found you," he continued.

"Back in my hometown, I was already in medical university, working on a research project about a specific type of brain tumor called glioblastoma multiforme. My mentor at the time encouraged me to publish a paper on my findings. It seems that Geto stumbled upon my work. That's how I ended up here."

"Impressive," he said. "Why this specific type of brain tumor?"

A lump formed in your throat. "Because my father died of it."

Gojo paused, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to read your thoughts.

"My father was a neurosurgeon, too. I practically grew up in operating rooms," you continued.

"Why did he die?"

The directness of his question caught you slightly off guard. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts.

"The tumor was too aggressive. The surgery was useless, he knew that, but he wanted it anyway. They tried a radical surgery to remove as much of the tumor as possible while preserving vital brain function. But it failed. My father was just dead meat breathing after the surgery. My mother never got over that loss. I think she lost her mind."

The gruesome edge of your words surprised him, his eyes widening slightly. You looked away, unable to maintain eye contact with Gojo as his stupidly handsome blue eyes seemed to pierce your soul.

Silence stretched between you two.

"I'm sorry," Gojo said eventually.

"It's okay. He's long gone," your eyes lingered on the pastry. "It's what drove me to neurology," you continued, gathering the courage to look up at him. "I wanted to contribute to something that might change outcomes for people like my father."

"Is that why you want to go for the safe approach with the patient in our neuroprosthetics project?"

You thought about it. But it wouldn't help to lie anyway. "Yeah, that's probably it."

Gojo ran his fingers through his hair, releasing a weary exhale.

"Tell me about you now," you said, changing the subject.

He paused, then offered a brief, wry smile. "Not married, no girlfriend, no kids."

"That's not really what I meant."

"Sure?" he teased, the corners of his mouth turning up in a playful smile.

"Why not?" you asked him. This was indeed interesting. He was handsome. Tall. Barely in his thirties. A famous neurosurgeon. He was basically the whole package. Except—

"No time, I guess," he said.

"What a lame excuse," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. You stretched your arms above your head, trying to relieve the tension that had built up in your muscles. A slight smile lingered on your lips as you added, "I guess you're just too much ego for any woman to handle."

"Oh, sweetheart," Gojo replied, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a natural ease. "I suspect you have just as much ego as me."

Suddenly, Gojo stood up and closed the distance between you. You remained seated, looking up at him, your heart rate quickening. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at you. The intensity in his gaze was palpable, and you found yourself caught in it, unable to look away. The room seemed to shrink, the space between you charged.

Then, leaning in, Gojo brought his face close to yours, his breath a whisper against your ear. The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. "Bad for you," he murmured softly, his voice a low rumble, "I do like arrogant woman."

Before you could respond, he straightened up. "Good night," he said. "You should get some sleep."

With that, he turned and walked out of the lab, leaving you sitting there. The air seemed to shift back to normal as the door closed behind him.

─── ·✧· ───

Your legs hurt. Your back hurt. Your hips hurt. Your neck hurt.

Everything hurt.

You stood on the sidelines of the operating room for nearly 6 hours. Standing still on the same spot. You'll never get used to that. It's the worst part of the job. But it was still a privilege to witness Geto and Gojo in surgery, right?

The room was filled with the sound of beeping monitors and the low murmur of the assisting surgical team. From your vantage point, you had a clear view of the procedure and the surgeons. They worked together with a quiet efficiency that was fascinating.

However, as you watched, something about Gojo caught your attention. His movements seemed slightly off. You started noticing it about an hour ago. But no one said anything. His hair was drenched in sweat and clung to his forehead. You could see the slight trembling in his hands, almost imperceptible.

Something was definitely off.

Your gaze lingered on him, studying his every move.

"First-year."

Gojo suddenly paused and looked up, his eyes meeting yours. You flinched slightly, as he caught you starring at him. "You want to try the next part?" he asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the operating room.

Was he serious?

Before you could reply, Geto interjected, "Satoru, are you joking? She's still a student."

Gojo's gaze didn't waver from you. "I know. But you said she's your best student," he replied his lips twitching with a smile. "I want to test that."

"You've done aneurysm surgery before, back in your hometown, right?" Gojo asked you.

Did he google you or what?

"Yes," you replied.

"Then step forward," he said.

You hesitated. Your gaze drifted to Geto for confirmation. Geto hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

Heart pounding, you stepped forward to the operating table. A rush of adrenaline surged through you. You took the offered surgical tools with a steady hand from Gojo, his eyes locked with yours. "We're going to work on clipping the aneurysm now. You've done it before, right?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

"Good." He moved closer, positioning himself so he could guide you while still giving you control. "Start with an incision here," he instructed, pointing to a specific area on the patient's brain with his own instrument.

You could feel his gaze over your shoulder; the warmth of his body near yours. As you made the initial incision, Gojo moved even closer. "Now, carefully dissect the tissue to expose the aneurysm," he continued.

Your hands worked around the fragile brain. You did surgery before. Yes. But this was another level. Every eye of every nurse and doctor in the room was on you. Geto was monitoring the patient's data. He glanced at you from time to time, his expression unreadable. But you were at least three inches deep into a human brain, so there was no way out anyway.

After that, you would certainly have to vomit from the adrenaline.

At one critical point, your hands hesitated. Your heart almost exploded. In that moment, you could either kill this patient or save him. "Calm down," Gojo said, so low and close to your ear that only you could hear it. Gojo's hand cupped yours gently. "You're doing fine. Trust yourself," he murmured. His touch was brief, but it was enough to ground you for a moment.

Sweat trickled down your forehead as you isolated the aneurysm and prepared it for clipping.

"Good," he whispered.

Finally, as you placed the clip on the aneurysm and secured it, a wave of accomplishment washed over you. Hell, you really did it.

"Congratulations, an excellent clipping," Gojo said, his lips forming a smile. "You can step back now."

"Thank you, Dr. Gojo," you whispered. As you stepped back, a wide smile spread across your face, hidden beneath the mask but undeniable in the sparkle of your eyes.

Gojo took the lead again to close up the patient. But his gaze shifted to you every now and then.

Geto's eyes narrowed.

─── ·✧· ───

"You did a good job in there."

Gojo glanced in your direction as you both washed up in the scrub room after the operation.

"Thanks," you replied, meeting his eyes.

"I may have underestimated you," he said, his lips curving into a teasing smile.

Wait? Was that a compliment? From him?

Before you could respond, the door to the scrub room burst open. Geto stormed in, his face flushed with anger. He tore off his scrubs and threw them into the trash with a thud that made you flinch.

"We need to talk, Satoru," he said sharply. His intense gaze was fixed solely on Gojo, as if you weren't even there.

Shit.

Gojo calmly turned off the tap and reached for a towel, drying his hands with deliberate slowness. His face was an unreadable mask. He gave you a brief glance before following Geto out of the room.

"Don't you dare fuck my student," Geto hissed before the door had even fully closed behind them. But it didn't matter anyway, you could hear their voices through the thin walls.

Gojo leaned back against a table. His arms crossed over his chest. "What are you getting at?"

"Don't try to fuck with me, Satoru. I've seen the way you look at her."

"I supervised her, so that she wouldn't kill the patient. That's all you saw."

"Supervision?" Geto's voice was sharp. "Since when do you let a student handle such a crucial part of a surgery? What's gotten into you? What if she had screwed up?"

Gojo's eyes narrowed. "What's your problem? She's proven herself capable, and she performed brilliantly today, don't you think?"

Geto advanced a step, closing the distance between them. His frustration palpable. "This isn't like you, Satoru. You're blurring lines that should remain clear. She's a student. You're supposed to be her mentor, not—not whatever you're turning this into."

The room went silent.

"Your concern is noted, but misplaced," Gojo said. "My interest in her is purely professional. She has potential, real potential, and it's my job to support that."

Geto's expression hardened. "That's right, she has potential, and you're risking that if you can't keep your hands off her."

"What?" Gojo pushed away from the table. "Because you want her for yourself?"

"I can't believe you'd go there," Geto snapped back. "I brought her here because she's damn good at what she does, not for any other reason."

Gojo's face tightened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "You should know me better, Suguru. I was giving her a shot to show her skills, that's all."

In a sudden move, Geto closed the distance and grasped Gojo's shirt, pulling him forward. Their faces were just inches apart. "Listen, Satoru," Geto said. "I'm dead serious. One wrong step, one slip, and you could ruin everything—her career, the project, your own reputation. Don't think I'll stand by and watch that happen."

Gojo's eyes met Geto's, unflinching. He placed his hands on Geto's to release his grip. "I hear you, Suguru," he said. "But you're wrong. My interest in her is purely professional."

"Make sure it stays that way," Geto warned. He released his grip and stepped back.

Geto then turned and left the room. Gojo turned his head to look at you through the small window in the door that separated you. Your eyes briefly met his before he also left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Great.

─── ·✧· ───

This day couldn't get any better.

You stood at the exit of the hospital. It was pouring.

Resigned, you decided to wait near the exit, hoping the rain would stop soon. Minutes passed, but the rain showed no signs of stopping.

"Waiting out the rain?" a familiar voice called out from behind.

You turned to see Gojo appeared. He had changed out of his surgical scrubs and was now in his regular clothes. His muscular arms and broad shoulders visible even under his loose button-down.

"Yeah, it looks like I'm stuck here for a while."

Gojo opened his umbrella. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car."

You hesitated for a moment.

"Suguru already left, don't worry," he added, as if reading your thoughts.

You frowned slightly. "That's not what I was concerned about."

"Then why are you hesitating?" He took a step closer, the umbrella now over you both. He stood at least a head taller than you, looking down at you with heavy eyes. You studied the tired lines in his face, the slight dark circles under his eyes.

"You look tired."

"Do I?" Gojo's voice was deep, his gaze lingering shamelessly on your lips. "Perhaps I am. I've been thinking about you all night."

"Bold statement, especially after Geto's warning."

"I'm not afraid of Suguru."

"Is that why you let me operate today? To piss him off?"

He leaned forward. "I let you operate because you can operate. Suguru is hesitant. He likes to play safe. With me, you'll have more challenge—more fun."

"Are we still talking about surgery?"

"Of course, sweetheart," he replied with a grin. "Come on, It's been a long day. I insist."

"Okay," you finally relented. "Thank you."

You stepped out into the rain together. The umbrella shielded you both as you walked side by side. You walked in silence, the only sound being the gentle drumming of raindrops. Gojo subtly shifted the umbrella, ensuring you were completely covered. His shoulder got wet.

When you reached your car, you turned to him. Somehow you stood so close now. His breath hot against you skin. Your stomach turned slightly, but you tried to brush the feeling off. "Thank you," you said softly, "—for everything today."

"Can I ask you for a favor?" He asked suddenly.

"Sure."

"Can you help me with a project?"

"Another project? Besides the neuroprosthetics?" you asked.

"It's a private one. I could use your assistance with processing data."

"Let me know when and where."

He smiled. "Perfect."

Gojo smoothly opened the car door for you, still holding the umbrella over your head. "Take care," he said gently, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. You both remained frozen. The world outside the umbrella a blur.

"You too," you finally replied, breaking the moment. As you got into your car, you were acutely aware of his eyes still on you.

He closed the door for you and turned.

─── ·✧· ───

"Sorry in advance if this hurts."

You tried to insert the needle, your hand less steady than usual. The needle missed the vein, making Yuta wince. "Sorry," you wiped sweat from your forehead. Then tried again, quickly changing the needle.

A week had passed since the fight between Geto and Gojo. Since then, Gojo hadn't visited the lab. You didn't know what to make of it. But perhaps it was for the better. Less fighting after all. Gojo still didn't approve of your approach.

Still, you couldn't force your mind to stop racing. Perhaps it was the immense workload you had. The research project, not to mention Gojo's personal research project, and inevitably, Gojo himself.

You were in practical class, sitting with Maki, Yuta, and Toge, focusing on a seemingly simple task—practicing drawing blood. But you failed every time.

Yuta gave you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, you've done this a hundred times."

Yeah. Not really, but you should probably not tell him that right now.

You took a deep breath and tried again. Failed.

"It's alright, give it another go," Yuta said, even after you had stabbed his arm too many times to be comfortable.

The needle slipped again and missed the mark. "I'm sorry, Yuta. I don't know what's wrong with me today."

"Pressure?" Toge asked.

"Yeah, I guess it's a lot lately."

Suddenly, Dr. Kento, the instructor for this practical lesson, appeared behind you. His stoic demeanor sent a shiver down your spine without you having to see it.

"You're really not good at this," he commented bluntly, not really befitting a professor. But it was true.

Forcing a smile, you turned to face him. "Just a bit off my game today."

Dr. Kento's expression remained impassive. "Drawing blood is a basic skill. You should be able to do it in your sleep," he lectured. "But you look like you're torturing your patient."

"Ehh—," you began, turning back to Yuta and only then noticing his pained expression. All color had drained from his face.

Oops.

Dr. Kento's gaze then swept across the room, capturing the attention of the entire class. "Everyone needs to master this," he continued. "I expect you to be able to do this by the end of the week."

You kidding, right?

It was already Thursday. He basically meant tomorrow.

As if on cue, the bell rang.

You and your friends began to gather your belongings. As the room buzzed with the chatter of students packing up, Yuta brought up a topic that immediately drew everyone's interest.

"Hey, about the sports festival, which team should we join?"

"Sports festival?" you echoed, feeling slightly out of the loop. Your focus on the lab work had left you missing everything else that happened on campus.

Yuta nodded. "Yeah, it's a big event. Every year there's a sports festival in the summer with a bunch of team sports events and competitions."

Toge, usually reserved, showed a flicker of excitement. "Basketball."

"Yeah, the professors usually form a basketball team against the students. Should we join?" Yuta asked.

Maki already scrolled through her phone, looking up the festival details. "We should register then, hmm ... oh the professor team is already full, and .. oh Dr. Gojo and Dr. Geto are in the team."

"I bet they are just as competitive on the court as they are in the OR," Yuta added.

"Join?" Toge asked.

"Sure," Maki commented, scrolling through her phone for more details.

Out of curiosity, you asked, "Does anyone here even play basketball?"

Yuta, scratching his chin thoughtfully, replied, "Well, I've played a bit. And Maki's naturally good at anything, so—" he paused, seemingly realizing what he just said. His face turned a shade redder. "Ehh, I mean, you've played basketball before, right, Maki?"

Maki just shrugged, a confident smirk on her face. "He's not wrong."

"So, are we doing this?" you asked.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Great.

Now you had to learn how to play basketball too.

─── ·✧· ───

Later that day, you found yourself outside Gojo's office, clutching the stack of papers you had prepared for his research project. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you knocked softly before entering.

"Dr. Gojo, I've finished the analysis you requested," you said, placing the papers on his desk.

"Thank you. I'll check these later," he said, not looking up from his computer.

You turned to leave. But just as you reached the door, Gojo's voice halted you.

"Wait."

You paused, turning back to face him.

"Wash your hands. There are syringes and needles in the drawer on the bottom right."

"What?" you asked, not sure what he wanted from you.

He looked up from his computer. "You're embarrassing me," he said bluntly. "You know what Kento said to me earlier? He said, and I quote, 'Are you stupid? How can you let a student operate on the brain who can barely get a needle through skin?'"

You felt a knot forming in your stomach.

"It was just not my day, really," you stammered, trying to defend yourself, though your voice lacked conviction.

"How many times have you done that before?" he asked, his gaze intimidating.

You were lost for words.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, more to himself than to you. He stood up from his desk and rolled up his sleeves.

Before you knew it, you found yourself sitting next to him, wearing gloves and poised with a needle in hand. Gojo's arm was outstretched towards you, the veins visible beneath his skin. You stared at his arm. Somehow your mind now completely blank.

"Aren't you going to tie a band around my arm to make my veins more visible first?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, right," you muttered, your cheeks flushing. You wrapped the band around his arm and secured it tightly. Your fingers trembled slightly as they touched his firm skin. The contact felt unexpectedly intimate. It made your heart race.

He watched you, his expression softening slightly. "Easy now," he said in a more encouraging tone. "It's not hard. Just focus."

Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your trembling hands. The needle hovered over his vein, and for a moment, you were acutely aware of the silence in the room, punctuated only by the sound of your own erratic heartbeat.

You hesitated.

"Use your little finger against my arm to anchor your hand," he said.

Following his advice, you rested your finger against his skin, feeling a surprising steadiness in your hand.

"And angle the needle slightly," he added. "It's about finding the right entry point—not too steep, not too shallow."

You adjusted the angle of the needle accordingly, aiming for the vein. The tip pierced the skin, and this time, it slid into the vein smoothly. You let out a heavy exhale.

"Good," he said. "Now, draw the blood gently."

As you carefully drew the blood, you could feel Gojo's eyes on your hands, monitoring your technique. Once the procedure was complete and you carefully removed the needle. "Much better," he rolled down his sleeve, a slight arch of his eyebrow. "How is it that you've never really done that before?"

"I don't need to draw blood if I'm operating on the brain," you said with a shrug.

Gojo watched you, a stunned expression flickering across his face.

"The nurses usually handle that anyway," you added, hoping to clarify your point.

There was a moment of silence as he processed what you just said. Finally, he shook his head slightly. "I'm just going to ignore what you just said," he replied.

Changing the subject, he leaned back in his chair. "By the way, I saw your name on the list for the students' basketball team for the upcoming sports festival."

You raised your eyebrows, peeling off your gloves. "Oh, you did?"

"Yeah," he said, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. "I didn't know you played basketball. But I have to admit, I'm curious to see if you're as good at basketball as you are at clipping aneurysms."

"I haven't really played much before, so you might want to lower your expectations," a small smile tugged at your lips. "Have you played before?"

"I used to play pretty regularly when I was in universtiy," he said.

Great.

If he was anywhere near as good at basketball as he was at surgery, you were fucked.

"You should teach me then," you quipped, not quite meeting his gaze. As the words left your lips, you immediately realized the implication. You turned to him, a blush coloring your cheeks. "It's just a joke."

His smile widened. "Oh really? Too bad, I'd have liked that."

The room fell into silence.

You found yourself staring at him, and he returned your gaze.

His silver hair had a few strands that were slightly out of place. Your eyes studied his face as if seeing it for the first time. The typical intensity in his blue eyes had softened, replaced by an almost gentle expression. His sharp jawline moved slightly, as if he were pondering something.

Breaking the silence, you finally spoke, your voice softer than intended. "I wonder what you were like back in your university days."

"Why do you ask?"

"It's hard to imagine you not being the controlled surgeon you are now."

"You think I'm controlled?"

"No, that's not what I meant," you hurried to clarify. "I mean, you're always so focused, so—precise, and—"

Before you could finish, he leaned in closer, his intense gaze holding you captive. The world around you seemed to fade into a blur, leaving only the two of you in sharp focus. You could feel the warmth of his breath, barely a whisper away from your skin.

Gojo reached out, his hand gently cupping your chin. He lifted your face slightly, ensuring your eyes met directly.

"If you keep looking at me like that, I might lose my control sooner than you'd expect," he said, his thumb lightly brushing your jawline.

After a moment that seemed to stretch on, he slowly withdrew his hand and stepped back, breaking the connection. He turned away from you and walked back to his desk. "Thank you for your work. You can leave now."

─── ·✧· ───

The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the university's outdoor basketball court. Maki, Toge, Yuta, and you had gathered for practice, despite the lingering summer heat.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," you said, dribbling the basketball on the sun-baked concrete. "None of us are exactly pros."

Maki, tying her hair back, grinned. "Speak for yourself. I've got some hidden talents." She effortlessly caught the ball and shot it toward the hoop, scoring a basket. "See?"

Yuta laughed and retrieved the ball. "That's just beginner's luck, Maki. Watch and learn." He took a shot, but the ball bounced off the rim.

"Practice," Toge said.

"Yeah, we really need more practice," you finished his sentence.

"Hey, watch this!" Yuta called out, attempting a fancy dribble move, only to lose control of the ball. It rolled away, and Toge scooped it up and passed it back with a short, "Focus."

"You're one to talk," Maki teased, swiping the ball from Toge and lobbing it towards the basket. It swished through the net effortlessly. "I still got it!"

You caught the ball and wiped the sweat from your brow. "I never thought we'd be practicing basketball as medical students."

Maki turned to you with a curious look. "Speaking of training, how's the research going? You've been spending a lot of time with Geto and Gojo."

You began to dribble the ball, more or less. "It's intense, but I'm learning a lot. Dr. Geto is incredibly intelligent, and well, working with Dr. Gojo is—an experience."

"An experience, huh?" Maki said with a grin "Is that code for 'Dr. Handsome has some unique ways of teaching me'?"

You flinched. Yuta quickly snatched the ball from your unfocused grip and shot it through the net.

"Dr. Handsome?" you echoed.

Maki opened a bottle of water. "Don't tell me he's not good-looking—they both are."

"I mean, they both definitely have their—charm, I guess."

"Charm, huh?" Maki teased, taking a sip of her water. "I've seen the way Dr. Gojo looks at you. There's definitely something."

"It's not like that," you protested, though your defensive tone might have suggested otherwise. "He's just an incredible surgeon to work with, that's all."

"He did let you operate with him, though. That's all I'm saying," Maki added.

"Aneurisym," Toge chimed in.

Yuta, bouncing the ball beside you, added, "Yeah, he let you operate on an aneurysm with him, which is pretty crazy."

You rolled your eyes. "Can we focus on the festival game instead of me?"

Maki laughed. "Alright, alright, we'll drop it. But seriously, how's the project going? I mean, besides the whole Dr. Handsome thing."

Yeah, where to start on that.

Taking a deep breath, you told them more about the research project.

─── ·✧· ───

As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink. You were still on the basketball court, practicing your shots. The others had already left. The court was quiet, except for the rhythmic bounce of the basketball and the occasional swish of the net.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through. "Hey, First-year."

Startled, you turned to see Gojo approaching the court. He was dressed in athletic attire—a black, skin-tight t-shirt and shorts that looked criminally good on him.

"Dr. Gojo," you said, a bit surprised to see him there. "I didn't expect to see you practicing."

He picked up a basketball and began dribbling with ease. "I like to keep my skills sharp," he said, shooting a casual glance in your direction. "And I heard there was a new challenger on the students team."

You let out a tired sigh. "I'm just trying to make sure I don't embarrass myself too much at the festival," you admitted.

"Have more confidence in yourself, first-year. You're operating on brains, there's no room for doubts." Gojo shot the ball towards the hoop, scoring effortlessly. "And by the way, stop calling me Dr., just Gojo is fine."

"Alright, Gojo," you said.

Gojo passed the ball to you with a casual flick of his wrist. "Come on, first-year. Show me what you've got."

A cold shiver ran down your skin. Oddly, having to demonstrate your non-existent basketball skills felt more intimidating than clipping an aneurysm in front of him.

You positioned yourself at the three-point line, bouncing the ball a few times to find your rhythm. With a deep breath, you aimed and threw the ball, but it bounced off the rim and rolled away.

Gojo walked over to retrieve the ball. "Yeah, you'll definitely embarrass yourself if you play like that."

Ouch.

"Can you do anything besides brain surgery?" he probed further.

Ouch.

"You know that hurts," you said.

"It's all about posture and precision," he said, closing the distance between you two. He halted just before you. "May I?"

With a nod, you consented. He moved in closer, positioning himself directly behind you. His presence enveloping you in a comforting warmth. He smelled like sweat, but oddly, you found it rather attractive.

You could feel the light touch of his hands as they gently guided your shoulders, aligning your stance with the hoop. His closeness was suffocating, and you found yourself acutely aware of every movement he made.

"Bend your knees a bit more," he advised, his voice a soothing whisper near your ear. You could feel his breath, warm and steady, against the side of your neck, causing your heart to beat faster. His hands moved down to adjust your arms. His touch warm against your skin.

You tried to focus on his instructions. But the closeness of his body, the gentle pressure of his hands on your arms, made it damn hard to concentrate on anything other than him.

"Now, when you shoot, focus on a fluid motion," he added.

As you prepared to take the shot, Gojo's hands rested lightly on your hips, steadying you. You should have pushed them away. Touching you like that was far beyond appropriate. But you didn't. You wanted him to touch you even more in that moment.

With his guidance, you took the shot, and this time the ball sailed through the net with a satisfying thud.

"You see? You have it in you," Gojo said, leaning back slightly but still close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

You turned to face him, meeting his gaze. Your heart immediately dropped.

Even in the waning light you could see it clearly.

"Are you high?" you asked, a slight frown creasing your forehead.

For a moment, Gojo seemed taken aback by your question. He quickly masked his expression with a casual smile and stepped back, creating some distance between you. He began to dribble the basketball, his movements fluid and practiced, yet there was a hint of unease in his actions.

"It's nothing," he said, focusing intently on the ball rather than meeting your eyes. "Just a small injury during practice."

"And you decided to what? Throw in an opioid for that small injury?" you pressed.

He stopped dribbling and faced you, his expression becoming more serious. "No, of course not," he replied with a hint of defensiveness. "It's just a minor strain. I didn't take anything strong for it."

You couldn't believe what he just said. He—a surgeon—a doctor—out of all people.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, it's been a long day, and I might have pushed myself a bit too hard. But I'm fine, really."

You studied him closely. "You expect me to believe that?" you took another step closer. "What did you really take? Codeine? Morphine?"

A flicker of something undefinable passing through his eyes. "You're crossing a line," he replied, his tone firmer this time.

"Me? Crossing a line?" you countered. "Since the first day we met, you've been pushing boundaries, and now you say I'm the one overstepping?"

Gojo's expression hardened. "I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I am perfectly fine." His words were steady, but the slight tightness in his jaw suggested otherwise.

You didn't buy anything he just said. The feeling that something was off clung to you, refusing to be dispelled. His usual clarity seemed clouded, his sharpness dulled. His eyes slightly red. His skin paler than usual. It was unsettling to see him like this.

After a brief pause, he picked up the basketball and held it loosely at his side. "I think we're done here," he said. "You should go home."

You watched him for a moment longer. But then you decided to turn and walk away, leaving him alone on the court. As you made your way, his words replayed over and over in your mind.

Was something wrong with him?

Should you be worried?

After all, you worked together. And also—naturally—you were worried about him, right? Like any student would be worried about his professor, right?

The evening air suddenly felt so cold.

─── ·✧· ───

The lab was quiet except for the occasional hum of machinery and the soft clinking of your tools as you worked. You were deep in concentration, analyzing data for the upcoming neuroprosthetics project, when the door opened with a soft click.

"Ah, there you are," Geto said as he stepped in. "I've been searching for you. We've finally got the green light for our surgery. Everything's lined up and ready to go."

You straightened up, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "Really? That's great. When?"

Geto walked over to your workstation, a subtle smile on his face. "In two weeks. Are you excited?"

"More like nervous."

"Ah, that's natural. But don't worry, it will work. You've done an excellent job."

You felt a swell of pride at his words. "Thank you. I'm glad I could help."

Still, there was a question on the tip of your tongue, something you had been pondering since last week. Hesitantly, you opened your mouth, but then stopped. Words failed you.

"What is it?" Geto asked, knowing you too well.

"Is something wrong with Gojo?"

He leaned against the table and crossed his arms. His expression shifted slightly. "Don't worry about him. He's just stressed lately."

Somehow you didn't buy it.

"Even so, you shouldn't get that close to him."

"I'm not—" you wanted to interject, but he cut you off.

"I'm not blind," he said firmly. "You have a bright future in science. Don't risk it by getting too involved with him. Satoru is a brilliant surgeon, but his personal life is a mess."

What should that mean?

You looked away, unsure how to respond.

Geto then changed the subject. "By the way, I have some more news for you—good and bad. Which would you like to hear first?"

"The good news, of course," you replied.

"Here," Geto said, handing you a journal. As you took it, the bold lettering on the cover immediately caught your eye. It featured an article written by Gojo.

You opened the journal, your heart racing as you skimmed the pages to find the article. And there it was—a comprehensive meta-analysis that you, too, had worked on.

"No way," you murmured, your eyes scanning the text in disbelief.

Below the article was your name, listed alongside Gojo's, credited for your pivotal role in the data analysis and interpretation.

"He mentioned me."

Geto nodded, a hint of pride in his expression. "That's a pretty big deal."

You were momentarily speechless. Being credited alongside someone as renowned as Gojo was insane.

"Now for the not-so-good news," Geto began.

You looked up at him from the Journal, your eyes still sparkling.

"You failed your anatomy exam."

─── ·✧· ───

The sports festival was in full swing.

Cheers and laughter filled the university campus. The summer heat beat down relentlessly. You already felt a little nauseous that day, and the sun only made it worse. Yeah, you weren't really cut for the heat. At least the bleachers were partly shaded.

You sat quietly besides with Maki, Yuta, and Toge, watching various events unfold on the field. Despite the lively atmosphere, you couldn't bring yourself into the festive spirit. Your mind was elsewhere.

Maki nudged you gently. "Still thinking about the exam?"

You sighed. "Yeah, I have to pass the next one, or I'll have to do this year again."

Yuta leaned over. "You'll go it, I'm sure. Plus, you got mentioned in Dr. Gojo's paper—that's huge!"

"Huge," Toge said again to underline it even more.

You managed a small smile. "I hope you're right."

Maki patted your back. "Dr. Handsome will sure put in a good word for you."

You sighed again. "Not this topic again."

Suddenly, the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, announcing that the basketball match between students and professors will begin shortly.

Yuta turned to you and the others. "Looks like it's our turn. Let's start getting ready."

You nodded, through a wave of nausea washed over you. The heat of the sun was merciless, more intense than you'd expected, and it seemed to be draining your strength by the minute.

Maki stood up. "Alright, team, let's show them what we've got!"

Should you vomit now, or later—or both?

Having changed into your sports attire, you joined your teammates on the basketball court. You began to warm up your muscles, even though the heat made that almost unnecessary. You felt your face burn. Nausea churned in your stomach.

You paused, closing your eyes for a moment, hoping it would pass.

Then, the professors' team made their entrance onto the court. Among them were Geto and Gojo. They began dribbling and passing the ball between them, occasionally doing stretches that showcased their well-built bodies.

They looked confident.

You calculated the odds of how badly this match might go for your team.

Why did you even sign up for this?

Your gaze inadvertently met Gojo's across the court. For a fleeting second, your eyes locked, sending a wave of unease through you. You haven't spoken to him since. Quickly, you averted your gaze and focused back on your stretches.

As Gojo and another professor continued their warm-up, they passed the ball back and forth, aiming for the net. Then a shot from Gojo missed its mark, sending the ball rolling your way.

As if he ever missed a shot.

The ball stopped at your feet, and before you could react, Gojo was there, sprinting up to retrieve it. He halted right in front of you. "You don't look good," he said, his voice so low that only you could hear it.

"I'm fine," you said. "I think it's just the heat."

Gojo reached out, his hand cool against your forehead. "You're overheating."

You quickly pushed his hand aside. "You might want to keep a professional distance, don't you think?" The words came out sharper than intended.

Gojo frowned slightly. "You should sit this one out."

"I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I am perfectly fine," you responded, mirroring his words back at him.

He took a step closer. "You're stupid, you know that?"

Before you could respond, Geto's voice called out from across the court. Gojo turned at the sound. "Coming!" He gave you a last look before quickly walking away. You watched them do a stupid boyish handshake as Gojo rejoined Geto.

At least he was not high today, you thought.

The crowd was already roaring with cheers and applause as both teams lined up. They all here to witness my downfall, you thought, struggling against the nausea that threatened your focus.

Right off the bat, Gojo weaved through your team's defense, fluid and precise. He flicked the ball to Geto, who faked left and then took a clear shot, scoring the first basket of the game. The crowd erupted.

Yuta sprinted down the court and dribbled past Gojo. He passed the ball to you, and you took your chance at a three-pointer. The ball arced beautifully, but it rimmed out at the last second.

At least you tried, right?

Not missing a beat, Toge snagged a pass from a professor and pivoted into a counterattack. He found Maki open. She didn't disappoint, scoring a layup to tie the game. Your team was holding up surprisingly well, mostly thanks to your friends' efforts.

Then, Geto feinted, passing to an open Gojo. With a swift move, Gojo scored another point, eliciting a fresh wave of cheers from the spectators. But Yuta was quick to follow, dribbling down the court. He passed to Maki, who nailed another crucial basket, closing the score gap.

In the final minutes, the game was deadlocked. Gojo had the ball, expertly evading your teammates defensive efforts. He made a break for the basket. Yuta, determined to block him, overreached and stumbled backwards, heading straight for you.

You barely had time to brace yourself.

The collision was inevitable.

Yuta crashed into you, and both of you went tumbling to the ground. The game halting abruptly to the sound of a sharp whistle.

"Are you okay?" Yuta blurted out.

Why was Yuta always running you over?

You rolled over to your side, feeling the heat of the ground beneath you. Everything spun, nausea swirling with pain. "I might need a minute," you managed to say, the world tilting around you.

Almost instantly, Gojo was there, kneeling beside you. "Don't move." He began to examine you for any immediate injuries, his hands tenderly scanning your exposed skin. "You feeling dizzy?"

Your response was a pained sound, a clear sign that you were far from okay. "You might have a concussion. We need to get you checked right away," Gojo said.

"I'm fine," you started to protest, but Gojo had already lifted you into his arms in one fluid motion. He held you close to him. Instinctively, you clung to his neck, feeling the pounding of his heart against your own. It made your stomach clench.

"I'm fine, really," you said again as he carried you off the court.

"Ah shut up, I know you're not." His eyes fixed on you, as if you were the only person who mattered at that moment. "You're really stressing me, you know that?"

─── ·✧· ───

The room felt so small.

His presence filled the whole space.

"There," Gojo said softly as he inserted the needle into your arm. "This should help with hydration and ease any nausea."

You watched as he secured the needle in place. He adjusted the flow of saline, his eyes meeting yours, a playful smile on his lips. "So much for not needing to handle a needle, huh?"

You rolled your eyes.

Then he cupped your chin and tilted your head back slightly. "Watch the light," he instructed, flicking a small penlight on and off before your eyes. His fingers warm against your skin. "Good," he said, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

"Maybe you should stick to brains, instead of sports," he added.

You smiled weakly. "I'll never touch a basketball again in my life, I guess."

His smile widened.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

"No need to," he replied. "Just do me a favor and stop making me worry about you all the time. It's draining."

Your stomach tightened. Gojo turned away and removed his gloves, tossing them into the trash. As the saline drip worked its magic, you began to feel better, the nausea and dizziness slowly receding.

"You mentioned me in your paper," you spoke up, breaking the silence.

Gojo turned to face you, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I did."

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't I? You've done most of the analysis."

"You could have done it without me."

"I know, but I wanted you to be a part of it."

Knowing that the analysis of such an important issue would get a lot of recognition, he should have added.

"Why?" you asked again, already knowing the answer.

"Because I want to support you."

"But I'm just a student, and you're—" You trailed off, feeling a sudden tightness in your chest. His crystal blue eyes seem to pierce right through you.

"And I'm what?"

He stood up and closed the distance between you, his hands coming to rest on either side of you on the bed. The nearness of his body made your breathing hitch in your throat. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, the subtle scent of his cologne blending with the sterile air.

His face was so close, his lips almost grazing yours. Your heart raced, pounding so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. "—my professor."

"Too bad, isn't it?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine.

Your mind raced with a thousand thoughts, a thousand reasons why this shouldn't happen, why you should push him away. But your body betrayed you, leaning into him, closing the distance, seeking the touch of his lips against yours.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you whispered.

"Tell me to stop, and I will."

Your core heated, turning molten. Your lips parted slightly, surrendering to the moment.

You could tell how much self-control it took for him to not kiss you. You could see it in the way his jaw was set, his brow subtly furrowed, his eyes glued to your lips. Yet, he waited for your consent.

His lips were a mere breath from yours—so cruelly close. Every fiber of your being yearned for him to close the gap, for him to lose against his self-control.

Suddenly you heard your name and a knock at the door.

The door swung open abruptly. Gojo flinched back, the spell between you broken. Regaining his composure, he stepped back, putting a professional distance between you two. You straightened quickly, trying to hide your flushed face.

You wished desperately that he'd kissed you.

Geto stood in the doorway, his eyes flickering between Gojo and you.

You could tell what he was thinking.

next chapter ->

author's note: thanks for reading and feel free to leave your thoughts !! if you want to be added to the taglist, pls comment on the series masterlist ♡

#[azra reblog]#[azra gems rec]#[azra fics rec]#I CAN’T BREATH ANYMORE #IT WAS SO WELL WRITTEN #I CAN’T #THIS IS WHY I MOSTLY READ AND WRITE PROFESSOR X STUDENT #BEST EVER TROPE #YOU ATE NICI 👏🏻🤝

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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

Text

thanks god it’s an happy ending bc i’ll throw up of anxiousness 😭

satoru pls no no no don’t do that i can’t

like i’m actually so scared :(

SUKUNA I WANT TO SODNEPWNWPQNSOEBDUEBDOEBDJB

symptoms and causes | ch. 10

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ wc 13.8 k (again, i'm insane)

ღ author's note not gonna lie, this chapter's gonna be quite angsty. hope the wait was worth it. i'm DYING to hear your reactions! let's dive in!! & pls repost or comment if you enjoyed, highly appreciated ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

"Are you going insane?"

Satoru's question cut through your spiraling thoughts.

You tore your gaze from the rain-streaked window, meeting his impossibly blue eyes. Only now you realized that the nervous gnawing of your fingernails had gone too far. You shoved your hands under your thighs.

"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," he continued.

"Aren't we?"

The words were dry, masking the acidic churn in your stomach.

He finally looked up from his desk, a mountain of half-graded essays teetering precariously. That infuriating smirk curled his lips. "We'll be fine. Trust me, we've got this."

"How can you stay so calm?"

"Drugs, sweetheart. It's the drugs," he said, his focus already back on the student essay covered in red-ink.

At least he was honest.

"Are you seriously grading papers at a time like this?"

"Had a sudden surge of responsibility. Might not last." He didn't even glance up. "Don't worry, it won't take long. Most of these will fail anyway." A thick red line slashed across the page, a brutal verdict. The next paper met a similar fate with a flick of his wrist. Poor students.

Your gaze dropped to his hands. They trembled, just slightly, but it was there.

You should ask him how he was. About the withdrawal, his last week on opioids, if the fear gnawed at him as it did you, if the thought of regret crossed his mind.

But you couldn't.

Yeah, you couldn't.

How selfish.

He was struggling and you could see it. Painfully clear. And yet, all you could focus on was your own pathetic fear. Weak. That was the word, echoing in your head.

The room felt suffocating.

It was the day of the ethics committee hearing.

The day your whole future could unravel.

You gnawed your nails to the quick, the taste of blood barely registering over the adrenaline pounding in your ears. The rain lashed the window, each drop a hammer blow against your composure.

What would they ask? What would they accuse?

You were prepared. The research was meticulous, the data irrefutable. But this wasn't about cold facts. If the committee sensed even a whiff of impropriety, they'd tear it apart and use the shreds to bury you both.

They'd target like a shark sensing blood.

And they wouldn't just attack the science—they'd attack him. You. Everyone.

The thought made you want to vomit.

Out the window, you spotted Geto and Higurama, making their way across the rain-drenched parking lot. Oh, right, there was something else you wanted to drown in the back of your mind. But now, the memory was back, embarrassingly clear as you saw Geto's face.

"Why did you say that?" you asked, turning to Satoru.

He blinked, momentarily distracted from his grading massacre. "What?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

His lips curved into sly smile. "It was a joke. Relax."

"God, I hate you." You turned your gaze away from him, focusing on the way the rain lashed against the window.

Silence stretched.

Finally, you glanced at him once again. "Did you?"

"What?"

"Share...women?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why, intrigued?"

"You're stupid." You spun away, but a wave of frustration washed over you.

But to your bad, his curiosity was piqued now.

He rose from his chair, hands braced on the worn oak of the desk. "And you're intrigued. I can't believe you." He moved towards you, his presence filling the room. "My sweet little girl wants a threesome." He paused, tilting his head. "Never thought you'd be into that."

You crossed your arms. "Stop it already."

"No wait, now I think about it," Slowly, his gaze raked over you, a wicked glint in his eyes making your skin crawl. "I totally should have seen that coming."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You managed the words, but your defiance was crumbling as he leaned in closer.

The heat radiating from him was almost tangible. His scent, with a hint of warm coffee and something distinctly, maddeningly him, clouded your senses, making rational thought impossible.

He reached out, his touch feather-light as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. His fingertips grazed the soft skin of your neck. Before you could protest, his hand slid lower, tracing the line of your arm.

"Tell me," he whispered, his breath a warm caress against your ear. "Where would you want him to touch you?"

"Stop it." You pushed his hand away, but your resistance only seemed to fuel his teasing.

"Oh, don't be shy now. Suguru doesn't like that," he said, voice low and laced with a hint of mockery. "Tell me, where would you let him touch you? Would you shiver like this for him?" He leaned closer, his tongue tracing a hot path along your jaw that made you indeed shiver.

Then, the door crashed open, revealing a rain-lashed Geto and Higurama.

You quickly wrenched yourself away from Satoru, pushing against his chest.

Higurama stumbled straight to the nearest chair. With a groan, he collapsed into its worn embrace, fumbling with the clasps of his waterlogged leather case. Papers and files spilled onto the table.

Geto stripped the rain from his hair, then twisted the dark strands into a fresh bun. His eyes flickered between you and Satoru, a single raised eyebrow his only question. You wouldn't meet his gaze, the floor suddenly fascinating.

Not now. Not after this conversation.

"Just so we're clear," Satoru's voice suddenly cut through the quiet, "I don't share. Not you."

An angry glare was all you could manage in reply.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Geto asked.

"Where she'd want you to—" Satoru began.

"Anyway," you interrupted, your voice rising an octave in a desperate attempt to drown him out. The sharp sound cut through the room, snapping the heads of all three men towards you. "How about we talk about our strategy for the hearing?"

You approached Higurama, the case files spread before him like grim prophecies. He straightened, a determined look replacing his previous fatigue. "So, should we start?"

Satoru and Geto closed in, their footsteps heavy in the silence. Satoru picked up a paper and perched on the edge of the desk.

"Male patient, 37 years old," he began. "Paraplegic due to a motorcycle accident five years ago. We implanted the prototype neuroprosthetic interface to facilitate control of a biomimetic limb."

He turned to the next page. "All pre-operative assessments indicated the patient was a perfect candidate. No underlying conditions, strong mental fortitude—ideal for testing the new neural link."

"Exactly," Geto said, his gaze locked onto a x-ray scan on the table. "The initial calibration was a success. The patient gained full control of the biomimetic limb, experiencing no rejection or discomfort."

"However," he continued. "Two weeks after surgery, the patient suffered a sudden and massive cerebral hemorrhage. He died shortly after."

The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with tension.

Your breath caught in your throat, guilt a cold stone in your stomach. The image of the patient flashed through your mind—his smile as he took his first, tentative steps with his new limb, the hopeful gleam in his eyes.

Now, he was nothing but a name on a file, a haunting statistic.

You stole a glance at Satoru—all traces of amusement had vanished from his face, replaced by an unsettling seriousness.

"There was no physical damage to the implant itself, correct?" Satoru asked.

You took a deep breath. "No. All post-operative scans showed no abnormalities with the device. It's likely a malfunction within the neural interface itself that somehow triggered the bleeding."

Satoru met your gaze. "I double-checked that," you added.

He mustered a faint smile.

Higurama squinted at a scan, feigning understanding. "So, the issue wasn't with the patient. He was healthy and the surgery went well. It's something within the implant."

Satoru pushed off the desk and started pacing the room. "If that's the case, the engineers are in deep trouble. We're in the clear."

Geto scoffed. "Don't be naive, Satoru. The ethics committee will chew us up and spit us out. They'll scrutinize every detail, every decision."

He didn't have to spell it out—the subtext was clear.

Silence settled.

"He's right," Higurama said after a while said, his gaze flicking between you and Satoru. "They'll dig into your relationship. Got a story ready for them?"

Your response was immediate. "We tell them the truth," you said. "We have a committed relationship. Everyone on the team knows, and it hasn't impacted our work in any way."

"But we only bring it up if they ask," Satoru added.

Suddenly, anger burned through you. You whipped around to face him. "Since when did we decide that?"

Satoru met your gaze head-on. "I decided."

"But you don't get to decide for both of us."

"I'm trying to protect you," he said, his jaw clenching. "The committee will twist this. They'll make it look worse than it is. I won't let them tarnish your reputation. So, if they don't ask, we won't tell."

"And you think, them finding out later will be better? You know they will find out, Satoru. Sooner or later, it'll come out. Then what?"

"Can you stop being so damn stubborn?" he fired back, a flicker of frustration finally breaking through his infuriating calm. "This isn't about us. It's about them and what they might do to you, what they would think of you if they found out."

Your chin lifted a fraction higher, a silent challenge. You wouldn't let him play the protector card, not this time.

Geto cleared his throat. "You want some privacy?"

In perfect, maddening unison, you and Satoru spoke.

"No," you declared.

"Yes," he insisted.

Silence stretched between you like a fraying rope, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain against the windows. You both held each other's gaze, caught in a silent battle of wills that neither wanted to lose.

Geto and Higurama exchanged a troubled look.

With a resigned sigh, Higurama gathered up the scattered papers. Then the door shut, leaving you and Satoru alone under the harsh fluorescent glare of the office.

Satoru closed the distance between you. Before you could protest, he reached out and cupped your face with a touch that was both gentle and insistent. His thumb gently brushed the line of your jaw as he forced you to meet his gaze.

"Please," he whispered. "Just trust me on this one."

His eyes, those piercing blue depths, held a desperation you'd never seen before. You longed to surrender, to simply accept the comfort he offered, but you couldn't.

"We discussed this, Satoru. Hiding this—it'll make things worse. They'll question our judgment, our ethics. We have to be clear from the start."

"They don't care about our research, they don't care about our intentions." His grip tightened, not cruelly, but with the urgency of a drowning man. "They care about protecting the institution. Our honesty will be a weapon they use against us."

"But secrets always find a way out, and when they do—" You trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

Silence followed.

His features tightened, the internal war etched across his face with brutal clarity. His jaw worked, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. You held your breath, waiting, hoping.

"Fine." He released your face, the touch lingering for a split second before he stepped back. "Your way." He resumed his restless pacing, a shaky breath escaping him as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Satoru, how are you—"

"Fine," he cut you off. "Manageable."

He was a terrible liar.

Dark circles etched a brutal truth beneath his eyes. His shoulders, rigid as stone, screamed a silent protest against the weight he carried alone. Frustration gnawed at you. "If you keep shutting me out—"

He held up a hand, abruptly cutting you off. "Look, I—it's under control." Forced lightness dripped from his words like acid. "Right now, we have bigger things to worry about than my personal issues."

His fingers twitched, then clenched into fists so tight the knuckles turned white. Fine sweat glistened on his forehead, betraying the effort it took to keep still and not claw at his scars.

A familiar ache rose in your chest. You longed to reach out, to bridge the chasm he insisted on maintaining. But his posture, rigid as stone, and his clenched jaw, sent a silent warning. This was his battle, one he'd fight in isolation—as always.

To argue now would be a futile cruelty.

Still, it took every ounce of control not to slap sense into him.

"Look," he began, his voice soft now, "I know I'm not—easy to deal with right now. And, damn it, I'm asking too much." His hand found yours, the touch fleeting, hesitant. "I'm sorry for dragging you into my mess."

Why was he saying that?

Anger boiled over at his ridiculous apology. Had he no idea what it meant to love someone? To choose them, flaws and all. The urge to yell at him, to shake some sense into him, grew stronger.

How could he be so brilliant, yet so completely foolish when it came to the heart?

"Don't say that," you choked out, hating how close your voice was to breaking.

"We should probably get going," Satoru said abruptly, sidestepping the moment, and moved towards the door. He paused briefly beside you. Before you could react, he leaned in and brushed his lips against your temple.

"I love you," he said, the words barely audible. "And I'll make it up to you. I promise."

He pulled back, and for a heartbeat a flicker of vulnerability appeared in his eyes before the familiar mask slammed back into place. He turned and left the room.

You stood alone, the echo of his footsteps haunting the silence.

Dread twisted in your gut, a cold knot tightening with each breath. Something was wrong. It clawed at your insides, demanding to be heard.

He was falling apart.

But all you could do was watch.

─── ·✧· ───

Cold air whipped down the corridor as Satoru pushed the door open.

The room within was just as cold.

A vast, circular chamber bathed in harsh light, the air thick with the scent of dust and old wood. The committee members sat at a raised, semi-circular table—three figures cloaked in stiff suits and stern expressions. Their backs to you.

The chamber wasn't empty.

Rows of chairs lined the room, filled with observers. Students, researchers, the curious, and perhaps those hungry for the spectacle of your downfall. Their murmurs were a low hum against the echoing silence as you went into the room.

It was less like a conference room, and more like a courtroom.

Eyes burned into you from every direction.

As you approached, the committee members finally turned to face you. Your breath hitched, catching painfully in your chest. Time warped, the world narrowing to a pinprick as their faces resolved into sickening clarity.

For there, in the center of the committee, sat Sukuna.

His presence was a jagged shard of ice in your heart, piercing through the thin veneer of composure you clung to. His lips curled into a cruel smile, and a flicker of malevolent glee danced in his eyes.

This was a disaster.

No, it was worse than a disaster. It was a meticulously orchestrated trap. This wasn't about research, about ethics. It was personal. Sukuna would use this hearing to destroy you, to rip away everything you'd worked for.

Bile rose in your throat, burning and acrid.

Before you could process the horror of the situation, Satoru leaned in. His voice, barely a whisper, held an urgency that cut through the panic. "Change of plan. You say nothing, got me?"

Then, he walked away.

Higurama placed a hand on your shoulder. "Come on," he said, squeezing gently.

He led you away, along the perimeter of the room towards the other observers. Satoru and Geto continued their march towards the raised platform, isolated beneath a spotlight of scrutiny.

The man to Sukuna's left, a stern-faced figure with wire-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. "Dr. Gojo, Dr. Geto," he began, his voice dry. "Let us begin."

The hearing started.

Words were hurled like daggers, each a piercing blow masked in the veneer of clinical inquiry. Yet, you barely registered. You were drowning in a sea of fear and confusion, your senses numbed.

Technical details, research methodology, surgical procedures—every detail of your work was being scrutinized, dissected under the harsh glare of judgment.

With each probing question, another wave of panic threatened to pull you under. You watched Satoru and Geto, their voices distant and distorted. Each answer seemed to disarm the committee's attacks, yet their success did little to ease the relentless churning within you.

Then, Sukuna spoke.

The mere sound of his voice made you flinch.

"Dr. Gojo," Sukuna addressed Satoru directly, "your research proposal mentions the involvement of a particularly skilled...assistant. It seems her contribution was essential to this project's success?"

There it was. The first arrow, dipped in poison.

Satoru shifted slightly in his seat, his jaw tensing.

"That's correct. Our research assistant played a crucial role in both research and surgery. Her work throughout was exceptional."

"Indeed," Sukuna purred, drawing out the word. "This assistant...how did you choose this particular student? Was it solely academic potential that sparked your...enthusiasm?"

Satoru's gaze hardened, meeting Sukuna's with cold fury.

"My research assistants are chosen based on merit. If you find that questionable, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me."

"Of course, merit," Sukuna mocked. "Yet, such enthusiasm for guiding this particular student. Surely there were others equally qualified? Or was there something special about her that made her... stand out?"

Satoru's grip on the table tightened. You saw the vein in his temple throb. "I don't indulge in your insinuations," he said, his voice low. "My student was chosen for her brilliance, her dedication. Nothing more."

"Brilliance and dedication... admirable indeed," Sukuna mused. "But perhaps such qualities inspire a greater degree of devotion in their mentors, wouldn't you agree?"

"If your intent is to waste the committee's time with these baseless accusations—" he began, but Sukuna cut him off.

"Accusations?" Sukuna raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I am merely exploring the unusual level of support you provided this particular student. Such exceptional one-on-one mentorship. And haven't there been rumors?"

He paused, letting the poison of those words spread through the silence.

The woman on Sukuna's right scribbled furiously on her notepad, while the man to his left wore an expression of barely concealed disdain.

Your stomach twisted.

This wasn't just Sukuna playing games anymore—this was a calculated act of revenge meant to leave you broken and bleeding.

"Rumors have no place in a discussion of scientific integrity," Satoru said.

Sukuna chuckled. "So protective, Dr. Gojo. Perhaps there's truth to those whispers after all... A hint of guilt, perhaps?"

The insinuation hung heavy in the air, a noose tightening around Satoru's composure. You saw the fury ignite in his eyes, his jaw flexing as he fought to contain it.

"Those rumors are beneath contempt. Our work stands on its own merit."

"Yet, this particular student," Sukuna countered, "she seems to have benefited so exceptionally from your attention. Late nights in the lab, one-on-one consultations. Such dedication to a student's development is truly admirable."

Satoru's knuckles turned white against the polished wood of the table. His voice, when it came, was a barely controlled snarl. "My methods are beyond reproach. The success of the research speaks for itself."

"Perhaps. But even the most brilliant minds can be blinded by, shall we say, distractions?" He leaned in closer, his voice a near whisper. "Tell me, Dr. Gojo, how far would you go to protect this student? To preserve her precious reputation?"

That was it.

Satoru surged to his feet, the sharp sound of his chair scraping back echoing in the deathly silence. He slammed his hands on the table, leaning towards Sukuna, his eyes blazing.

"Enough!" His voice boomed through the room, silencing the whispers. "This farce has gone on far too long. Your accusations are unfounded, and your motivations are sickeningly clear. You will not tarnish my reputation or that of my student!"

Sukuna held his gaze, unyielding.

"Dr. Gojo, please!" The woman on Sukuna's right spoke. "Control yourself. This outburst does little to support your claims of objectivity."

Satoru's jaw tightened, anger flickering in his eyes. But with a visible effort, he reined in his fury. The slam of his hand against the wood was replaced with a heavy silence as he slowly lowered himself back into his seat.

The damage, though, was irreversible.

The image was planted—the brilliant but reckless professor blinded by his illicit affection, the ambitious student caught in his web.

Sukuna had won, and he hadn't even needed proof.

The man with the wire-rimmed glasses cleared his throat. "Dr. Gojo, if such allegations held any merit, the consequences would be dire. University policy forbids faculty-student relationships." He paused, the gravity clear in his tone.

"An investigation would be inevitable. The student would face immediate suspension, possible expulsion. The faculty member—" he shook his head, "termination would be the least of their concerns. And, I hardly need add, the project itself would be called into question."

Each word hammered another nail into your coffin.

"We understand this is sensitive, Dr. Gojo—," the woman beside Sukuna spoke again.

Suddenly, Satoru surged to his feet and began walking towards the door, his footsteps echoing in the suffocating silence. Sukuna watched, his smirk a cruel twist on his lips.

"Dr. Gojo is—indisposed," Geto's voice cracked, a desperate attempt to cover for Satoru's abruptness. "My deepest apologies. Perhaps we could reschedule?"

You watched Satoru go, every fiber of your being urging you to follow. He passed by your chair, so close, yet agonizingly out of reach. The impulse to defy them all, to stand by him, was a wildfire raging within you.

But as you moved, Higurama's hand closed firmly around your wrist.

"Not now," he whispered. "You already look guilty."

His words pierced through the haze of adrenaline.

He was right.

Damn it, he was right.

Any protest, any step towards the door, would only be twisted as further proof of the poisonous narrative Sukuna had spun. Despair crashed over you, a suffocating weight that stole your breath.

This wasn't about the research project anymore.

It was a witch hunt, fueled by Sukuna's poison.

The door slammed shut behind Satoru, the sound a death knell. All eyes in the room were on you now, filled with a mix of pity, condemnation, and a perverse curiosity.

Your world was crumbling.

And all you could do was watch helplessly as the debris buried you alive.

─── ·✧· ───

You waited.

You waited for what seemed like an eternity until most people had left the room. Just when you thought you couldn't stand it any longer, you stood up, fast enough that Higurama couldn't stop you. You heard him shout something after you, but you didn't care.

Rounding the corner, his scent of his cologne hit you first. It led you to the men's bathroom. You didn't bother to knock.

The air inside was thick with humidity, the scent of bleach stinging your nostrils. A figure hunched over the sink, the harsh fluorescent light glinting off his damp hair.

Satoru.

Even with his back turned, his tension was a palpable force.

A man standing next to him, washing his hands, shot you a wide-eyed look. "The hell?"

You cut him off, the words sharp as shattered glass. "Get out."

"This ain't the ladies' room—"

"Didn't you hear me? I said get out."

The man hesitated, then muttered something like 'crazy chicks' under his breath. He cast a final glance your way before shoving past you, the door slamming behind him.

Silence descended, punctuated only by the running water.

Satoru remained hunched over the sink. He splashed water on his face again, then scrubbed at his hands, the water running faintly pink.

His reflection in the mirror was a stranger. A shuddering breath escaped him as he rested his hands on the edge of the sink, the knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Finally, he met your gaze in the mirror.

"We're screwed," he stated bluntly.

"We're not."

"You're naive," He turned the water off, the abrupt silence jarring. "Do you even realize what happened in there?"

"I'm not stupid, Satoru."

"We can't do this." He finally turned fully towards you, leaning against the sink. "Sukuna wants to see me burn, and I won't allow you get caught in the crossfire."

"You won't allow me?" You took a few steps closer. "Since when do you get to make that decision for me?"

"Since I'm the one who screwed this up."

"But we're in this together. Remember?"

"Being 'together' is exactly the problem."

You took the remaining steps until you stood before him. "We've been through worse. We can manage this."

"This is different," he insisted, the words strained. "This isn't some paper getting rejected, this is—this will destroy us. You."

"Maybe, but what's the alternative? Give in? Letting Sukuna win?" You tilted your head. "Over my dead body."

"You're so damn stubborn," he said, escaping your gaze and shifting slightly. "You heard what they said in there, if this gets out, you could be suspended from this university. You would lose everything you've worked so hard for."

"And so. I don't care! I won't stand by and see Sukuna ruin you for something we're both responsible for!"

Suddenly, the door creaked open and a man peered in, startled by the scene. You turned your head. "Get the fuck out and find another bathroom."

The man left in an instant.

Satoru met your gaze once more. "I can take the fall. I can handle it. But you—you have a future ahead of you."

The audacity almost made you scream. "Handle it? How? By giving Sukuna exactly what he wants?"

"You don't get it, do you?" he snapped. "You have no say in this matter, not anymore. End of discussion."

His words felt like a physical blow.

Silence choked the air within the tiny bathroom. You fought for breath, for words, for any thread of understanding to cling to. Your hands trembled, nails digging into your palms until the pain was heavier than the crushing weight in your chest.

"Why do you even stay?" His sudden question a knife to an already gaping wound.

What?

Why would he say that?

Wasn't that obvious?

Your heart sank and for a horrifying moment, your mind was a blank canvas, all anger swept away.

"Because you would do the same," you finally managed, the words scraped raw from your throat. "You would stay. You wouldn't leave me."

For one agonizing moment, he simply stared, as if searching for the lie in your words. "You don't know that."

"I do."

Of this you were more certain than anything. Even if he did not see it himself.

"No, you don't." He stepped closer, his presence a looming shadow. "You know what your problem is?" His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, forcing you to meet his eyes. The vibrant blue was gone, replaced by a bleak and turbulent storm.

"You're blind. Naive." His words were like shards of ice, each syllable piercing your already bleeding heart. "You've fallen in love with someone who will break you, and you stubbornly refuse to see it. Refuse to save yourself."

The sheer nerve of it sent a surge of fury coursing through you.

"Yeah, you're right, you're a real pain in the ass." Your voice held a bitter edge. "Most days, I wonder myself why I even stay. But Satoru, hear me when I say—we're not perfect, we never will be. Still, I chose you."

He paused.

His granite facade finally cracked, a flicker of vulnerability in that frozen gaze.

"I don't know if I can do this," he whispered, a broken confession. "I don't know if I can be what you need—what you deserve."

You stepped closer, patience stretched thin, a simmering rage threatening to boil over.

"And how does that make you feel?" Your voice held a relentless edge. "Knowing, too bad you don't get to decide? That I'm sticking around regardless—even when you try your hardest to push me away?"

His shoulders slumped, and with a shuddering breath, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "You're killing me," he choked out, the words barely audible against your skin.

"I could say the same about you."

Your fingers threaded through his hair, felt the tension coiled in his neck muscles. For a few precious minutes, the world outside this bathroom faded away. There was only the warmth of his body against yours, the grounding rhythm of his unsteady breath.

"I can't explain why you don't leave."

"Because you're unworthy of my love?"

"Maybe," he said, burying his face even deeper into your neck. "I don't know."

"Look at me," you insisted. "Satoru, look at me."

"I can't," he choked out. "I'm scared," the confession tore from him, "scared of hurting you, terrified of losing you. You—you make me feel things I've spent a lifetime avoiding, things I don't know how to handle. It scares the hell out of me."

Your heart ached for him, for the vulnerability he so rarely dared to show. "I'm scared too," you admitted. "I'm scared of losing you. So don't push me away, when all I want is to be near you."

Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. His body trembled against yours. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You don't need to deserve me, Satoru. Love isn't about deserving. It's about choosing each other, again and again, no matter what. And I choose you."

He lifted his head, his gaze searching yours.

"And I choose you," he echoed.

He leaned down. His lips met yours, hesitant at first, then pressing with growing urgency. Your hands tightened on the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the tension seep away under your touch.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

You leaned into him.

You sought him like a gasping breath.

The kiss deepened, still not fiery, but infused with a desperate kind of hunger. It wasn't about pleasure, it was about presence—proof of each other, a lifeline in a sea of doubt.

When he finally drew back, it was the barest of distances, his ragged breath warm against your skin. His gaze searched yours as if for the answer to an unanswerable question.

Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open.

Geto's form filled the doorway.

"There you are," he sighed. "Well, at least this time, everyone manages to keep their hands where I can see them.

─── ·✧· ───

Half-unpacked boxes littered your apartment.

Even after six months, you still hadn't found the time to really settle into your new place. You wondered what was taking up all your time?

Yeah, right.

But unpacking today became a pleasant distraction. Tomorrow was the second hearing, and to say you were nervous was an understatement.

You busied yourself with mindless tasks—sorting through old journals, debating whether to throw away sentimental stuff you knew you'd never look at again.

Anything to avoid the relentless churn of worry, the scenarios your mind conjured despite your best efforts to banish them.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed.

Satoru's name flashed on the screen.

"Look out your window," he said.

You crossed to the window, pushing aside the faded curtains.

There he was, leaning against his sleek black car, the streetlights casting him in an almost cinematic glow. He tipped his head back, his gaze finding yours across the distance.

"So," his voice crackled through the phone, "wanna do something fun?"

"Fun, huh? Don't tell me you plan on robbing a bank and need an accomplice?"

"I don't need to rob a bank, I'm already fairly wealthy, don't worry. Thought of something more destructive."

"Sounds tempting," you said, "but I'm a very busy woman, you know? I've got people to avoid, laundry to fold—"

"If you don't come down in the next few minutes, you're the one getting folded, first-year."

"You're insufferable, you know that?"

"Irresistible, you mean," he corrected.

"Give me a minute."

You quickly grabbed a sweater and headed downstairs. You stepped outside and saw him still leaning against his car, arms crossed. He straightened up as you approached, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "Hey there, beautiful."

"Are you single?" he quipped as you approached. His warmth radiated against you, his breath a whisper against your skin. "Cause I think I wanna make you mine." He opened the passenger door for you.

"Sadly, I'm taken," you replied, leaning in seductively. His breath caught for a fraction of a second, before you slid into the plush seat. The familiar scent of leather and his cologne washed over you.

"That man must be damn lucky." He closed the door with a soft click, walked around the car and got in the driver's seat.

"So where are we going?" you asked.

"Ah, that would be telling."

With a roar of the engine, he pulled away from the curb.

The drive stretched on, the cityscape melting into the soft twilight. The setting sun painted the sky in a fiery canvas of orange and crimson, casting long shadows across the rolling fields.

You looked over at Satoru. Bathed in the warm glow, he looked so soft—the tousled white hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the mischievous glint in those impossibly blue eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses.

You watched the effortless grace with which he steered, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The warmth seeping through the fabric, the subtle pressure of his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin.

The buzz of the city gave way to sprawling countryside, and then unexpectedly, he veered onto a narrow dirt road. The car raised clouds of dust. Finally, he brought it to a stop, the engine cutting off abruptly.

A sprawling junkyard loomed before you, a graveyard of rusted cars and forgotten machinery.

"You want to murder me?"

He grinned, already unbuckling. "What do you think of me?"

Without another word, he slid out, rounding the car to open the passenger door for you. "Come on, this will be fun."

He walked towards the trunk. Popping it open, he reached inside and pulled out two worn construction hammers.

"You really want to murder me, don't you?"

Satoru slung the hammers over his shoulder. "Trust me, you'll love it," he said, tossing you a pair of safety glasses. "Don't you want to enjoy our last day before we get suspended?"

"This isn't funny, Satoru."

"Just a bit," he countered.

You approached the towering chainlink gate of the junkyard. Reaching it, Satoru planted a hammer against the bars with a loud clang.

"Choso!" His voice boomed through the desolate expanse. "Open up. I've brought company."

Moments later, a figure emerged from the shadows of a half-collapsed shed. He moved with a surprising fluidity for a man who seemed built of rock and iron. A greasy work overall hung low on his hips, exposing a chest etched with dust and tattoos. Dark hair framed his face.

"Satoru," he drawled, leaning against the gate, "need to let off some steam? And who's the pretty company?" His gaze swept over you.

"Quit drooling," Satoru said. "She's with me."

"Too bad." He gave you another slow, deliberate once-over. "Name's Choso," he said towards you and then unlocked the gate, swinging it open with a rusty creak. "Come in."

The interior of the junkyard was a labyrinth of faded paint, twisted metal, and the lingering scent of oil and gasoline. Sataru strode through with the ease of someone who knew this place intimately, navigating the treacherous terrain with an almost playful familiarity.

"So," you ventured, "how exactly do you two know each other?"

"Old acquaintance," Satoru said. "Went to school together."

Choso laughed. "Worst years of my life. Surgeon here was like a walking force of chaos, dragging trouble in his wake and showing up at the worst possible times."

"Speaking of worst times," Choso continued, throwing Satoru a pointed look, "where the hell have you been, man? Haven't seen you around in a while."

"Been busy," Satoru said.

Choso narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on you. "Ah, well, well—now things make a bit more sense."

Choso led you further into the heart of the junkyard, where several battered cars stood. With a theatrical gesture, he swept his arm towards them. "These babies are destined for the scrap heap tomorrow, so have at it."

He then dug into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a set of keys. He tossed them to Satoru. "Lock up after yourself as usual," he said, already moving away, "and try not to set the whole place on fire, okay?"

Satoru turned towards you, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Safety first," he said, grabbing the safety glasses from your grip and gently placing them over your head. "Gotta protect those pretty eyes."

"Are we seriously doing this now?"

He grinned. "Trust me," he said, before putting on his own glasses and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Muscles rippled as he hefted the hammer. "It's fun."

BOOM!

The first blow from Satoru's hammer echoed through the junkyard. Glass shattered, raining down in glittering shards. Metal shrieked in protest, folding under his relentless assault. Dents bloomed beneath his blows, grotesque and strangely satisfying.

You watched him release all the frustration that must have built up over the past months, it seemed.

Or perhaps he was completely insane now.

After what seemed like an eternity he finally slowed down. His chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. A sheen of sweat slicked his forehead, making his white hair stick to his skin.

Slowly, he lowered the hammer, knuckles white against the worn wood.

He turned towards you. "Wanna try?"

Wordlessly, you approached. He watched, a hint of amusement playing on his lips, as you took the hammer from his grasp.

With a surge of adrenaline, you raised the hammer and brought it down, the impact resonating through the junkyard. Metal shrieked in protest, a deep crater forming under the blow. The vibration thrummed through your arms, jolting Satoru into a surprised laugh.

"Didn't think you had it in you, first-year," he said. "You still surprise me."

You met his gaze. "Here to talk, or blow off steam?"

He grinned.

And then, destruction followed.

The hammer felt surprisingly good in your hand.

With each blow, a wave of satisfaction surged through you. It wasn't just about hitting metal. It was about smashing the frustration out, that had been building up inside you for weeks. It was addictive, the way the world narrowed to just you, the car, and the hammer—

—and it felt damn good.

Minutes later, you paused, taking a breath.

"So," you started, your voice breathless, "why does Sukuna hate you so much anyway?"

Satoru set down his hammer with a thud. "I did some stuff I'm not really proud of in my teenage years. Thought he'd be over it by now, but—guess not."

What's that supposed to mean?

What could he have possibly done to make Sukuna hate him so much?

But then again, did you really want to know every dark detail of his past?

Not really.

You glanced over at him, and somehow something in his eyes told you that you indeed did not want to know. You lifted your hammer, the metal cool against your skin, and smashed the car's side mirror. The glass shattered with a satisfying crack.

Satoru paused, watching you. "You don't want to ask?"

"What?"

"What it was that I did?"

As if anything about this man could scare you at this point.

But then again, you didn't want to push it.

"Is it worse than your addiction?" Another swing, another satisfying crack as the car yielded further to your blows.

He didn't reply.

You set down the hammer, the metal suddenly too heavy to hold. "It doesn't matter. Your past is your past, Satoru. We all do stupid things when we're young."

His impossibly blue eyes bore into you, sending a strange shiver down your spine. "Besides, if he hates you for being a jerk back then, Sukuna needs a serious hobby."

A smirk pulled at your lips as you slammed the hammer against the car once more, the clang echoing through the tense space.

Before you could strike again, Satoru's hand closed over yours. With disarming ease, he plucked the hammer from your numb grasp, tossing it aside with a clatter.

The scent of sweat, oil, and his familiar cologne washed over you—heady, intoxicating. He cupped your face, his touch tender even as his hands trembled slightly.

He leaned in, the world narrowing to his electric blue eyes and the quickening of his breath against your skin. "I love you, first-year. Damn it, I love you. I don't care how complicated this gets, I want you."

His lips claimed yours before you could process his words in a kiss that was both desperate and achingly tender. You melted into him, hands tangling in his sweat-dampened hair, the taste of salt and a hint of iron sharp and real on his lips.

Time seemed to bend and stretch. The world outside the junkyard, with all the shit going on, faded into insignificance. All that mattered was his touch, his kiss conveying emotions words couldn't express.

Your hands fisted in his shirt. You pulled him closer, needing the reassurance of his warmth, the proof of this connection amidst the chaos.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue seeking entry with hesitant urgency. His hands roamed, mapping your familiar curves beneath the fabric of your clothes.

He broke the kiss, a low moan escaping his throat. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailed along your jaw before he swept you off your feet, breaking the kiss only long enough to lay you back against the cool metal of the car's hood.

His body followed, pressing against yours. His lips found yours once more, sending a new wave of shivers through you. His hands were rough, long fingers tracing the curve of your hip, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your waist, where your sweater hitched upwards.

He kissed you like a man at the edge of a precipice, savoring every sensation, clinging to the fragile lifeline this moment offered. Your fingers tangled in his tousled white hair, holding him close, urging him even closer.

A moan vibrated against your lips, a testament to the fire you so effortlessly ignited within him.

Then, reality cut through the haze with the sharp buzz of his phone. He pulled back with a gasp, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

"What's wrong?" you breathed.

"Stupid reminder." A muscle worked in his jaw as he fumbled for his phone. He glanced at the screen. "My pills—"

The words hung heavy in the air.

Of course. How could you have forgotten?

Today—today would be the last day he needed those reminders.

As he sat back, you straightened slightly. "You okay?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze swept across the junkyard. With a sigh, he reached behind him, pulling out a plastic blister pack. One final pill starkly visible in its faded foil casing.

"Last one." He held it up for you to see. "Forever."

"Are you—" You couldn't quite bring yourself to ask if he was afraid, but the question lingered in your eyes, unspoken.

He finally met your eyes, and the vulnerability there took your breath away. "Terrified," he admitted. "But also—"

He hesitated. "Alive," he finished. "For the first time in a damn long time, I actually feel like I'm living."

Satoru's eyes flickered to your lips. Without a word, he leaned in, his movements laced with a new slowness that somehow made him seem even more dangerous.

His lips hovered mere inches from yours as he guided you back until you lay upon the cool metal of the car hood once more.

Above you, the fading twilight painted the sky in hues of violet and indigo, the first stars shimmering to life. Time seemed to dissolve, leaving only the warmth of his body against yours, the grounding rhythm of his breath.

"Satoru, what—?"

His eyes locked with yours, the intensity in his gaze both thrilling and unsettling. He pulled the last pill from its faded packaging, holding it between his fingers. "Open your mouth."

And without hesitation, you did.

His breath ghosted over your skin as he leaned close, placing the pill on your tongue. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the bitterness of the pill barely registering.

Satoru simply watched you for a moment, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Shame I have to get clean, you look so pretty like that."

Before the pill could dissolve, his lips found yours. With a gasp, you felt him sweep the pill with his tongue into his own mouth.

The kiss that followed was deep, searing, all-consuming.

It was both a goodbye and a beginning, whispered against your lips with the lingering tang of bitter medicine.

You clawed at his back, nails leaving their mark as he tightened his grip, pulling you impossibly closer. Heat pooled low in your stomach, your whimper swallowed by another hungry kiss of him.

Suddenly, teeth grazed your bottom lip, a sharp sting that blurred the line between pleasure and pain. Each flicker of his tongue sent shudders through your limbs, each nip of his teeth left you craving more.

His hand slid beneath your shirt with a roughness that stole your breath. You moan against his lips, your body arching instinctively towards his touch.

He pushed one of your legs up, his fingers trailing along the back of your thigh with a firm, insistent touch. Blazing kisses seared along your jawline, the warmth a stark contrast to the cool night air.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, feeling the desperate echo of his need mirrored in your own ragged pulse. The relentless rhythm of his breath, the feverish touch of his skin—it was an intoxicating chaos that threatened to consume you.

And then, abruptly, he pulled back.

"You give in too easily." A teasing smile played on his lips. "You don't really want me to fuck you on this hood, right?"

"God, I hate you," you muttered, sitting up and brushing your hair back. It was a half-hearted insult, lacking its usual bite.

"Yeah, as if," he countered, the smirk widening. He offered you a hand. "Come on, first-year. We're not done here. Gotta let out some more of that pent-up frustration, right?"

─── ·✧· ───

Back in Satoru's apartment, reality intruded with a gritty persistence.

The remnants of the junkyard clung to you like an unwelcome second skin. Your hair was a tangled mess, your face streaked with grime—a stark contrast to the pristine white tiles of Satoru's tidy bathroom.

"Got you something to change into later." Satoru's voice sliced through the steam, drawing your attention. You turned, water running down your body, and met his gaze.

"Thank you."

He stripped off his shirt, exposing his defined chest. Then, he reached for his belt, his movements slow. "Takeout later?"

"Sounds good." Your gaze fixated on him as he continued to undress, shedding layers of clothing until he stood bare before you.

He stepped into the shower, joining you beneath the steaming spray. The water, hot as it had been before, suddenly felt scalding against your sensitized skin. His gaze roamed over you with such boldness that it sent a shiver down your spine.

"What are you planning, Professor?"

His hands found your waist, drawing you impossibly closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between your bodies. The water cascaded over you, washing away the grime of the day. He leaned closer. "Maybe we should finish what we started earlier, don't you think?"

His hands, rough yet tender, traced a path along your damp arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Oh, what? You're leaving me hanging earlier and now you want it?"

"Oh love, I would've fucked you dumb on that hood if I didn't know Choso has cameras all over the place." He trailed kisses down your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer still, crushing your water-slicked bodies together. His boner already pressing against your back.

"Don't want him to see you all messed up, crying and screaming out my name."

"You're too confident for you own good," you protested weakly, though the words melted into a sigh as his lips continued their assault, trailing along your shoulders and up your neck.

He brushed your hair aside to give himself free access, before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of your throat. Hard enough to leave a mark but not break the skin. You gasp.

"Still think I can't make you scream?" He teased, as he continued to tease your neck with his teeth and tongue. His grip tightens around your waist, grinding himself against you in slow, deliberate strokes.

"Not quite convinced yet," you said, yet your knees betrayed you, threatening to buckle under the intensity of the heat. But his strong arms held you steady, keeping you grounded as he devoured you with his kisses.

"Oh, looks like you are already on your knees."

"Keep dreaming." Another bite, this one sharper than the last, elicits another moan from deep within your throat. Then, he turned you around to face him.

Without missing a beat, his lips crushed against yours. Tongues intertwined, grappling fiercely for dominance amidst the clash of teeth. He wrapped his hand tightly around the back of your neck, drawing you ever closer to his greedy lips.

You struggled to catch your breath. Still, you needed more, needed all of him. All you wanted was to surrender completely, to let yourself be consumed by him entirely.

Your hands roam over his slick, muscular form, tracing every curve and contour of his abs. His skin hot against yours. You could feel his length swelling even further against your skin, throbbing with need and begging to be buried deep within your core.

Chills ran along your spine, coiling tighter and tighter with every kiss, until you could barely contain yourself any longer. You wanted to feel him inside you, filling you completely.

But he seemed determined to take things slow, to draw out every moment as long as possible.

So you had to push him a little harder.

"Still not impressed, Satoru."

"Oh, really?" His teeth bit into your lower lip, coaxing a moan from your lips. "Then let me show you just how good I can make you feel."

He grabbed and spun you around, pressing you firmly against the cool tile wall. His hot breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of your neck, making you shiver in anticipation. Your body arched, offering itself up to him completely.

His teeth grazed your skin, leaving a trail of marks and bruises along your shoulders. He grinded himself against your backside, the friction setting your entire being on fire. You moaned softly, the sound muffled by the steady stream of water.

Without warning, his hand slipped between your legs. Two fingers slid effortlessly into your depths, curving upwards to hit that sweet spot that made your head spin and your legs tremble.

He paused for a second, savoring the way your muscles clenched around his fingers as he delved deeper. "God, love—you're shaking already?"

Then, he began to pump his fingers in and out, each thrust drawing forth a soft moan from your parted lips.

"It's because of your insufferability. I don't enjoy this at all," you protested weakly, barely able to keep your footing as he fucked you with his fingers. But there was no mistaking the way your hips bucked eagerly beneath his hands.

A cry escaped your throat as he pushed his fingers deeper into you in response. "You're quite loud for someone not enjoying it."

"Shut it and make me cum, Satoru."

"Always so bold, first-year, make sure you don't regret it later."

With each thrust, you felt more and more lost in the sensation of his touch. Your body trembled and convulsed beneath his skilled hands. Each gasp and whimper from your lips was met with a low moan from him, encouraging you further towards release.

His fingers curl and twist inside you, hitting all the right spots until you think you can't take it anymore. But just as you feel yourself starting to tumble over the brink, he withdraws his fingers, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. "Wha—what?"

"Not so fast, love." Before you can protest, he spins you around once more and lifts you up, pinning you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist, your hands digging into his broad shoulders for support.

"I want to feel you cum around my cock."

Then, he pushed inside slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. He still stretched you every damn time, even though you had fucked before. Still, it was every fucking time overwhelming again—in the best possible way.

He slowly withdrew and pushed forward again. "Still not good?"

"Could be better," you gasp, clawing at his back, pleading silently for more.

"You know, I love a good challenge."

You cried out, your voice echoing off the tiles as he began to thrust into you. The angle is perfect, deep, maybe too deep, hitting all the right spots as he pounds mercilessly into you. Each thrust sent shock waves through your body, threatening to overwhelm you.

"Fuck, you feel so good. So damn good." He let out a low moan, tilting his head back to let the water run down his face and neck.

You responded with a whimper, your whole body tensing as he delved deeper into your core. Each time he hit bottom, you bit down on your lower lip, fighting to keep quiet to not give him the satisfaction.

But it was in vain as his thrusts became more urgent, more desperate, driving you both closer and closer to the edge. With each thrust, your moans grew louder, echoing throughout the bathroom, mirroring his own desperate moans that escaped his parted lips.

"God, yes—right there—" You feel yourself losing control, your legs shaking as you struggle to maintain your balance against the force of his movements, the sound of running water blending with the slick slapping of skin against skin filling the room.

Suddenly, the grip of his hands on your ass tightens, pulling you even closer against him as he continues to drive into you hard and fast. Your breath quickens as you realize that you're close—so incredibly close. He feels it too, as always. He knows you inside and out.

"Cum for me, love. Don't hold back."

That was it.

You throw your head back, crying out his name as you feel your entire being consumed by the intensity of your orgasm. He feels it too, every muscle tensing as he drives deeper into you.

"Fuck, you drive me insane." His voice was hoarse, his breathing uneven, and you knew without a doubt that he wouldn't last much longer either.

His movements grew harder and faster, desperate for release as he thrust into your still convulsing core. You arched your back, meeting his every thrust as you felt him near the edge, his cock throbbing inside you.

"Shit," he cursed. He buried himself once more with a hard thrust before he emptied himself inside you, filling you completely. His cum dripped down your legs, blending with the hot water running down the drain.

His head fell forward, a curtain of snow-white hair veiling his heavy-lidded eyes. "God, you feel so fucking good," he moaned, his words a breathless confession amidst ragged gasps.

You wanted, to get out of his grasp, to regain your footing but he held firm.

"Not so fast," he breathed. Then, he starts to thrust into you again, slow this time, making sure his cum stays where it belongs—deep inside you.

You found yourself growing increasingly sensitive, every new thrust overwhelming your senses as you writhed in his grasp. "Satoru, stop," you gasped, clutching his shoulders tightly. "It's too much."

"I know you can take it, take it for me like a good girl for me."

His words echoed in your ears as he thrust deep and slow into you, sending shivers through your entire being. You dug your fingernails into his arms, desperate for purchase as he plunged deeper.

"You're such a bitch," you whined. Despite your protests, you were dangerously close to another orgasm.

"Always so fierce." Satoru felt you being close and continued to push you until you screamed his name again. "Good girl. That's it. Come all over me."

Eventually, exhausted and completely spent, he pulled out slowly, wincing slightly at the raw sensitivity of his member. He set you back on the floor, holding you tightly as your legs threatened to give way beneath you.

"You did so well for me, love." His lips found yours in a tender kiss, lingering there for several long moments before finally breaking apart.

"I hate you," you whispered weakly against his lips.

"Hate me already?" His lips curled into a smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Then you'll hate me even more now because we're not finished yet."

Before a word of protest could escape your lips, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close. With surprising strength, he hoisted you off the ground, flinging you over his shoulder.

Water droplets scattered everywhere as he strode out of the bathroom, carrying you away like some prized possession.

"Wh—What are you doing?"

Before you knew it, he threw you onto the bed. The sheets beneath you were soaked in an instant.

"Now, where were we?" He crawled onto the bed, his body settling between your parted legs.

You swallowed hard, the rapid beating of your heart echoing in your ears, drowning out the distant sound of the still running water from the bathroom. "Satoru, I can't—I'm spent," you managed, your voice a breathless plea.

"Oh, I'm sure you can." His eyes locked on yours with an unwavering intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. With a smirk that twisted his lips into a wicked grin, he lowered himself between your trembling thighs.

Without hesitation, he delved into you with his tongue. You took a sharp inhale, as you felt his tongue move within you. "Dammit Satoru, why are you like this?"

You grasped tightly onto his hair, trying to push him back, but his grip on your thighs only tightened.

"Oh, love, you're so cute when you fight it," he mused against your core. His movements were slow and deliberate, teasing you mercilessly with every flick and thrust of his tongue. Then, he licked and sucked at your clit, swirling his tongue around it in lazy circles.

Despite your resistance, you found yourself writhing beneath him, surrendering completely to his will as you felt your core to tense and convulse under his touch.

Maybe, just maybe, Satoru was right—maybe you weren't quite done yet.

But just as you were about to reach the peak, he stopped.

His mouth left your trembling core, and you couldn't help but let out a whimper of frustration. He licked slowly over your sensitive flesh, his gaze fixed on your eyes, his intent clear. "Beg for it."

God, this fucker always knew how to rile you up.

"I'll fucking spit in your face later, Satoru," you retorted, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

"Oh, don't bother yourself, I might enjoy it," Satoru replied, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he continued to torment you with his tongue. "So should I stop?"

"I won't give in to you."

"Is that so?" he challenged, sliding one finger inside you with deliberate slowness. "I think we both know how much you need this."

"You're insufferably arrogant," you muttered, gripping the wet sheets beneath you. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan threatening to escape.

"Maybe" He slid another finger inside you, curling his fingers inside you to find that spot that made your breath catch. "But let's see if you can resist me for much longer."

He thrust his fingers deep into you, hitting bottom with his long fingers, sending your head spinning. "Please," you gasped. "Don't stop."

"That's it." Satoru's smirk widened as he watched you unravel before him. "Let go for me, love."

His mouth descended on your clit again, his fingers thrusting into you with a relentless rhythm that drove you over the edge. With a loud moan, you felt yourself shattering under his touch, your entire body tensing with another orgasm.

"How much I love that feeling of you coming undone around me," he said, his voice husky, as he continued to slowly thrust his fingers into you, savoring the sensation of your walls clenching around him. "So perfect."

With deliberate slowness, he withdrew his fingers. A satisfied smirk graced his lips as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and licked his fingers clean.

Moving up your body, his dark eyes bore into yours, their intensity cutting through the haze that clouded your vision. His hand snaked around your throat, his touch gentle as he stroked his thumb over your rapidly beating pulse.

"You know, you can bring a few things here, if you want."

"Huh?" was all you could manage before you felt him slowly, agonizingly slowly, beginning to enter you once more.

Inch by inch, he filled you up, stretching you wide until you were certain you couldn't take any more. But still, he kept pushing, burying himself deeper and deeper inside you until he was fully seated.

"Did you just fucking ask me to move in?" you breathed, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. It was a maddeningly slow pace as he began to thrust into you, each thrust driving you wild with longing.

He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation, resting his forehead against yours, his warm breath mingling with yours. "I mean, if you want to."

You wrapped your legs around his waist. "You can't just ask me to move in while we fuck, Satoru."

"Why not?"

"Because—" The words caught in your throat as he suddenly picked up the pace, thrusting hard and deep into your already overly sensitive core. Leaving you gasping for air with each forceful thrust.

A moan escaped your lips as he found that perfect spot inside. "Oh god, right there!"

"Oh, love, I know that you like that," he growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I always know exactly what you need." His head dropped to your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin there.

God, you hated him—hated him for being so damn right and knowing you inside out.

"I hate you and your fucking god complex." Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks as you held on tight.

"What did you just say?" He suddenly tightened the pressure on your throat, cutting off your air enough to make your head spin.

You struggled to catch your breath. "That you have a fucking god complex."

He smirked, continuing to move inside you with a fierce intensity that left you reeling. "And yet, here you are, begging for more." Each word was punctuated by a deep, powerful thrust that made your whole being tremble.

You cried out, unable to form any meaningful response save for a series of desperate moans and whimpers. He picked up speed, driving deeper and harder into your core with each passing second.

"Like that, huh?"

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, holding onto him like a lifeline as he carried you higher and higher toward release. "Yes, don't stop."

He leaned close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Oh, I won't, sweetheart," he whispered. "Not until you come all over me."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, digging your nails in deeper. You could feel the muscles in his back flexing under your fingertips. Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the growing sensation within you. But they snapped open as he gripped your jaw.

"Open your eyes," he commanded. "I want you to look at me while you cum."

His hand found your throat again. His fingers fit so perfectly around your neck, so terrifyingly perfect. "I want you to see exactly who's making you feel this way."

Without warning, he lifted one of your legs over his broad shoulder, changing the angle—making it even better. Your skin grew hotter as he increased his pace, thrusting into you with such force that you would have slid up the bed if not for his firm grip on your throat.

You watched him through glassy eyes, taking in every detail of his flushed face, the damp hair that clung to his forehead. His lips parted as low moans escaped his lips before he bit down on his lower lip.His moans were high-pitched and needful, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath as he struggled to maintain control. The sight alone enough to make you cum, right here and now. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

"Cum for me, love" he encouraged, his thrusts becoming erratic as he neared his own release.

Your mind was so hazy from all the sensations that you didn't even register what you were screaming as you rode out your fourth orgasm of the night. Your body convulsed as he continued to thrust into you, barely noticing what he hissed as you felt him fill you up again.

You felt him shudder against you. Then, he collapsed, his weight pressing against your body as he supported himself with his hands on either side of your head.

His breath mingled with yours, warm and heavy against your skin. He gazed down at you with a look of sheer adoration in his eyes.

With a gentle touch, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your heated face, his fingers lingering against your skin. Slowly, he lowered his lips to yours, kissing you with a tenderness that was so different to the way he just fucked you.

"So, what about moving in now?" he murmured against your lips.

"I'm not answering that now."

─── ·✧· ───

Later that night, you were jolted awake.

Not from a sound, but the suffocating weight on your chest.

Satoru's grip around you was a vise, the pressure sharp against your ribs. His breaths rasped in your ear, harsh and uneven, like each inhalation was tearing something loose inside him. His body twitched against yours.

"Satoru?" You tried to shift, to ease the weight pressing you into the mattress, but his hold was unyielding.

"Satoru," urgency clawed at your tone. "Hey, wake up."

His response was a strangled groan, followed by a string of words that were almost impossible to decipher. You clawed at his arms, panic rising as the air squeezed from your lungs. Still, he held on. Your blood turned to ice.

"Satoru, please wake up."

Somehow you managed to wrench yourself free. The cool air on your skin was a shock after the heat of his body.

You cupped his face, the stubble rough against your palm, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Satoru, wake up," you pleaded. "It's just a dream."

His eyes snapped open. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, you saw the fear in them. His pupils were dilated, swallowing up the vibrant blue with an alarming blackness. A sheen of sweat made his skin gleam like he'd been doused in icy water.

His hand shot out, fumbling for yours with a frantic desperation that made you gasp. His fingers clamped around you like cold iron, his grip bruising.

"No—they can't—" His voice was a strangled rasp, the words barely coherent. "Can't let them—" Each word seemed etched with pain, a fresh wound torn open with every syllable. His grip tightened, his fingernails digging into your skin.

"Can't what?" You flinched slightly under his grip. "Satoru, please, look at me. You're safe. You're here with me."

A flicker of awareness broke through the terror in his eyes, his gaze finally landing on you. But the intensity was staggering. It was as if he were seeing you for the first time, fear still clinging to him like a shroud.

"It's okay," you soothed, gently running your hand through his sweat-soaked locks. "Just a nightmare, Satoru. Nothing but a bad dream."

He sat up, the sheets sliding away from his bare chest. You caught a glimpse of his ribs, the rise and fall of his breaths ragged. He ran a trembling hand across his face.

"Sorry—" His gaze flickered over you, the panic fading just enough for him to register the mirroring fear twisting your features. "God, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It was just a bad dream."

His eyes swept over your arm, tracing the red marks left by his bruising grip. "Did I hurt you?" His hand reached out, hesitating just short of touching you, then traced the path of the bruises on your skin. "Fuck, love—did I do that?"

"It's okay," you said again. "I'm fine."

It was a lie, but you couldn't bring yourself to admit how the lingering ache made your skin crawl. Not now.

He fisted his hand in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, threatening to rip the sweat-dampened strands out. "Sorry," he said again, then he leaned in, his lips brushing your temple with a surprising gentleness.

But it didn't soothe.

It felt like a desperate plea for forgiveness he feared he didn't deserve.

He swung his legs out of bed. His bare feet hit the threadbare carpet with a muffled thud. He didn't turn towards you, his back a rigid line against the faint light filtering through the window.

Unease prickled your skin. "Satoru, what's—?" You sat up, the warm blankets pooling around your waist.

You watched as he moved to the dresser, grabbing a pair of shorts and a shirt.

"Satoru, what are you doing?"

He hesitated as he pulled the shirt over his head. For a heartbeat, he was still, as if caught between the urge to flee and a desperate wish to explain. But when he turned, the mask was firmly in place.

"Just need some air." He didn't turn towards you, didn't offer a glance. You couldn't even tell if he was truly seeing you. "I'll be back."

His hands were a blur of motion as he laced his running shoes. You watched, a knot of fear twisting in your gut. "Satoru, please—talk to me."

"I can't." His response was sharp, tinged with a defensiveness bordering on panic.

Your heart ached. Your mind clouded.

You didn't know what was right anymore, letting him go or holding him back. Somehow it seemed you were always wrong.

His fingers twitched. You saw the moment his control frayed. Nails raked against skin, then his hand closed into a fist, fingers digging into his palm until the knuckles turned white.

He moved toward the door, halting in the frame. "I'm sorry." He slipped out, leaving the door ajar. You didn't follow him.

The silence he left was cruel.

The darkness of the room suddenly so heavy.

Your heart was a shattered mess in your chest, each shard scraping against your ribs with every ragged breath.

The urge to sink back into bed, to burrow into the sheets, was overwhelming. But you couldn't. Bare feet met the cold floor. Reaching the window, you peered out into the moonlit night.

Below, his figure stood bathed in the pool of light cast by a flickering streetlamp, his form stark against the cracked pavement. As you watched, he fiddled with his smartwatch, likely starting some sort of running program.

His head lifted and his gaze found yours. His surprise was a knife in your already battered heart. Even from this distance, you saw the tightness of his jaw, the hollows beneath his eyes carved even deeper by the pitiless streetlight.

For a breath, an agonizing heartbeat, you saw a plea flicker across his face. But then, he turned and began to run. Each stride was a brutal reminder of how far away he was slipping, how powerless you were to stop it.

"You're so stupid, Satoru."

How could you ever sleep now?

How could you ever sleep again without him by your side?

Strange, how you can love someone so deeply, so all-consuming, that sometimes it scares you how involuntarily raw and vulnerable you are at his mercy.

But the truth was, loving him also meant accepting the ragged edges, the parts of him that were sharp enough to draw blood.

Of that, you were painfully certain.

─── ·✧· ───

Sleep had been a fitful, fleeting thing.

Each shallow breath was a struggle against the dull pain in your skull. When morning finally bled through the curtains, it felt less like waking and more like surrender.

Then, the jolt—his weight pressing down, his familiar scent sharp against the stale air.

Satoru.

He'd slipped back into bed beside you. He smelled like sweat and something acrid—cigarettes.

He tightened his grip around you, pulling you close underneath the sheets. Yet, even with his warm body flush against yours, there was a coldness in the space between you.

"You smell like smoke."

He stirred, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his hair, slightly damp with sweat, against your skin. "Was with Suguru," he mumbled, his words muffled.

Should you be angry with him that he went to Geto instead of staying with you?

Probably.

But right now, you had really other concerns.

Or perhaps you were too tired to even try at this point.

You turned in his arms, squinting against the dim light filtering through the curtains. The exhaustion carved into his face was stark, the shadows beneath his eyes pools of bruise-purple.

He looked younger, fragile.

It was a sight that ached in your chest like a newly-bruised rib.

"Satoru, what's going on? Why did you run?"

He sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to drag something out of him. He shifted, burrowing deeper into the curve of your neck, as if seeking both comfort and a shield against your questions.

"Don't know," he finally admitted. "Was just—too much."

You knew better than to push.

Instead, you shifted in his embrace.

You let your hand rest against his chest, his heartbeat a frantic, uneven rhythm against your palm. It was too fast, too erratic, and despite the warmth of his body, a shiver traced its way up your spine.

"You know, today is the second hearing," you muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I know." His grip on you tightened. For a long, agonizing moment, you simply lay together. The scent of smoke hung heavy in the stillness.

"We'll get through it," you whispered. "As long as we stay together."

His only response was a soft exhale.

His body shifted, molding against yours. His breaths deepened, the frantic edge fading. You felt his body loosen, the rigid tension seeping out of him. His heartbeat began to slow beneath your palm.

You shifted slightly, settling comfortably into his embrace. You stared out the window, the first tendrils of dawn painting the sky a muted grey, and listened to the uneven rhythm of his sleep.

Perhaps you should hate him just a little.

Perhaps that might make all of this a bit easier.

─── ·✧· ───

Morning arrived with a harsh finality that mirrored your own restless night. Sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains, a cruel, accusatory beam that cut through the lingering shadows.

Yet, there was no time for dwelling.

No room for the exhaustion that throbbed behind your eyes.

"Satoru," you whispered, shaking his shoulder. "We have to go. Now."

He stirred with a groan, momentarily disoriented. Then, a flicker of urgency replaced the sleepy confusion in his eyes.

Right.

The damn hearing.

It all came rushing back, cold dread coiling in his gut.

"Fuck," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I overslept."

You sat already fully dressed on the edge of the bed. Your gaze met his, your brows furrowed in a silent echo of the questions burning on your tongue.

But for now, you shoved them aside. There would be time for that later, time to tear down the walls he'd built between you.

"Come on, you need to get ready."

The drive to the hospital was a blur of rushed movements and strained silence. The looming hearing hung in the air like a storm cloud, every mile bringing you closer to the inevitable clash.

Your stomach churned, waves of nausea threatening to overwhelm you. It was a battle to keep the rising fear from twisting your face, a battle you weren't sure you were winning.

Why all of a sudden?

Why did it suddenly feel like your whole world was falling apart?

You'd been so sure you would make it, that you'd get through it together. With Satoru by your side, nothing could happen.

But that certainty was crumbling into dust.

One glance at his pale face, the blood drained from his skin, and fear clung to your throat. You didn't dare ask what was going on inside his head, but his silence was an answer in itself.

Upon arrival, the sterile meeting room felt more like a prison cell.

Geto and Higurama waited, their expressions grave. You met Geto's gaze, a silent exchange passing between you. He knew. He knew, that you knew that Satoru spent the night at his place. But you shoved this thought aside as well. There would be time later.

"Glad you could finally join us," Higurama's voice held a sarcastic edge.

"Sorry, overslept," Satoru said.

"We don't have much time," Higurama cut in. "I spoke with the committee."

"And?" You prompted.

"They're not happy." He met your gaze. "They're questioning everything—your story, your... relationship."

"They suspect you acted recklessly with the surgeries," Geto added addressing Satoru. "That your judgment was clouded, that you let her operate because of an inappropriate interest."

"Of course, that's what Sukuna wants them to believe," Satoru said.

"Listen," Higurama interjected. "I've talked to the woman in the committee. Even if Sukuna wants chaos, the others are more focused on damage control. They want to bury this, protect the research, and avoid scandal. So, it's best if you just come clear now."

"So, what are we waiting for?" you asked.

Higurama met your gaze, a flicker of something like pity in his eyes. "Even if they're willing to sweep this under the rug, there'll be consequences. Suspension, likely. For both of you. You understand, right?"

"And so," you said, the words like shards of ice. "If it means this is finally over."

The words hung heavy in the air.

You glanced at Satoru, expecting his usual pushback, his sense of protecting you, some flicker of anger—but there was nothing. A deep frown creased his brow, his gaze locked on the floor. He scrubbed his arm with unnecessary force, leaving a raw, red mark on his skin.

Then, Satoru and Geto exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent communication that sent a chill down your spine. There was something off, you knew it. The silence stretched, and the pity in their eyes as they turned to you began to curdle into a sickening dread.

Finally, Satoru spoke. "Let's do it then."

His surrender was a cold slap, sharper than any open defiance could have been.

"We don't have much choice, do we?" he added.

Higurama rose, a thin folder tucked under his arm. "Then, let's go."

Higurama and Geto moved to leave the room. Geto briefly rested a hand on your shoulder. "We'll wait outside."

The door clicked shut leaving Satoru and you alone.

Satoru stared at the polished mahogany desk, his jaw working, as if he were trying to swallow a pill made of sandpaper and broken glass.

Something within you wanted to scream. To rip that flimsy facade of calm from Satoru, to shake him until the truth rattled out of him. Yet, the words died in your throat, strangled by the knowledge that it wouldn't change a thing.

Satoru's gaze flicked toward you before he pushed himself away from the desk. He walked over to you.

"You know I love you, right?"

The words should have been a balm. Instead, they were a razor blade against raw skin. "Don't you dare do anything stupid in there," you warned.

A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Come on. They'll be waiting."

Your legs felt like lead as you followed him out of the room.

─── ·✧· ───

The hearing room held an oppressive chill.

The chill wasn't just the temperature, it seeped from the sterile walls, the unyielding chairs, the weight of judgment hanging in the stale air. It was not a place designed for truth, but rather a tribunal designed for condemnation.

One by one, the committee members entered.

The familiar ache of dread curled in your stomach when Sukuna's gaze found you.

"Only Dr. Gojo is required today," one of the judges intoned.

You met Satoru's gaze. He smiled faintly, somehow it looked so cruel, so sad. You wanted to scream, to tear your way to his side. But Geto's hand held you back.

He guided you to the seats reserved for observers. To be forced into silence, into watching him getting torn to shreds under Sukuna's assault—it felt like a betrayal worse than any accusation they could hurl.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your palms. The pain a bitter focus.

Sukuna watched the proceedings, that smug half-smile plastered across his face.

He didn't care about the rules—about your lives.

This was all a cruel joke to him, a twisted play where he was the puppeteer, and you were the tangled marionette forced to dance to his tune.

This wasn't about the research—it was about breaking you, breaking Satoru, proving that all your defiance was nothing against his terrible will.

Then, Satoru sat before the judges.

"Mr. Gojo," the woman on Sukuna's left began, "we have reason to believe that your relationship with your students might be inappropriate. That it goes beyond the bounds of a teacher-student dynamic."

Wow, they didn't even bother to ask anything else today.

For a long moment, Satoru didn't move. He seemed frozen. His gaze found yours, and it was as if the whole world narrowed down to that single connection. The intensity in his gaze so sharp it was like a shard of ice against your skin.

Here it was, the crossroads. He could tell them.

Tell them the truth—that you were in a committed relationship. That his decision to include you in the project was made from a place of trust and respect for your capabilities, not an affair.

It was better than the alternative – Sukuna twisting everything into a salacious tale of a reckless professor and his eager student, jeopardizing the entire research project.

A flimsy shield, yes, but a start. A chance for the truth to fight back.

He inhaled sharply, and for that split second, the world hung suspended. Then, with a jaw so tight it might shatter, he turned back to the judges.

"If my actions have been perceived in such a way," he began, "then it is entirely my fault. I have perhaps overstepped certain boundaries. I will take full responsibility for my actions."

No.

Satoru, why?

For fuck's sake why?

A wave of nausea washed over you, bile burning the back of your throat. Your hands clenched into fists, the short nails digging into your palms with enough force to draw blood. The pain didn't register.

"All actions were initiated on my end. There is no wrongdoing on her behalf, and any suspension would be unfounded," he added.

The lips of the woman beside Sukuna pursed, the words beginning to flow in a blur of accusations and coldly calculated legalese.

You didn't hear her.

Didn't hear anything anymore.

Didn't hear anything over the roaring in your ears, the frantic, uneven thud of your heart trying to claw its way out of your ribcage. The room spun, the judges' faces blurring, the sterile walls tilting inward. Your vision tunneled. Your breath ragged.

The full weight of it crashed down—not just Sukuna, but this new catastrophe Satoru had brought crashing down around himself. His life, meticulously balanced on the razor's edge was about to collapse.

Reputation, career, everything—and all because of a sacrifice as pointless as it was heartbreaking.

Satoru's response cut through your panic like a gunshot. "I am aware of the consequences. And I take full responsibility."

The words were a death knell.

The enormity of it all crashed down on you.

Your breath caught, a strangled gasp clawing at the back of your throat. Fingers clawed at the back of the chair in front of you, wood creaking in protest. You lurched forward, a futile escape from the crushing weight.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a caged bird battering itself against a prison of flesh and bone. Voices blurred. Your breathing shortened. Your fingers, still gripping the chair, were turning numb.

"Suguru—" Your voice was a ragged plea. "Out—get me the fuck—out of—" The rest of the sentence choked in your throat.

He didn't wait a second.

With a surprising gentleness, he pried your fingers from the chair, the wood creaking beneath your white-knuckled grip. Your legs were leaden weights. He helped you stand, every step was a battle against the dizzying blackness encroaching on your vision.

The room seemed to tilt as Geto steadied you.

The judges, Sukuna, they all blurred into grotesque shapes in the periphery of your failing sight. Everything was too loud, too bright, too much.

Satoru watched you leave in silence.

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author's note: oh boy, oh boy! so much happening, so little fluff. i'm so sorry—but remember the story will have a happy ending, just have to come up how that will happen ehehe. next chapter will dive back into satoru's unhinged brain, because i love writing from his pov.

thank you SO MUCH for your unwavering support! this story's going to be a bit of a ride, and i'm so thankful you're here for it. your comments absolutely make my day! next chapter might take a little longer due to a university assignment, but i'll be back to writing like a maniac as soon as i can. thanks for understanding! ♡

wishing you a great day or night and an awesome week ahead! ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @starrynight-777 @vina21 @michelleeveline @boba-is-a-soup @cre8inghavoc @love-jelly @daimiyu @d0nk3y-k0ng @mo0nforme @smolbeanzzz @oneiricals @ynishalee (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future!)

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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

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i’ll never get bored of your end chapters 😂😂 pls a satoru sayin’ “didn’t you said you like sharing? 👀” *lick*

and poor, poor Sugu watching this, he must be so tired of him 😭

symptoms and causes | ch. 09

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ wc 11.5 k (i'm insane)

ღ author's note this chapter is in satoru's pov! "she/her" -> "you", also there is a minor character from the manga in this chapter but no spoilers :) also, this chapter gets kinda dark? pls remember this is fiction, don't do drugs and also don't sleep with addicts, thank you!! enjoy reading!! (fanart in the header) ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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Sweat trickled beneath the collar of my shirt.

My fingers dug into my arm, nails biting through the fabric.

If I didn't scratch, maybe I wouldn't lose my damn mind. Maybe the office walls would stop spinning long enough for me to think.

But the itch burning beneath my skin was too strong today, almost unbearable.

I barely registered Higurama's entrance as he pleasured me with yet another visit. He slumped into the chair across from me, looking less like a lawyer and more like a corpse given a temporary reprieve.

His sunflower pin, that obligatory symbol of his profession, seemed ironic given the permanent scowl etched onto his face.

"Well?" I snapped, desperate to break the silence that made the itch even more cruel. "Spit it out."

He sighed, then reached into his worn leather briefcase and retrieved a slim folder. He placed it on the desk. "The good news is, the brat's family is willing to settle. Saves us the headache of a trial."

"And the bad news?"

"It'll cost you. A lot." He slid the folder across the desk. "The kid wants a ridiculous sum, claiming emotional damages and whatnot."

I huffed, a harsh sound that echoed in the silent office. Images of the student's bloody face after I'd put him in his place flashed across my mind, the satisfaction fleeting. My fingers twitched at my sides, the urge to scratch growing stronger. I rolled down my sleeves.

Damn my luck.

I slid the folder back to him, not needing to see the sum. "Tell them whatever he wants, he gets. Just make this go away."

Higuruma frowned. "I understand wanting this over with, but we could negotiate, bring that amount down—"

"No." I cut him off. "Money doesn't matter. If this mess disappears, it's worth every damn yen."

Higuruma's eyebrows shot up. "We're not talking about an insignificant amount, Gojo. You broke his jaw in seven bloody places, knocked out half his teeth."

A smirk twisted my lips. "Sadly not all of his teeth."

"Gojo," Higurama's voice held a warning edge I'd rarely heard from him. "You could be staring down the barrel of a prison sentence."

"That's why I have you, isn't it?" I leaned back in my chair. "Old friend's favor and all that."

Higurama's stare hardened. "This isn't like those scrapes I used to bail you out of. The consequences here are far more serious. I'd never agree to settle this if you weren't a friend. You should countersue that kid for drugging your student."

The mention of her made my stomach clench. "I said no," my voice low. "I won't drag her in front of some courtroom circus. End it, Higurama. Whatever it takes."

Higuruma let out a sigh that spoke volumes. He stood, straightening his jacket, that sunflower pin glinting with a false cheerfulness in the afternoon sunlight.

"Very well," he said. "I'll prepare the documents. Be advised, this could set a dangerous precedent—"

I cut him off with a raised hand, the very thought of potential consequences a fresh irritant beneath my skin. "Just get this over with," I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a hospital to run."

He nodded and turned.

As he reached the office door, I spoke, my voice low. "Higuruma."

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"You keep your mouth shut." It wasn't a request, but an order. "This doesn't touch her, understand?"

"I have my professional obligations, Gojo."

"And I have mine," I countered. "Her finding out is not an option."

"Perhaps it's a decision you shouldn't be making for her."

"Perhaps," I replied, the word a blade in the silence that followed. "But it's a decision I will make. That is all."

He nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He knew, the bastard. The truth wasn't just about the lawsuit, and it hung unspoken between us.

He opened the door and stepped out without another word.

I slumped back in my chair, the leather creaking in protest, and released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. It trembled as it left my lungs.

My hand. That goddamned traitorous hand was shaking again.

I fumbled in my desk drawer, fingertips brushing against the familiar shape of the pill bottle. Clonidine. Not the ideal solution, but it was all I had right now.

I choked down the dry pills, the bitterness clinging to my tongue like a curse.

Why the sudden weakness? Why now?

I'd survived far worse without crumbling like this.

The room tilted slightly, the fluorescent lights blurring into white splotches. I squeezed my eyes shut and steadied myself, hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as the wood threatened to splinter under my grip.

My breath hitched in my throat, each ragged gasp burning like acid.

No. I wouldn't let it take me. I wouldn't let her see me like this.

I could do this. I had to.

For her.

It was a lie, and I knew it. The pills would numb the physical symptoms for a while, but the real battle was the one in my head. And that, I was far from winning.

You can't run from what's inside your head, can you?

I needed fresh air.

─── ·✧· ───

I stumbled down the hallway, vision blurring slightly at the edges, willing myself to simply keep moving. My skin prickled and burned, every nerve on fire.

I burst through the double doors leading to the main lobby, momentarily disorientated by the sudden change from sterile hallways to the bustling public space.

My lungs sucked in a shaky breath, and with it came a scent — a subtle mix of something floral and the clean, faintly metallic tang of blood.

Her scent?

What the hell—

My gaze swept the area, and there she was. She sat across the room, partially obscured by a crowd of people waiting to donate blood. The curve of her neck, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, were unmistakable.

Why was she here, in the hospital?

If something was wrong, damn it, she should have told me.

But then I saw it. A needle was taped to the crook of her arm, a thin tube snaking down to a partially filled blood bag. She held a book in her hand and there was a line of concentration between her brows as she read, her thumb tracing idly across the page.

My hands fumbled to smooth down my shirt, a useless gesture since it was hopelessly wrinkled. Taking a steadying breath, I weaved through the crowd.

The trembling wouldn't quit, but with each step towards her, it seemed to lessen, replaced by a different kind of nervous energy. Still, I tried to project a calmness I didn't feel.

I couldn't let her see me like this, not now.

She still hadn't noticed me as I stood in front of her, her attention focused on the book in her hands. I leaned in, the scent of her perfume mingled with the sterile hospital smell, a combination both familiar and disturbingly intimate in this setting.

She was so engrossed in her book that she didn't notice me until I gently pushed it down, an easy smile pulling at my lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She blinked up at me. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Her eyes darted down to the needle in her arm, blood trickling steadily into the bag.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" I took the chair beside her, unable to contain my sudden annoyance. Why not tell me? It was illogical, this possessiveness, but damn it, I wanted to know.

"Thought I'd enjoy a few moments without your charming company." The sarcasm dripped sweetly from her lips, and under other circumstances, I might have countered with a playful remark of my own.

But today, my mind was something else. Looking away, I tried to ignore the subtle itch beneath my skin and focus on anything else.

"Quite the weather today, huh?" I finally blurted out, staring past her at the gray sky outside. Lame. Even for me.

"You came to me to talk about the weather?" She brought her book back up.

"It's going to storm soon."

"Is it?" She didn't even look up.

I watched her for a moment. Not just her face, but the way the sunlight painted delicate gold along her cheekbones, the way a single strand of hair had escaped, brushing against her lashes like a gentle whisper and creating a softness her serious expression couldn't hide.

It was a painfully beautiful sight, and so cruelly unlike my fucked up world. Some twisted part of me longed to disrupt it, to be the storm she couldn't ignore, even as another, saner part of me wanted to protect that peace, to protect her at all costs.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"Kafka."

"Didn't know you were into literature." Damn, even to myself, I sounded like a condescending ass.

She lowered the book, meeting my gaze with equal parts amusement and defiance. "Believe it or not, I do read things that's not all about brains."

Something in the intensity of her expression, the way she held the book, made me want to understand this side of her. "What do you like about it?"

"There's just something about Kafka that speaks to me. It's—unsettling but in a compelling way." She closed the book for a second, her gaze lingering on the cover. "It's actually my second time reading it."

"Is this your favorite of Kafka's books?"

"It is."

"Read me your favorite part," I said, leaning back in the chair, folding my hands behind my head. My eyes slid closed, less to feign disinterest and more to focus on the sound of her voice.

She sighed, and the quiet rustle of pages told me she was flipping through the book. "Okay, but it might sound a bit strange out of context," she warned.

"I'm sure I'll love it."

I love everything that comes out of your mouth, silly.

"He wrote it to his father," she said, giving me a bit of context before she started to read.

"I'm not going to say that I have become what I am only as a result of your influence..."

Her voice was a soft caress. I drank it in, savoring her words, yet a shiver ran down my spine as she continued.

"...It is indeed quite possible that even if I had grown up entirely free from your influence I should probably have still become a weakly, timid, hesitant, restless person."

The words carried a cruel, familiar sting, each one leaving a fresh, burning scar on my skin.

"I should have been happy to have you as a friend, as a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even as a father-in-law, only as a father you have been too strong for me..."

Too strong.

What a fucked up way to describe it. A child, small and defenseless, pitted against an unyielding force. Where was the justice in that?

My father's voice thundered through my mind. Like a knife, his disapproval carved into my very being. Not strong enough. Never enough. Not what a Gojo should be. Never living up to the legacy, never matching him.

Weakness. That's all he ever saw.

My fists tightened until my nails dug into my palms.

The old anger flared hot.

"...and for that I was much too weak." She closed the book.

My eyes snapped open, blinking in the harsh light. My head throbbed. The familiar itch clawed beneath my skin, a demanding, relentless torment. I dug my nails harder into my palms.

No. I wouldn't let him have that power, wouldn't lose control.

Her gaze flickered to mine, and I swore something shifted in the air between us.

"He describes how it was growing up with such a strong father, how it shaped him his whole life," she paused, her voice laced with hesitation. "He writes about the desire for approval, the weight of expectations. It's about seeking validation from someone who's supposed to guide you, but instead becomes this unattainable figure."

Her words echoed uncomfortably in my mind.

My gaze fixed on her hands, the way they nervously gripped the book, fingernails biting into the worn cover. Why was she so tense? Did she know? No, I never told her.

"Satoru?" Her voice sliced through my thoughts.

Before I could respond, the shrill sound of my pager tore through the room. I fumbled for it, eyes scanning the stark message.

Brain bleed. Trial patient. ICU. STAT.

"Fuck." Adrenaline surged through me. I shot to my feet, "I've got to go. There was another brain bleeding with one of our trial patients."

"Wait!" She stood abruptly, her gaze locked on the IV line snaking into her arm.

What is she—

Wait—

What??

Before I could interfere, she yanked the needle out of her arm. A bead of blood gushed out, and she quickly pressed a cotton ball against it. "I'm coming with you."

For a split second I stared, stunned. This woman is completely insane. And I can't wait to marry her.

We sprinted through the hospital corridors, a blur of white walls and concerned faces. Bursting into the ICU, my heart pounded against my ribs, my focus narrowing to the patient on the bed. A doctor stood beside him, a grave expression etched on his face.

"Time of death, 16:22."

The words echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence. My chest tightened as the world narrowed to the still form on the bed, the empty hum of machines. It was over. We're too late.

Wait. She will surely—

I turned around, and a surge of fear shot through me.

She stood there, her face ashen, the crimson-stained cotton ball clutched in her trembling hand. Eyes that were usually so vibrant now held a shattering vulnerability, her breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

In an instant, I was at her side. "Hey, hey," I said. "It's okay. Just breath, can you do that for me?"

My hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The warmth of her skin was in stark contrast to the ice in my veins. My mind churned, guilt twisting like a knife in my gut. Of course, she would react like this. I'd been a fool to bring her here.

"Wait in my office," I said, my voice as gentle as I could manage despite my fear. "I'll be with you as soon as possible."

Her eyes locked with mine, searching. A flicker of resistance crossed her face, then resignation. She nodded, a mere jerk of her head, and stumbled away, each step seeming to take an impossible effort.

Watching her go, my heart clenched.

For all her strength, her boldness, there was this fragile core to her, one that the world, and I, seemed intent on bruising. And that, more than anything, sent a spike of anger through me—an anger directed squarely at myself.

Fuck, focus, you have a job to do here.

"Dr. –" I began, and then cursed inwardly. What the hell was his name again? Familiar face, stupid haircut, uglier glasses—

"Dr. Ijichi," the young doctor said, his voice a touch shaky. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Right, of course." Annoyance pricked at me. He's a newbie. I should know this, I should care.

I softened my tone, just a fraction.

"Let's go over this from the start. What triggered the bleed? Did the patient present any new symptoms?"

Ijichi flipped through the chart, his fingers fumbling slightly. "The bleed appears spontaneous. Scans from yesterday showed no signs of an aneurysm or underlying issues. Blood panels within normal limits, no recent head trauma reported."

"But something must have caused it," I snapped. "The implant—could there be a malfunction? A short-circuit? Anything?"

Ijichi took a step back, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "It's possible. But I'd—I'd need to examine the implant itself for any sign of damage."

"Well, then do that." The words came out harsher than I intended. My gaze swept over him, noting the faint tremor in his hands. Damn it, I was scaring the kid. I forced myself to take a breath. "Look, I know this is a lot. But we need to act fast."

"Patient's medical records are clean. Blood pressure was normal at last check." Ijichi was regaining some of his composure, his voice a touch firmer. A good sign.

"Can I see his scans? Lab work? Everything."

The next minutes was a blur of reports, X-rays, MRI sequences. I scrutinized every detail, my mind racing ahead, chasing ghosts of potential errors. Ijichi hovered nearby. He fielded my questions, fetching additional reports and cross-referencing data.

I couldn't fault his dedication, but a nagging thought itched at the back of my mind. Experience mattered in situations like this, a cool head under pressure. Maybe if I was here sooner—

The annoyance flared again. If this was a flaw in the method, heads would roll. Mine, Suguru's, and—the trial would be scrutinized, the funding in jeopardy—and her—

Dammit. I'd promised her this wouldn't happen again. That with me, she wouldn't have to watch another patient die. Images of her flashed before my eyes—the haunted look she'd worn earlier, her vulnerability.

My fingers twitched against my arm, nails biting into skin.

"Dr. Gojo?" Ijichi's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "I've isolated something in the pre-op scans."

I snapped back to the present. I leaned over his shoulder, peering at the image. A slight irregularity, a minuscule shadow on the edge of the implant interface.

"Could this be it?" Ijichi's voice held a hint of excitement, of finally being useful.

"Maybe," I said. "Any sign of inflammation? Tissue reaction?"

He zoomed in further. "Inconclusive, sir. We'll need higher resolution images, maybe a tissue sample from the insertion site."

"The autopsy." The word was heavy on my tongue. "Get on it. I want the implant and surrounding tissue on my table as soon as possible."

Ijichi nodded. "I'll contact pathology right away."

Left alone in the small room, I slumped into a chair, exhaustion washing over me. The relentless adrenaline rush was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache and the lingering, uncomfortable question.

How many more patients were out there, ticking time bombs with our technology inside their heads? And what the hell were we going to do about it?

The sterile confines of the ICU were suffocating.

I looked over to the clock and my breath hitched. Fuck, I left her alone for over 30 minutes now. I sprung up from the chair and raced to my office.

Bursting through the door, I saw her—knees drawn to her chest, head buried in her arms. A sharp pain shot through me, guilt twisting with a strange sense of relief that she'd obeyed my command at least.

In a few swift strides, I knelt before her. "Hey, love" I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "You okay?"

She blinked, eyes wide and shadowed. A forced smile touched her lips. "Yeah, just—it was all a bit much. I'll be fine."

The words were hollow, the act unconvincing. Her skin was pale, her jaw tight, and her eyes betrayed the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears.

"Don't do that," I said, more softly than I intended. "Don't pretend with me."

"I'm fine, really," she said, pulling her gaze away.

I watched her, a familiar ache settling in my chest. I'd told her to wait here, thinking it would shield her from the worst of it. Instead, I'd left her alone with her thoughts.

I'm so stupid.

I hesitated, searching for the right words, "Do you often get these panic attacks?"

Confusion clouded her features. "What?"

She doesn't even know herself?

I brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Panic attacks. Like back there, in the ICU—"

Her eyes widened, then immediately narrowed in defensiveness. "I wasn't panicked. Just startled."

But I wasn't buying it, not this time.

"The way you were breathing, the way you couldn't stand still," I ticked the signs off on my fingers, mirroring her symptoms back at her. "Remember the first time you did surgery with Suguru? When that patient died?"

"That was different."

"Or the massive bleeding in our last patient while surgery? When the suture tore," I continued relentlessly.

The defiance was fading from her eyes. I knew I was pushing her, but it felt necessary, a brutal ripping off of a bandage.

"I didn't think of it as of panic attacks," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Oh, my brave, brilliant girl. How could I love her more?

I reached out, tracing the faint tracks of tears beneath her eyes.

"What happened with the patient?" she asked.

"The bleed was massive," I said. "Likely a flaw in the implant itself, a malfunction we didn't anticipate. The autopsy will confirm."

She closed her eyes briefly. "Are we going to have to shut down the trial?"

"It's too early to say," I said, threading my fingers through my hair. "Maybe, I don't know."

We were both silent for a moment.

She wandered over to my desk. Perching atop it, she crossed her legs, staring blankly into the dimness of the office. I wonder what she's thinking right now.

Her gaze drifted over the desk's surface. Her eyes landed on a single, crisp document—the lawsuit, left there carelessly, intentionally, by Higurama after our earlier meeting.

That bastard.

"What's the status on the assault charge?"

My stomach turned. Of course, she would ask. "It's being handled. Just paperwork and legal wrangling."

"By handled you mean?" she prompted, her eyes flicking back to the document. As her eyes scanned the document, her frown deepened, her fingers tracing the neatly typed figures.

I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wishing those papers were buried at the bottom of a hazardous waste bin. "Higurama is negotiating with the kid's lawyers."

She looked up, her full attention now fixed on me. "Are you Insane?"

"It's not that bad—" I began, but the words died as I saw the anger on her face.

"They want how much? Is there a typo? A few too many zeroes?"

"It's fine. Money isn't the issue. I can handle it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Satoru, even for you, that sum is—" She paused. "You can't pay that. I won't let you."

"Let me? You make it sound like you have a say in the matter." I stepped closer, the distance between us shrinking.

Her expression softened with a flicker of annoyance, an emotion I found strangely comforting after the raw worry of a moment ago. "Satoru, this isn't a joke. I'm serious."

"Come on, a few zeroes here or there—it's pocket change for a devastatingly brilliant neurosurgeon as myself."

"This isn't something to joke about!" She swatted at my chest, a futile gesture that made me want to grin even wider.

"You love it." I rested my hands on either side of her on the desk, capturing her. "Admit it, the arrogance is part of my charm."

"Part of your insufferableness, more like."

"Everything's going to be fine." I lean in closer, the faint scent of jasmine that always clung to her, was intoxicating. "I promise. You need to trust me."

"Satoru—" she began, ready to launch into another argument.

Before another word could escape, I closed the distance between us and silenced her with a kiss. It began softly, a tentative press of lips, as if seeking permission. But when she sighed, her body melting against mine, it deepened into something more urgent, more insistent.

My hand slid into her hair, tilting her head just so I could claim her more. The taste of her was a much-needed distraction from the weight of the day. How goddamned much I loved her taste. Needed it more than I could ever admit.

When I finally broke the kiss, a flicker of anger still sparked within her, and oh, I loved it. Loved it when she was all angry with me. Every flicker of those expressive eyes, every sharp word—it all belonged to me. I craved all of her.

"Now," I said. "How about some coffee?"

─── ·✧· ───

The air in Yaga's office was suffocating.

Every word from that old bastard was a knife, twisting deeper with each infuriatingly accurate accusation.

"You lost a trial patient," he rumbled, and I had to suppress a wince.

"Setbacks happen," I shot back. "We fix it, we make it better. That's how progress works."

His fist slammed against the desk, making me jump. Damn it, Yaga always knew how to get under my skin. "And the cost? The reputation? Your recklessness will bury us all, Gojo."

"Risks I'm willing to take," I spat. "My patients are willing to take them. Because we believe in something more than your damn paperwork and red tape."

Yaga stood, his face a mask of cold fury. "Boundaries exist for a reason. And until you remember that, your precious project is over. The trial ends now."

The words echoed in the silence, a death sentence.

I can't risk it getting shot down, not for her. The thought burned, fueled by the terror of seeing those tears again.

"I won't accept this," I said, my voice rough, "I'll fight it. The Ministry, the funding agencies—I'll make them see the potential!"

Yaga's lip curled in a humorless smile. "And while you chase those grand delusions, perhaps you should focus on the mess already on your doorstep. Your, shall we say, 'unprofessional' entanglement with that student of yours hardly instills confidence."

The blow landed with devastating force.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that, Gojo."

"That's—" My voice cracked, the words catching in my throat like a shard of glass. "Irrelevant. It's a personal matter."

"Is it?" Yaga countered. "When your personal choices compromise your judgment, jeopardize not only this project but the lives of countless patients—it becomes very much my business. I've tolerated this long enough."

What?

"You can't touch my surgeries. Those patients need me."

"Do they?" His question was a poisoned dart. "Or do they need a surgeon with a clear head and untarnished reputation? While this mess remains unresolved, consider your surgical privileges suspended. You have enough on your plate."

I slammed my hand against the desk, heedless of the pain it sent tearing through me. My surgeries, my purpose, the very core of my identity—he can't take that away from me.

"This isn't fair," I said through gritted teeth. "You're overreacting. One setback—"

"One setback too many," Yaga cut me off, his voice hard as steel. "You've exhibited a reckless disregard for protocol, for ethics, and now it's spiraling out of control. The board has lost faith in your ability to lead this project, and frankly," he paused, his gaze piercing, "so have I."

The room felt suffocating, the air too thin to breathe. It was as if the walls were pressing in, crushing the fight out of me.

Yaga sighed. "Clear your head, Gojo. Sort out your priorities. Until then, take a step back. And for your sake, and the sake of those around you, stay out of trouble."

Then, a knock sounded at the door. I turned around.

The door creaked open, and there she stood, her eyes wide.

My heart sank.

In that moment, seeing her framed in the doorway of Yaga's office, a cruel reminder of the mess I'd made, the last thin threat snapped.

This was on me, not her.

"Don't you dare drag her into this," I hissed before anyone in the room could speak. "This is on me and not—"

"Silence," Yaga's voice cut through my outburst. "Both of you. Sit."

She met my gaze, a flicker of something I couldn't name passing through her eyes. Then, she crossed the room and sat, her posture straight. The sight of her, defiant yet composed, filled me with a strange sense of pride.

"There will be repercussions, as you both are well aware," Yaga began. "The ethics committee has been alerted. A formal hearing will be scheduled, likely within the week, to address this debacle."

He paused, his gaze raking over both of us. "I suggest you prepare yourselves well. The fallout will be severe."

The ethics committee?

Fuck.

My stomach churned, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.

My fingers twitched. The itch beneath my skin now flared into a maddening burn. It took every ounce of control to fight the urge to rip the skin off my arm, to tear away the invisible parasites gnawing at my sanity.

"What kind of fallout?" I asked. "Suspension? Expulsion?"

Yaga's expression was unreadable. "The committee will decide that. Your actions—both individually and collectively—will be scrutinized."

"But she—" I began, but Yaga held up a hand, silencing me.

"Enough," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I suggest you both to prepare very well what you'll tell them, especially regarding your relationship."

He let the implication linger in the air, a silent accusation.

"You can leave now," Yaga announced, already adverting his gaze from us to some papers in from of him.

I shot to my feet, my chair scraping back with a screech. I grabbed her hand, a silent command to follow. I knew she had a million questions, but I needed the world to stop spinning out of control for one damn minute.

I needed air first.

I needed to breathe first.

"Let's get out of here first, okay?" I said before she could even open her mouth to speak.

The elevator carried us down. I gripped the handrail so hard it felt like my fingers might break. Her gaze burned into me, her worry a palpable weight in the too-small space. I averted my eyes, focusing on the grimy elevator floor.

If I looked at her now, I knew I'd crumble.

"Satoru, we should tell them," her voice was soft.

Please, love. Be silent. Don't make this harder for me.

"No," I said, harsher than intended. "We won't. This could ruin you, and I won't let that happen." The words sounded strong, protective—but the truth was, I was terrified.

My hand twitched with the need for a relief I hadn't known this strong for weeks. Just one pill, one measly little pill was all I needed right now. It gnawed at me, a craving that wouldn't be ignored.

"But it's my choice too. You don't get to decide this alone."

"You don't understand. If they find out about us now, under these circumstances they'll use it against us, make it look like we were reckless, unprofessional. Our judgment, everything we've worked for, will be called into question."

"I don't care about their judgment! I care about what happens to you!"

Couldn't she see? This wasn't about bravery, or honor. This was about survival. It was about saving her, even if it meant destroying myself in the process.

"I can't risk your future, not for this. End of discussion." I turned away, unable to stand the hurt, the frustration burning in her eyes.

I was meant to be her strength, and I was failing her. Failing us.

Then, as if the universe itself decided to pile on my misery, the elevator lights began to flicker. The low hum warped into a high-pitched whine, the sound like nails scraping along my exposed nerves.

The elevator jolted, then shuddered to an abrupt halt. Darkness crashed down, pierced only by the sickly yellow glow of the emergency lights.

Stuck.

Trapped.

Confined.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Then, a voice, tinny and overly cheerful, chirped through the elevator's speaker. "Uhm, sorry about this folks. Seems we have a minor—uh, technical issue. Be with you shortly."

Fuck.

I could feel her gaze burn into my neck, a heavy pressure like she held a gun to my head.

"Well, you can't fuck your way out of this one, can you?" Her voice held a cruel amusement.

I considered it for a moment, then remembered the security camera scrutinizing our every move, the worker no doubt listening. Too risky.

Not that I'd mind a video.

I sighed. Leaning heavily against the cold metal, I let my head thunk against the elevator door.

God, please have mercy.

Defeated, I turned and slid down the elevator door, sinking to the floor, the metal cold against my back. She crossed her arms and I knew she wouldn't back down.

For a while, silence reigned.

"They'll want to know everything—about the research project, the surgeries, the brain bleeding, the student lawsuit," I hesitated for a second. "And about us."

"I know." Her reply was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive.

"This should concern you."

"I don't care."

My god, this woman makes me lose my mind.

Her stubbornness was so infuriating, yet it made me want to rip her clothes off right here, right now. It was as if she saw the storm raging within me and refused to back down, daring it to break us both.

I shifted, the cold floor chilling me to the bone. "If we tell them now about us, they'll use it against us. They'll tear us apart."

"And what's the alternative?"

"We say nothing. Professor and student. Nothing more."

"They'll question others."

"No one knows, except Suguru, and he won't tell anyone."

"We already look guilty. Professor and student spending so much time together? Doing surgeries together? Let alone the scene you caused at the summer gathering. People already talk, Satoru. You know they do."

She was right. Damn her for always being right.

"The committee will know," she continued. "They'll ask questions. And we can't afford to be caught off guard."

"Damn it," I cursed, raking a hand through my hair.

"Satoru," she began, the sound of my name on her lips a caress against my raw nerves.

Please never stop saying my name.

"We both made choices. The only option now is to be truthful. You can't shield me from this, nor do I want you to. I've chosen to be here. So, we tell them. Tell them you and I," she faltered slightly over the next word, "that we're in a relationship."

I blinked, my mind stuck on the word. Relationship.

She'd never used that word before.

But the way she said it now, laced with that familiar defiance. Always the challenge, testing my limits, turning everything into a battlefield. God, I craved it—the clash, the surrender, the maddening, intoxicating burn of her. All of it. All the time.

A smile, genuine and almost idiotic, spread across my face.

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"We're in a relationship?"

Say it again, love.

"You're such an idiot."

Giving me nothing as always.

"How are you holding up?" Her question stopped me cold. "Just two more weeks, right?"

Two weeks.

Two more weeks until I was supposed to be completely free from the insidious grip of the opioids. My fingers twitched at my sides at the mere thought of it.

I forced a smile. "Everything's fine."

The lie burned my throat, but it was preferable to the alternative. I couldn't let her see my weakness, not now, not with everything else hanging by a thread.

"Not quite convincing," she said. "But then again, you never were a good liar, were you?"

She saw through me. Of course, she did.

In that moment, something shifted—a silent war waged between us. Her gaze relentless as she fixed me with her gorgeous eyes.

"Guess my luck's run out, huh?"

"Don't," she warned. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out, Satoru."

We held each other's gaze, a silent standoff in the flickering emergency lights. It was always like that, always a battle of wills to see who would give in first, yet this time fear flickered in her eyes, a fear that matched my own.

A crackle from the elevator's speaker broke the spell.

"Hey there, folks," the tinny voice chirped. "Just wanted to let you know we're working on it. Shouldn't be too much longer. Sorry for any inconvenience!"

Wordlessly, she shifted closer. Sinking down beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine.

We sat in silence, side by side.

Each breath I took felt less violent, the chaos in my mind muted by the simple warmth radiating from her. I reached for her hand, our fingers intertwining.

In those shared breaths, the world melted away.

"You know," I began, the words barely a whisper. "I'd do anything for you."

Her hand tightened in mine. "And I'd anything for you."

A bittersweet smile touched my lips. "And that will probably be our undoing. Either way, looks like we're in for one hell of a fight."

My grip on her hand tightened. I couldn't lose her. Not to the fallout of my mistakes and certainly not to the vultures who would circle us, seeking to exploit any sign of weakness.

I was trapped in a cruel paradox. My need to protect her was the very thing that might destroy her. And the realization cut deep.

"Then let's fight like hell," she said. "If it's a battle they want, it's a battle they'll get."

God, I love this woman.

And as we sat there, trapped in that metal box, I knew one thing for sure:

Trouble would come—it always does. But anyone who dared to hurt her would have to get through me first.

─── ·✧· ───

A light summer rain spattered the city streets, blurring the neon signs into shimmering streaks of color. I dodged between hurried strangers, the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt. Each step brought me closer to my destination.

As I reached the weathered wooden door, my phone buzzed. Suguru's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey," Suguru's voice crackled through the line. "I got those test results you asked about."

"And?"

The silence that stretched felt like an eternity.

"Elevated AST, ALT, ALP, bilirubin, and GGT, low on albumin," Suguru finally said.

I clenched my fist around my hair. "Can't you at least sugarcoat that a bit?"

"Satoru this is serious. You need treatment, and we need to plan this out, like, yesterday."

What a pain.

"Look, I'm in the city right now," I said. "There's something I need to pick up. Can we discuss this later?"

"Something more important than your liver giving up?"

"Well," I began, a wry smile playing on my lips, "If you must know, I'm about to make a seriously bad financial decision."

A beat of silence, then a groan. "Satoru, you know I can't read your damn mind. Just spit it out."

"It's for her."

I didn't need to elaborate. He understood.

"Figured," Suguru said, resignation evident in his voice. "But seriously, Satoru, your liver—"

"I know, I know," I cut him off. "We'll talk later. Promise."

I hung up before he could protest further.

The shop's weathered sign creaked above the doorway as I stepped inside. A bell tinkled, cutting through the stillness. The musty scent of old paper and polished wood enveloped me.

The shop was empty. I wandered further in, into the maze of shelves. Sunlight pierced the stained glass windows, fracturing into shards of crimson and sapphire that danced across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the beams.

My eyes drifted over the towering shelves filled with books. I reached out, my fingers trailing along faded covers, the embossed lettering cool beneath my touch.

Them, a soft shuffle of footsteps echoed from the back room.

A tiny, elderly woman emerged. "Can I help you find something?"

"Actually," I said. "I believe I have an order to pick up."

Her wrinkled face lit up. "Oh, wonderful!" she exclaimed, a burst of energy belying her age. "That special piece. It took some doing to get ahold of it, you know. Just a moment, dear."

She disappeared back into the dim recesses of the shop. My fingers tapped restlessly against the wooden cashier's desk as I waited.

The old woman returned, carefully cradling a worn wooden box in her gnarled hands. My pulse quickened. With trembling fingers, she unlatched the box, revealing a slim volume nestled in aged tissue paper. Lifting it out, she held it towards me.

"Signed by Kafka himself."

The weight of the volume in my hands was unexpectedly heavy as I took in the sight of the worn leather and faded ink.

"She must be very special," the old woman said.

"Huh?"

"The woman you gift this to."

"She is," I said, a smile tucking on my lips. "She's everything. Deserves everything."

"She must be very lucky to have you."

Her words echoed in my head. Lucky? More like a burden.

"I'm not so sure about that," I began, the words hesitantly tumbling out, "maybe she deserves someone who doesn't have to try so hard."

The old woman tilted her head. "Sometimes, dear," she said softly, "it's those who try the hardest that are the ones worth holding onto."

"But what if trying isn't enough? What if the very act of trying—it just breaks things more?"

The old woman's smile didn't fade a bit. "Love is often a messy business. Broken things can be mended, you know. Sometimes the cracks make them all the more beautiful."

"But some things are beyond saving," I whispered, the bitter taste of the words lingering in my mouth.

Damn it, why couldn't I be better for her? She deserved someone strong, someone who wasn't one bad day away from crumbling.

"Perhaps. And perhaps," she countered quietly, "it just that brokenness that makes it perfect."

I huffed. "That sounds like something she would say."

I glanced down at the book, the worn leather seemed to burn against my skin. My fingers twitched. It had been hours—too many hours—since my last pill.

The old woman cleared her throat "Well, dear," she said, her voice taking on a brisk tone, "shall we settle up then? I believe that comes to—"

She fished out a worn leather purse and snapped it open, revealing a wad of crumpled bills. My eyes widened as she extracted them, my brain fumbling to calculate the absurd amount she fanned out before me. My jaw must have hit the floor.

"Life advice never comes cheap, dear boy."

─── ·✧· ───

The basketball arced through the air, a perfect curve that ended with the satisfying swish of the net. Another shot, another temporary reprieve. The rhythm was soothing, a mindless distraction that usually brought a sense of ease.

But tonight, it felt hollow.

Another shot. Another basket.

Each thud of the ball against the cracked asphalt mirrored the pounding in my temples. Sweat stung my eyes, my lungs burned. The deserted court, bathed in the fading warmth of the afternoon sun, offered no solace.

Another shot soared towards the backboard, this time clattering wildly off the rim. The ball ricocheted away. Frustration surged through me.

Elevated liver enzymes. Decreased platelets. Albumin's dropping. This isn't about a few late nights, Satoru. Your body is giving up on you.

Suguru's warnings echoed like a death knell.

It was bad. Worse than I'd allowed myself to admit. The years of pushing limits, of drowning my demons in a haze of toxic oblivion, had caught up with me with brutal efficiency.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, and for a sickening moment the cracked asphalt seemed to tilt and sway. I forced myself to focus, to regain control. The irony of it all nearly choked out a bitter laugh.

Control.

What a futile concept.

Suddenly, my arm burned, a sharp insistent sting. I clutched it, fingernails scraping against the already inflamed skin. It was a subconscious act, a frantic search for relief from the maddening itch that throbbed beneath the surface.

My fingers came away sticky and red.

Fuck.

Then, my phone buzzed against my thigh. I fished it out of my shorts, the screen blurring in the fading light.

It was her.

[6:15 PM] You: Seen your car in the university parking. Still here?

[6:15 PM] Satoru: Basketball court.

[6:15 PM] You: Should have known.

[6:15 PM] You: On my way.

A shiver ran through me, a rush of something akin to adrenaline.

She was coming.

The bleeding scratches on my arm seared. I fumbled for the sleeve of my crewneck sweatshirt, pulling it down hastily in an attempt to hide the evidence.

I forced myself to focus on the net.

And then I saw her, a silhouette etched against the dying light, her presence shattering the fragile focus I'd clung to. My heart hammered in my chest.

For a moment, time seemed to stutter.

She came towards me, her steps soft against the rough asphalt. Every detail of her etched itself onto my mind with painful clarity. The way the twilight painted streaks of gold across her skin, the gentle curve of her lips, the slight furrow of concern between her impossibly beautiful eyes.

My god, those eyes.

Even if she looks at me in pity, I wish she would never stop looking at me.

I forced myself to toss another shot, a pathetic attempt to feign normalcy. The ball arced through the air and swished through the net—a lucky streak.

Her footsteps stopped just short of the three-point line. She didn't speak, just watched me with those perceptive eyes that always seemed to see too much. My pulse quickened, a mix of fear and longing washing over me.

Tonight, in that flowery dress, she was insanely beautiful.

She reached down and scooped up the ball that had just rolled to a stop at her feet. A spark of amusement ignited in her eyes, a challenge I knew I would accept even before it left her lips.

With a playful smile, she began to dribble. Her movements were hesitant, fumbling—adorable. So different from the confident woman she was in the operating room.

Still, she moved with focused determination, mirroring the way she approached everything in life. For a moment, I just watched, savoring the unexpected tenderness of her trying.

I closed the distance between us, amusement tugging at my lips. I reached for the ball, intent on displaying my effortless skill.

But she surprised me. Though I easily pushed her away, a hint of resistance in her stance, she didn't stumble back as I'd expected. She held her ground, our bodies a breath apart.

She tilted her chin up, defiance still burning in those impossibly pretty eyes. For a breathless moment, I was lost in their depths, in the faint scent of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

God, how I needed her.

"You're quite distracting," I said, my gaze drawn to the sheen of sweat glistening along the curve of her neck. Our bodies were impossibly close, my breath ghosting across her lips, the faintest hint of her smile teasing me.

"Don't blame me for your bad play." She snatched the ball, biting her lower lip as I moved to block her shot. I closed in, body to body. With a twist and a feint, she evaded me, keeping the ball just out of reach.

"Or is the great Dr. Gojo," her eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up, "—afraid of a little challenge?"

The words hung in the air, a taunt, and a dare.

My hands moved instinctively, framing her face, tilting it upwards. The distance between us vanished in a heartbeat.

Her lips were soft, yielding against mine, the faint taste of something sweet clinging to them. My pulse thundered, fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw. I pulled her closer, our bodies molding against each other. Her exhale a soft sigh against my lips.

The basketball, forgotten and rolling away across the cracked asphalt.

I deepened the kiss, not able to resist her. I lost myself in the sensations—the warmth of her skin, the intoxicating taste of her, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the summer heat. Raw need flared within me, a desperate hunger that threatened to consume all semblance of control in me.

When I finally drew back, it took every ounce of my willpower. She was breathless, her eyes filled with a yearning. Just how I like it.

I snatched the forgotten basketball from the asphalt, twirling it on a finger. "So much for your challenge." My voice coming out slightly breathless.

I spun on my heel, took a few steps, and arced the ball towards the net. It swished through with a satisfying thud. "Looks like someone gets distracted easily."

"That's hardly fair," she retorted with a determination in her gaze that both amused and intrigued me. "You're basically a pro."

"So you admit defeat then?" I taunted, dribbling the ball between my legs.

I could see the way she was analyzing my movements, trying to mimic the way I held the ball and the fluidity of my shots. She was always like that analyzing my every move. Watching me with an intensity that only she could.

"Not at all. You just need a handicap. Perhaps you can only use one hand behind your back?"

"Alright, first-year," I smirked, tossing her the ball. "You're on. Just don't blame me when I crush you even with a handicap."

The ball bounced awkwardly in her grasp as she took a hesitant shot. It bounced off the backboard, miles away from the net. A flicker of frustration crossed her face. Fucking adorable.

"Next one's going in," I said as I retrieved the ball and began dribbling. "But you have to get it from me first."

I kept my promise, playing with one hand behind my back. Yet, I wasn't playing to win. I was playing to keep her close, to savor the spark in her eyes, the way she moved with a newfound confidence.

She darted in close, her eyes locked on the ball, and with a swift movement, she feigned a step to the left before stealing the ball from my less-guarded side. She took her shot.

Her second attempt was slightly better, the ball at least hitting the rim with a hollow clang.

She should really just stick to surgeries, not sports.

She retrieved the ball again. After a particularly clumsy dribbling attempt of her, I swooped in, intercepting the ball with ease. However, she surprised me. Lunging forward, she snatched the ball from my grasp again and, in a fluid motion, took a wild, off-balance shot.

The ball soared through the air, tracing a perfect arc. It hit the backboard and, against all odds, bounced through the net.

"Maybe you're not as good as you think you are?" she teased, flashing me that smile.

Oh, sweet thing. I let you win just to see that smile. But it's still cute how you try.

"Lucky shot." Without conscious thought, I moved closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

"Careful, Professor, or your student might surpass you." She teased again as if she didn't know exactly what those words did to me.

But sure, tease me again. Bring it on. Tease me, taunt me, push me until I snap.

You'll reap what you sow.

She began dribbling, but I was relentless, closing in. With a quick feint, I disarmed her, snatching the ball and watching it roll away.

She tried to sidestep, a flicker of surprise in those beautiful eyes. Too slow. With a final stride, I cut off her escape, her back hitting the cool metal of the basketball pole. She was trapped.

I grabbed her neck, fingers intertwining in her hair. Before she could object, before I could second-guess myself, I closed the remaining distance, my lips crashing against hers. Her soft gasp swallowed by my own hungry sigh.

The kiss was heated, desperate, a clash of urgency and hesitant surrender. My arms circled her hips. I bent my knees slightly and, in one swift motion, lifted her off the ground. Her legs wrapped around my waist, a gasp escaping her lips.

I pressed her closer, my body straining with an almost painful need. I lost myself in the softness of her lips, the faint taste of cherry chapstick, the intoxicating sensation of her skin against mine.

I deepened the kiss, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. I tightened my hold, pressing her closer until I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against mine. A moan escaped my throat as I felt the sudden desire to possess, to consume, to brand her as mine.

Not out of aggression, but a desperate need for more—more touch, more taste, more of the overwhelming rush that only she could give me.

She was the fix I couldn't resist, the poison I desperately craved. Because with her, oblivion felt so damn close.

Her hands tightened in my hair, the short strands of my undercut providing purchase as she tugged me closer. Her scent enveloped me. It clung to my tongue, my lungs, fueled the heat blazing in my blood.

My teeth grazed her lower lip, drawing a soft moan that stretched my shorts even more painfully. It was my undoing. Every thought, every restraint burned away in the heat of the moment. I needed to have her. Not just a taste, not just this stolen moment.

I craved all of her, with a desperation that bordered on madness.

Then, like a splash of ice water, her nails raked across the raw skin on my arm, searing pain cutting through the haze. I winced, her touch like burning coals on my skin.

"What's wrong?" she gasped, breaking the kiss.

"Everything's fine," I said, not wanting to let go of her. I leaned in again but she flinched back.

"Don't lie to me." Then, her gaze fell to the faint stain of blood seeping through my sleeve. Her eyes widened. "Satoru, your arm—"

In an instant she rolled up my sleeve, revealing the scratches.

Fuck.

I lowered her back to the ground. Her eyes narrowed, a frown creasing her brow.

"It's nothing."

"It's always 'nothing', with you," she said sharply.

Reluctantly, I allowed her to roll up my sleeve even more, revealing the red marks. Here was the ugly truth, laid bare beneath her concerned gaze.

"Do you have something to clean this?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes flickered towards my sports bag, lying forgotten on the sideline bench. With a determined look I knew all too well, she walked towards it.

I tried to stop her, but she was already unzipping the bag, rummaging through its contents. A knot tightened in my stomach. There was no first aid kit, no antiseptic wipes—only the worn book that I hadn't had time to wrap yet.

"What's that?" she said.

She pulled the book out, a flicker of confusion crossing her perfect face.

"Sorry, it's not wrapped." Not that I know how to wrap a present, as I hardly ever made gifts before. But I would have tried for her. It was the least I could do.

Her eyes flicked from the book to me, her brain clearly working overtime. She turned it over, studying the faded cover. Slowly, realization dawned in her eyes. "You—you bought this for me?"

I shrugged, a nonchalant mask to hide the frantic pounding of my heart. "Thought you might like it."

"Like it?" She flipped open the book, revealing the faded signature on the first page and a key tucked loosely among the pages. For a moment she just stared, then looked up at me, her eyes wide. "Satoru, is this—"

"Ink on paper," I finished for her. "And a spare key to my apartment."

Silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. It felt like she was staring a hole through me. Then, she walked over, book still clutched in her hand. Instead of the thanks I expected, she swatted me on the arm with the cover.

"Ouch, you know how expensive that was?"

"I can't accept this." She held the book away from her as if it might burn her. "It's too much, Satoru."

"Don't like it?"

"Like? Like?" Her voice rose, and then she looked back down at the book, a smile spreading across her face. "Satoru, this is—," she trailed off. "How did you get this?"

"Had to bargain with an old hag. Some minor soul-selling, nothing major."

"No, seriously, this must have cost a fortune."

"Money doesn't matter," I said softly. "It's you. You're all that matters."

The book in her hand twitched. There was a flicker in her eyes, like the urge to swat me with it again, but she contained the impulse. It was replaced a moment later with a frown as she focused now on the bloodstain on my sleeve.

She moved closer, a dangerous stillness about her.

Her touch on my sleeve was hesitant, fingers tracing the inflamed scratches. "You gonna tell me what this is? Or are you gonna sidestep the issue again until we fight, because you know my patience is wearing quite thin these days."

"Nervous habit."

"It's new." There was no judgement, just a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

"Yeah."

The lie felt like ash on my tongue.

It wasn't new, of course. I'd just gotten worse at hiding it.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"The book, idiot," she said with a gentle smile. "And for telling me."

Ah, that smile. I melt every time.

"Come on," she said, letting go of my arm and turning towards the university. "Let's patch you up."

Without hesitation, I followed.

─── ·✧· ───

"So," I started, a slight wince escaping me as she cleaned the scratches. "You didn't tell me. What brought you here in the first place?"

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking now."

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. "I had some research to do in the library."

I knew her too well—the slight catch in her voice, the way she avoided my gaze.

"What research?" I prodded gently.

She sighed, then met my eyes. "The patient with the brain bleed. I had to double-check something."

Of course, she would still be agonizing over it. It was in her nature—the relentless, stubborn dedication was what would make her the best damn doctor I knew she'd become.

"Don't," I said. "Don't think too much about it. I can't stand to see the worry in your eyes."

She held my gaze. "I just want to be as prepared as I can be."

"I know, love," my voice softened. "But not tonight, okay?"

Suguru's office reeked of stale smoke and lingering whiskey—a sharp contrast to his neat workspace. Ironic how I was the one out of first-aid supplies. The addict, while he was still well stocked. But that's why I had his key.

She carefully placed a bandage over the last scratch. "You know the first ethics committee hearing is soon."

"Are you nervous?"

"Are you not?"

"No. Our research is flawless. Bulletproof."

"There's always a flaw. And they'll find it. Something we missed, overlooked. Don't blame me for wanting to prepare."

"You are prepared," I said. "Nobody knows this research like you. Not even Suguru. It's your blood, sweat, and sleepless nights poured into every page. This is yours in a way it could never be mine. You gave it life, meaning."

She seemed lost in thought, her focus narrowing in on my arm. She moved closer, like she'd just spotted something.

"Satoru—" she began, then hesitated. Even in the dim light, I could tell what she saw. "Where did you get those scars?" Her frown deepened. She leaned in closer, as though seeking further proof.

My fingers twitched. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. It was a distraction, a pain to combat the other. She had that look in her eyes that seemed to say, you know I won't stop until I hear the truth. So I gave in.

"My father was a demanding man," I said, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "My mother turned a blind eye."

I couldn't bring myself to say more. The image was enough to paint the picture.

For a second it seemed she froze. Her gaze remained fixed on my arm, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

Wordlessly, she rose and moved away. Moments later, she returned, a small syringe gleaming dully in the dim light.

"What's that?"

"Antibiotic," she said. "Those scratches were raw, you could get an infection."

"I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that." A hint of steel laced her words. Then, with startling gentleness, she added, "I don't want to see those old wounds opened any wider."

She tilted my arm, and with a swift, practiced move, the needle pierced my skin. I barely flinched. How different from the times I'd taught her, her hands trembling, her hesitation a reflection of her gentle heart.

Now, she moved with the certainty of a seasoned surgeon.

She'd grown so much.

For a moment, I simply watched her.

Finally, she turned, disposing of the gloves and syringe. She crossed the room and retrieved something from her purse, my gaze following her movements.

Then she was in front of me, her hand outstretched. My eyes focused on the small, white pill resting in her palm.

I knew the shape better than my own reflection.

A wave of nausea crashed over me.

Why would she do that?

I stared at the pill, then met her gaze. There was fear in her eyes.

"That's not clonidine," I said.

I knew exactly what it was. Yet, I wanted to hear it from her, needed her to say it.

"It's hydromorphone," she said, her voice firm. "Take it, Satoru."

"Why?"

"Because you've been scratching your arm bloody, that's why."

A dangerous thrill surged through me, a sharp contrast to the icy dread in my veins.

She had no idea what she'd start here.

"Take it," she snapped, "before I force it down your throat."

Something shifted in the air between us.

I stood, my movements slow and purposeful. With one swift move, I closed the distance between us until I loomed over her. My breath ghosted over her lips, the scent of her fear mingled with the ever-present, gnawing need.

Without breaking eye contact, I took the pill and reached for the half-filled liquor glass on Suguru's desk.

She watched, confused, but she didn't stop me as I crushed the pill against the weathered wood of the desk. It shattered easily beneath the glass, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.

I took hold of her nape. My fingers threaded through her hair, my grip firm. Her lips parted, a silent plea, but I flinched back, denying her.

Not yet, love.

Where's the fun with that?

I slowly turned her around until she faced the desk. She shuddered as I gently pressed her forward, bending her over the surface.

The thin straps of her summer dress dipped, revealing the gentle curve of her shoulders, a vulnerability that made me lose all good reason.

Her breath quickened, a soft sound against the silence of the room. I reached forward, fingertips ghosting over her skin. Then, with a deliberate slowness, I swept the hair away from her nape, exposing the tender skin beneath.

For a long, breathless moment, I simply absorbed the sight before me.

Her perfect body was bent in graceful submission, the delicate straps of her dress barely clinging to her shoulders. The exposed curve of her nape, the soft warmth radiating from her skin.

Raw need surged through me, a reckless defiance of the consequences, of the fragile threads of self-control I still clung to.

Why did she offer me the pill?

And why couldn't I stop?

My hands were unfamiliar steady as I reached into my pocket, fumbling for my wallet. Withdrawing a credit card, I placed the white powder on its smooth surface.

Her breath hitched as I moved closer, the card hovering just above the silken expanse of her exposed skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, I lowered it, creating a thin white line on her back. It felt like a brand, a pact forged in shared recklessness.

She shivered, a slight tremor that ran through her entire form. Whether it was revulsion or anticipation, I couldn't tell. And in that moment, I realized I didn't want to know.

I leaned closer, my heated breath ghosting over her back. Without conscious thought, I opened my mouth, my tongue licking the powder off the delicate skin of her back.

The taste was bitter, acidic, sweet—familiar.

The rush hit me like a bolt of lightning.

My skin crawled, alive with a tingling rush. My senses honed to a razor's edge, amplifying every sight, smell, and sound. Exhilaration surged through me, a wild, intoxicating rush, tinged with a fear that tightened my chest like a vice.

Fuck, how I missed that.

How I craved it.

I pulled back, gasping, struggling to regain control.

Yet, my hands refused to retreat, frozen against the heat of her skin. They trembled, a desperate battle between insatiable need and the last shreds of restraint. The warmth of her burned me, a tantalizing agony beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

A war raged within me.

One voice screamed for surrender, for the oblivion of her touch, the sweet release of surrender. The other, weaker now, whispered warnings, a faint plea for control. It was a familiar battle, and with each second, my control weakened.

The sweet tang of the powder lingered on my tongue.

Yet, it did nothing to quell the rising fire within me.

A fire only she could extinguish.

Unable to stop myself, my hands moved on their own. My fingers traced the curve of her hip, the warmth of her skin a siren's call through the delicate fabric. With a gentle push, the hemline of her dress inched upwards, revealing the smooth expanse of her thigh.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. "Satoru?"

"Don't speak," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Don't speak, love.

Every word of you would only fuel the fire even more.

And my sanity was already hanging by a fragile thread.

I pushed the flimsy strap of her dress further down her shoulder. Delicate skin, warmed by the summer heat now laid bare. I ran a hand over the expanse of her back, reveling in the silky softness, the shudder that rippled through her at my touch.

I slid my hand beneath the hem of her dress, my fingers mapping the soft curve of her thigh. She moaned, a ragged sound that mirrored my own desperate need. I tugged the dress upwards still, baring more skin to my touch.

My chest heaved, my breath coming in uneven gasps. With a rough pull, I slammed her against me, her body against my already hard length a sensation that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of control.

The battle within me was all but lost. There was only this moment, this desperate, all-consuming need to claim, to consume, to lose myself in the oblivion she offered.

My hands roamed. The flimsy fabric of her dress was a mere inconvenience, torn aside to reveal the soft swell of her hips, the smooth expanse of her inner thighs. She shivered beneath my touch, fingers digging into her heated skin.

"Wait," her breath hitched. "Not here."

Yeah, it was Suguru's office. His desk.

But in this moment, I couldn't care less.

"Yes, here."

My hand wound into her hair, forcing her head back. She gasped, her body arching against mine in surrender. The room tilted, the world outside blurring into nothingness. The only reality was her in front of me. I wanted to mark her, claim her as mine.

Consequences, reason, all were distant echoes drowned out by the roaring in my blood. The rational part of my brain, a pathetically small voice, screamed at me to stop.

But this part was loosing.

I pushed her dress all the way up to her waist, revealing the lacy underwear she wore. I drew her closer still, seeking a connection deeper than skin on skin. A moan escaped her lips, and she arched against me, the tremble of her body a heady mix of surrender and desperation.

"Satoru...please," she whispered.

"Tell me to stop," I said. Each word was a test, a twisted game we both knew she'd lose. My hand slid between her legs, a slow, agonizing caress that made her breath hitch. "Tell me, and I will."

A single word, and this could end. I waited, barely breathing.

She shook her head slightly. Then, with a boldness that ignited me all over again, she arched into my touch. "Don't stop," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Please, don't stop."

My god, that woman.

I could feel the despite simmering beneath her surrender, a bitter tang that only made this twisted game more addicting.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I said, pushing the fabric of her underwear aside and sliding a finger inside her, feeling how wet and ready she was.

She was soaked through, drenched in a way that told me she wanted it as badly as I did.

With each stroke, I felt her body yield to me, growing even wetter as I explored her depths. It was an intoxicating sensation, knowing that I had such a powerful effect on her, that I could reduce her to this state of pure need with nothing but my touch.

She let out a ragged breath, gripping the wooden surface beneath her as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. I added another finger, stretching her open as I thrust in and out of her, searching for that sweet spot I knew would drive her mad.

When I found it, she gasped, her walls tightening around my fingers. "Right there," she moaned. "Don't stop."

I know, love. I know you like that spot.

I know how you crave it. The surrender. The sweet release of losing control to me.

And in this moment, there was nothing I wouldn't give you.

Burn me. Break me. Doesn't matter. I'd still offer myself willingly.

I'm yours to ruin.

But tonight, you'll break for me.

Every fiber of my being screamed for her, begging to bury itself deep inside of her. Watching her writhe underneath me, hearing her soft cries as I thrust into her, only fueled my hunger further.

I wanted to feel all of her, to brand myself onto her skin.

My cock throbbed painfully in my shorts, straining against the fabric. I could feel the precum leaking from the tip, dampening the material. The urge to rip off my clothes and plunge into her almost unbearable.

All I could see, all I wanted, was to be inside of her. Where I fit perfectly.

Then—the door.

My hand stopped. Her gasp snagged in her throat.

Suguru stood in the doorway, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. Some people just don't understand the concept of knocking first, do they?

I withdrew my fingers. With a swift tug, I pulled her dress down, covering the parts of her only I deserved to bare. His eyes didn't have the right.

"Really?" Suguru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "My desk?"

"Problem? Or feeling left out, Suguru?" My slick fingers found my mouth. I licked them slowly, savoring the lingering taste of her. My eyes never left him. "I thought you liked sharing."

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. i don't know if satoru went insane in this chapter or if i went insane while writing it. maybe both. but i had SO MUCH fun writing in his pov. i had a few heart attacks while writing this. and yes, imagine the "yes, here" in anakin skywalker's voice haha.

also i know that kafka's books all got released after his death so a copy of his book with his signature is slightly unrealistic, but we just ignore that fact.

and last, don't sleep with addicts, that's not cool in real life, but in fiction it's okay, he can't hurt you there. anyway thank you so so much for reading, i hope you don't come at me for writing this omg, i'm so nervous posting this. i'm gonna go throw up now.

785 notes · View notes

coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

Text

“ "You know damn well why." ” 🫠

okay, fun fact, i was reading this chapter when a moth enters in my bedroom to bully me (i'm entomophobic) so i just end up crying into almost a panic attack... but the angst with satoru and y/n's mother was too much, i was at the edge of breaking down...

...anyway.

the end pls!

the answer is YES!

symptoms and causes | ch. 12

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ wc 15.7 k

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, (rough) smut, mature and dark themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, (heavy) angst w happy ending, family drama, panic attacks, mentions of death / illness / blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hey u pretty people !! hope you're all doing amazing and having the absolute best day. we're back with more drama, messy feelings, and all that good stuff. also, i've updated the trigger warnings (nothing too heavy, promise), but just a heads up that we'll be dealing with some family drama and grief in this one. as always, can't wait to hear what you guys think & thanks for reading and for your amazing support (art by yamada_souko) <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

You're a slut.

The words hammered in your skull, matching the aneurysm's grotesque pulse in front of you. Another scalpel slipped into Suguru's waiting hand. Your hands moved mechanically, muscle memory guiding them more than conscious thought.

Normally, that aneurysm would thrill you, excite you, make your pulse quicken. Now, it felt oddly muted. Irrelevant compared to your spiraling thoughts.

You hate him.

You should hate him.

With every fiber of your being, you should despise him.

He pushed you away, again and again, even after that night — after you spilled your heart at his feet. He chose the pills, the numbing haze, the false comfort, the self-serving lies — his fear.

In the end he chose his addiction over fighting against it alongside you. His addiction had won out over the fragile connection you shared — had won over you.

And that was a bitter pill to swallow.

He made his choice.

And you made yours — to get space, give him space, give it all some space — time — whatever this damn situation needed, you tried to give it, even though it felt like carving out pieces of yourself.

You didn't know it anymore, simply didn't know what was right anymore.

It had been weeks, but the memory of finding him, barely breathing on his bathroom floor, lingered as a physical ache within you. That image refused to fade.

It was a wound time couldn't heal, a brutal reminder of his choice, of your own, of the love that had become a war you weren't sure you could win.

You weren't sure of anything anymore.

But one thing way painfully clear. Whatever you did, it was all just really a futile, desperate attempt to patch the gaping hole he'd ripped in your heart.

But how could you?

How could you stay away, act indifferent, when every second burned without him?

He's probably high right now, swallowing a pill, grading papers like the perfect professor, so damn good at pretending he has it together while crumbling beneath the surface.

Back to his routine of fake control.

But he has no control.

None.

Forget him. You shouldn't think that. It has to be possible, right? Somehow, forgetting someone must be possible, right? Erasing the memory of him from your veins, from every damn breath you take?

Because if not — how could you possibly go on?

Cruel memories flayed you open. His hand against your cheek, the touch so gentle it made something inside you crumble, even after he literally insulted you in the worst ways possible while fucking you.

But still, the way he'd look at you after — there was a flicker of something desperate and broken burning in his eyes, before he slammed that damn false smile back into place. Your heart clenched at the very thought of it, a fist squeezing something vital and already dead.

But the truth is, you didn't really hate him. No, not really.

Because how could you?

How could you hate him for trying to fix things the only way he knew how?

No.

Not really.

He was a coward, too scared to face his fears, too weak to choose fighting alongside you over the fleeting comfort of his addiction.

No, it was not hatred.

Understanding him made it worse. It twisted the knife deeper, making the hatred you clung to feel empty, useless, leaving only the bitter sting of disappointment.

Somehow, knowing someone's damage made them less a monster, more a tragedy.

Unfair, isn't it?

Because hating him would be easier.

"You okay?" Suguru's voice broke through your haze.

"I'm fine." Zoning out while someone's life hung in the balance was a new low, even for you. You met his gaze. "Sorry."

The stark reality of the situation slammed back into focus. The aneurysm, a grotesque bulge on the screen, pulsed tauntingly. Suguru's skilled hands steadied the fragile tissue around it.

"Want to continue?"

You blinked, unsure if he was joking. "You want me to clip it?"

"It's a gift."

"Gift? From who?"

Suguru arched an eyebrow, a silent answer. Of course. This was Satoru's doing. It was his way, wasn't it? Speaking of unconventional presents.

But he undoubtedly knew you.

Before you could fully process, Suguru added. "And because I trust you. I wouldn't offer if I didn't."

Your gaze was drawn back to the aneurysm. "Okay," you said, the decision settling with surprising ease.

You slid into place in front of the surgical microscope. Suguru moved just behind you to monitor your movements. You took a deep breath, the instruments feeling strangely cold and foreign in your hands.

"Focus," Suguru's low voice rumbled close beside you. "You've got this."

Somehow, with the clip in your hand, the delicate aneurism between your hands, you wondered if Satoru was right — if you loved the thrill of it all — if him and you were the same.

If that maddening fascination bound you together.

Because as you stared down at the aneurysm, you couldn't deny it — the rush, the adrenaline surge that came from defying death, the intoxicating high of existing on the razor's edge, it was all there, coursing through your veins.

Were you reckless?

Satoru's accusation echoed in your mind.

Yet, with each precise maneuver, the thrill intensified. There was a sick satisfaction in holding that much power, in the knowledge that one wrong move and this fragile existence could be snuffed out in an instant.

Here, in the sterile confines of the operating room, adrenaline replaced oxygen.

And it was undeniably addictive.

Too bad it wasn't enough for Satoru.

"Suguru," you began, your words barely a whisper as you meticulously guided the clip, "do you ever think I'm...reckless?"

"Should I be worried that you're pondering this while inches deep in someone's brain?"

"Forget it," you muttered. "Just a fleeting thought."

With a satisfying click, the clip snapped shut.

─── ·✧· ───

The water was unusual frigid against your skin.

Suguru scrubbed his hands beside you, the methodical rasp of skin on skin a familiar sound a in the echoing washroom. Finally, he spoke. "I'm proud of you."

"Huh?" You turned to him.

"How far you've come. Really, you're doing a great job. With the surgery, the research—you have a great future ahead of you."

He meant it kindly, you knew. But his words made your stomach churn. A bright, promising future was the last thing on your mind. Surviving the next hour, the next day, that was your only focus. You mustered a weak smile in response and adverted your gaze.

"How are you doing? Really?"

You couldn't meet his gaze. "Holding up. Somehow."

He observed you. You could feel his concerned gaze on your skin without having to turn your head.

"New semester treating you okay?"

"Bit stressful," you admitted. "I have to retake a few exams."

"Listen, if you need any help—"

"Thank you, Suguru," you cut him off, turning the faucet with a harsh click off. "But unless you're offering to take my tests for me, I'm afraid this is on me."

You turned and reached for a towel, desperately needing to put something, anything, between you and his pitying gaze.

He paused, then shut off his own water with a sigh. "I'm sorry things turned out like this for you," he said, and you hated the sincerity in his voice. "But it's for the best, for him and for you. We did what we had to."

We?

"Wait, what do you mean?"

Suguru reached for a towel. "Hm?"

"What do you mean with, 'we'?"

He froze mid-movement, jaw tightening.

Your stomach twisted. Something in his silence, in the way he wouldn't meet your gaze—

Your hands braced against the sink, knuckles white against the cold porcelain. "What did you and Satoru talk about that night? The night before the hearing? I know he was with you."

"It's nothing important. He was confused, and I helped him clear his head."

"What does that mean? What did you say to him?"

Suguru's silence was the loudest answer, the pity in his eyes a searing poison. With a sickening clarity, it all fell into place — Satoru's sudden surrender, the way he'd looked at you in the hearing, empty and broken.

"Tell me what the fuck you said to him!"

"Isn't it obvious?" he said, the cruelty finally unveiled. "I told him to end this. That it would destroy you, and that he should take responsibility for once!"

The ground tilted.

He'd convinced Satoru to let you go.

He'd single-handedly shattered the fragile trust you'd clawed back with Satoru, the possibility of fighting this together — gone. All it took was Suguru to destroy it all.

Betrayal burned in your throat.

Satoru may have wielded the knife, but Suguru had guided his hand.

"You had no right," you choked out. "You had no fucking right to do that!"

"No right?" Suguru's voice rose to match yours. "And watch you both go down? Satoru was a ticking time bomb! It was better this way—better him destroyed than you dragged down with him."

"I had him, Suguru!" you shouted. "I almost had him trusting me enough, trusting us enough, to let me help him, damn it!"

"You're delusional. He can't change. You know that. It would always have ended like this."

"My god, I can't believe your audacity!" You spat the words, raw and dripping with fury. It masked the deeper ache, the knowledge that he wasn't entirely wrong. "You ruined everything!"

Suguru's jaw tightened. He moved closer, his imposing presence forcing you back a pace. "You know how many times I've seen this play out? The promises to change? I've seen it too often. He won't get better, and I won't let him drag you under with him. Not you."

Your retreat ended abruptly, your back hitting the cool porcelain of the sink. He remained close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand reached out, a single fingertip tracing your jawline in a gesture at odds with the harshness of his words.

"This is for the best," he insisted, his voice rough. "You're young, brilliant. This—relationship with Satoru, it would have ruined you."

"Don't you dare," you hissed, slapping his hand away. "You have no right to decide what's best for me."

"Yes, I do. Because I was the one who got you here in the first place, it was my doing, and I—" he trailed off, his voice softening. "I don't want to see you hurt."

"Why are you saying this now?"

"You know damn well why."

His words hung in the air, suffocating, sour.

Months of shared research, of seeing Suguru as a mentor, then a friend—

Suguru destroying your fragile connection with Satoru felt like an unforgivable violation. You knew it wasn't just him. But the pain of it all was too much, clouding your thoughts.

You slowly shook your head, unwilling to accept what he just said, unwilling to even comprehend the implications.

"No," you forced the word out. "You can't—"

"Yeah, I know. You don't have to tell me that."

Then, a sharp beep shattered the suffocating tension. Suguru swore under his breath, retrieving his pager. His face went taut as he read the message.

"What is it?"

"Yaga," he said. "Wants to see us. Now."

He met your gaze, dread coiling in your gut. This couldn't be good.

"Why?"

"I...I don't know. But we should go. Come on."

─── ·✧· ───

"You want me to redo a study that was completely pointless?"

Your question rang through the oppressive silence of Yaga's office. Suguru sat beside you, but his presence offered no comfort against Yaga's piercing gaze.

Your fingers clawed into the paper files in front of you.

Useless words, wasted effort.

You didn't need to reread them. They were your own words, your own data after all. Your own carefully crafted research project. But it led nowhere. Insignificant results. Pointless.

The pain that these papers in your hand causes was sharper than any scalpel, a wound no surgery could mend. Because this research was fueled by grief. Grief for your father, lost to the cruel, invasive brain tumor that now mocked you from the pages.

But it was this very research that had gotten you here.

It caught Suguru's attention, led to his mentorship, and through him — to Satoru. How perverse that your most agonizing vulnerability had opened this door, led you to a love that felt as cursed as your research.

Cruel.

Being forced to revisit this failure, now of all times — it felt like a cruel joke. Your life, it seemed, was a master of cruelty, stripping you bare then pouring acid on the raw wounds.

"Yes," Yaga's voice was devoid of any empathy.

"The results were inconclusive. A dead end," you said.

Yaga sighed. "Your research held promise, Dr. Geto never failed to remind me. Now, you have better resources, better support. You can refine it, perfect it."

You glanced at Suguru. The flicker of regret in his eyes was another betrayal you cataloged for later. Facing Yaga again, you tightened your grip on the file until your knuckles ached. You slammed it shut, fighting the urge to tear it to shreds.

"That's not the point. My CAR-T-Therapy research was theoretical, a mathematical model that was inherently flawed. All the best equipment in the world won't change that. It's a black hole."

Yaga leaned forward. "Listen, we have a—generous donor. I think you met her at the conference? She took quite a liking to you." He paused. "Her husband recently succumbed to this very type of tumor."

My god.

Cold sweat broke out on your skin. You remembered the woman's worried face at the conference, her desperate hope when she learned of your past work. It had felt like a punch to the gut even then, reopening the wound of your own loss.

Now, her raw grief had been weaponized, a pawn in Yaga's game of securing funding.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape your lips. Research meant nothing to these people. You were but a tool, a means to an end, another cog in their merciless machine. You wanted to scream, to expose their hypocrisy, to rip apart the facade of noble intentions that veiled their greed.

But what would it change?

Would it expose their callousness, their blatant abuse of a grieving woman?

No, they held the power.

Maybe Suguru and Satoru weren't so wrong, after all — research, even here, was just another business at its core, tainted by ambition and the pursuit of profit. It made you sick.

"You want to use me to exploit a grieving woman just to line your pockets?"

Yaga leaned back, momentarily taken aback by your bluntness. An arrogant rebuttal was undoubtedly forming on his lips, when the door crashed open.

Satoru stormed in, his fury barely contained. "What the hell is going on here?"

Yaga's expression hardened. "Dr. Gojo, what a...surprise. Here I thought you might have finally bothered to read your emails."

Satoru moved swiftly to stand beside you, his hand settling on the back of your chair. "Cut the bullshit, Yaga," he spat. "This is a new low, even for you. Forcing a student, exploiting a grieving widow—have you no shame?"

"Dr. Gojo, your dramatics are exhausting. Do you understand the costs your actions have inflicted on this institution? A shred of gratitude, a willingness to shoulder some responsibility, might be a welcome change."

"Responsibility? You want to talk about responsibility? You're exploiting a woman in the depths of grief, using one of my students as a bargaining chip." He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "What the hell happened to you, Yaga?"

Yaga mirrored his stance, the tension between them a storm about to break. "Happened to me? Dr. Gojo, have you considered the consequences of your reckless behavior? You're the one spiraling, and frankly, it's becoming unbearable."

Suguru, sensing the impending explosion, stepped between them with forced calm. "Director Yaga, please. She's a student, her focus should be on her studies."

"Of course, which is why you and Dr. Gojo will provide your expertise. Your old lab is free to use, funds are secured, equipment at your disposal. You have free rein."

Satoru laughed. "Free rein? Or free rein to do as you please? Despicable, Yaga. Truly despicable." He paused, the rage in his voice barely contained. "And wasn't I suspended? Investigations and all that? But I suppose principles go out the window when money enters the picture."

"You have no right to dictate what happens here, Gojo," Yaga snapped, the veneer of civility slipping. "You answer to me. This research holds immense potential, not just for the university, but for the field itself. You will do it. End of discussion."

"Potential? Or is that just fancy code for fattening your wallet, Yaga?"

Yaga's lips thinned. "Don't play dumb, Gojo. You, of all people, know exactly how the game is played."

"Don't. Do. This." Satoru leaned in, his voice a dangerous quiet. "Involve her in your schemes, and I swear—Leave her out of this. Suguru and I can do the damned research, but let her focus on her studies."

"You're in no position to bargain. I can make things incredibly difficult for you, Gojo. Throw away all that potential, all that talent...it would be a shame, wouldn't it? But I am more than willing to do so if you prove uncooperative."

"Director, Dr. Gojo has a point. This research will be a massive distraction. Her studies should be her priority," Suguru stepped in.

"Yes," Yaga drawled. "I heard about her recent...setbacks." He opened his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "A failed practical exam, a theoretical test barely passed. And this isn't the first time, is it?"

His gaze fixed on you over his glasses as he turned the screen, revealing your student record, the failing grades glowing a damning red. "Tell me, which subject would you like to miraculously pass? A click of my fingers, and it's done."

The room imploded.

Satoru's grip on the chair threatened to split the wood. "You blackmailing piece of shit!"

"Blackmail?" Yaga said. "No, blackmail would be threatening to cut her scholarship, endangering her entire future here...which, thankfully, our generous donor would be more than happy to preserve."

Suguru shot to his feet, a rare crack in his composure. "Yaga, this is beyond the pale! This blatant manipulation—"

But the words were already forming in your mouth, driven by a bone-deep weariness. "I'll do it," you declared, the words surprisingly firm. "I'll work on the research."

The room fell silent, every eye fixed on you.

It felt awful to give in, but with everything going on, it was just too much — giving in was easier for now.

There were other battles to save your strength for. And the battlefield of Satoru's furrowed brow and those piercing blue eyes that bore into you was a battlefield that already took all your strength.

Someone needed to be practical here, and that wouldn't be him.

"Someone finally sees reason," Yaga said, breaking the silence. "You start this week."

This week?

"No," Satoru interjected. "That is not up for debate. We start next week."

Surprise flickered across Yaga's face, quickly replaced by irritation. Even Suguru seemed taken aback by Satoru's sudden defiance.

"This week," Yaga repeated.

"Next week. Or I walk out that door and you can find yourself a new star surgeon."

He wouldn't. He couldn't possibly—could he?

Satoru couldn't know about your father's death day — the reason why starting this week was unthinkable. You didn't tell him. But why, then, was he so vehemently pushing back?

"Dr. Gojo, you are exceedingly close to losing my goodwill," Yaga ground out. "Fine. Next week."

"And if we find nothing? Months, years, wasted on a dead-end?" Suguru asked.

"You'll continue as long as the funding lasts."

"Of course," Satoru spat.

"Well, look at the bright side, Dr. Gojo. I just approved that fancy new CT scanner for the ER. Isn't that what you've been whining about?" Yaga's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Finally found some spare change in the budget, did we?"

"You fucking bastard," Satoru hissed.

"Everyone has to play their role, Gojo."

The air in the room turned to lead.

You couldn't breathe. The walls of Yaga's office seemed to close in, suffocating. It had been the right decision, perhaps the only one — a tactical retreat. But why the hell was it so hard to breathe then?

It was just too much.

Too many battles, too many impossible choices.

Your father's memory, a constant ache turned into a weapon used against you. Yaga's insatiable ambition crushing you. And Satoru—

But worst of all was the gnawing, unyielding guilt underneath it all — that by returning to this research, you were betraying your own principles, the memory of the very person who had inspired you to pursue this path in the first place.

Your vision became blurry.

You desperately needed to escape. "If you'll excuse me," you managed. With that, you turned and fled Yaga's office, barely registering the startled faces of the men left behind.

─── ·✧· ───

You needed air, distance, anything to clear your head.

The hallway became a suffocating tunnel. Students and staff blurred past, mere obstacles in your path. Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"Wait!" Satoru's voice, his footsteps echoing behind you .

Bursting out into the courtyard, you gasped for air. Rain a harsh slap against your skin. Blurred shapes of green and gray whipped past as you ran. You didn't care where you were going, just that you were getting away.

Away from Yaga, away from the project, away from the crushing weight of it all.

Satoru called your name. Barely heard him. Legs burning, lungs screaming, but you pushed, ran. You wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Didn't want to see him — not now.

Somehow, you found yourself in an unfamiliar part of campus, and then — a wall. Looming, brutal. A dead end.

Sobs tore from your throat. You were cornered.

This is where it all led, isn't it?

Failure.

Betrayal.

And the sickening knowledge that you were complicit in your own downfall.

And with Satoru's relentless pursuit, the final, crushing blow would soon fall. His concern, his pity, would be the last straw, shattering what little remained of your composure.

"Please—" His voice was close now.

Your eyes slammed shut, but it did nothing to drown out his voice, the panic. Rain plastered your hair to your face, soaking you to the skin.

Satoru paused, a few feet away.

"Just leave me alone, Satoru. Please, I can't—can't—" The words dissolved into another ragged sob.

"I know, but I'm here." He took a step closer, and panic flared within you.

Your world narrowed. The panic attack was inevitable. Your breaths came in shallow gasps, each inhale a struggle against the invisible constrictor squeezing the life out of you. Your icy fingers trembled, useless and numb.

No.

This couldn't happen.

Not here, not now.

Yet, your body betrayed you.

Without conscious thought, you simply sunk down onto the rain-soaked concrete. Your hand pressed against your chest, a desperate attempt to quell the frantic thudding of your heart, a frantic plea for it to slow, to obey.

Satoru crouched before you, the rain dripping from his white hair. Then the weight of his warm jacket settled over your shoulders as you choked on another breath.

"I...I just need..." Your voice cracked. "Need to sit. Can we just...just sit for a second?"

"Yes. Of course. Whatever you need."

He didn't touch you, didn't offer empty promises. He simply held the jacket over your head like a shelter, shielding you as best he could against the downpour. His own white shirt clung to him, soaked through.

His gaze, those impossibly blue eyes, never wavered. You felt exposed, like your every broken piece was on agonizing display for him to witness. It was unbearable.

You hated it.

Hated him for seeing you like this.

Hated that he refused to look away.

Suddenly, his hand covered yours, gently pressing it flat against the hard plane of his chest. You inhaled sharply, but then felt the calm rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

"Focus on me," he whispered. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You struggled to pull air into your burning lungs. His steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the drenched shirt, became a desperate focus.

Slowly, with each ragged breath, the crushing weight of panic slowly began to ease. Your racing heart slowed, though your body still trembled. You weren't sure how long you sat there, just you and Satoru, in the downpour.

As the tears subsided, as the world finally stopped spinning, you felt the faintest flicker of something akin to calm. Not the absence of pain, but the strange feeling of calm, of home — something you always felt with him.

Bittersweet resignation to the absurdity of it all washed over you.

All his attempts to distance himself, to push you away — and here you were, thrown together once again by forces far beyond your control. You hadn't sought this, hadn't chased after him. Yet, life it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

Work together, fall apart, suffer, repeat.

A bitter laugh escaped you.

His gaze was on you, wary, perhaps gauging whether the weight of it all had pushed you beyond the brink of sanity, whether you'd been broken beyond repair — whether he was the one responsible for all this.

"Pointless, wasn't it?"

"What?"

"All that effort of yours. Pushing me away, only to end up here. Back to square one. Stuck on this damned project, pretending we don't want to fuck each other on the lab table."

His brow furrowed. "Are you losing your mind?"

You tilted your head, considering the question. "Tell me, was it easier? Loosing me, breaking my heart, than facing whatever it is that terrifies you about being with me?"

Silence fell.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I thought it would be, but now, I'm not so sure anymore."

Your breath hitched, the first inhale that didn't feel like a shard of glass cutting into your lungs. "We can do this, right?"

"We can try, if you want to" he said, his voice thick. "Suguru and I—we can handle most of it—"

"No. I mean, we can do this. Together. Work side by side, like professionals."

"We have to try." He swallowed, a muscle in his jaw working. "If you want me to...I can stay behind the scenes. Crunch data, Suguru can lead in the field—"

"No. No shortcuts. We do this together, all of us. You, me, Suguru."

"But you don't have to. You're a student. This mess...it's not yours to clean up."

"You think I can't handle it?"

Hypocritical, maybe, after your breakdown, but you didn't want his protection, not in this way. You wanted to fight your own battles, for better or worse. Stubborn pride — a desperate denial of how the grief, the unrelenting struggle, chipped away at you.

Perhaps he saw that, saw the fragility behind your brittle facade. Yet, his concern felt like a form of surrender — an acknowledgment that you were both fighting losing battles.

Satoru sighed, his hand raking through his soaked hair. "No, damn it, that's not it. I just—hate the idea of you having to—"

"And you always get to decide for me, right?"

His reaction was immediate. Hands cupped your face, forcing you to meet his gaze, the touch surprisingly gentle. "You infuriating, stubborn woman. Stop trying to play the goddamn martyr. For once, just let me help you."

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

His grip tightened, a flicker of anger replacing the worry. "This isn't the same. You're not me. Sukuna's fucked-up game, Yaga's ambitions, this whole mess—none of it is yours to bear."

"You're right, we're not the same, no," you snapped. "I don't run when things get hard."

"God, you're so full of it! Your precious ego won't let you admit you need anyone, even someone who actually cares about you."

"My ego? Don't you think it's a little hypocritical to pretend you care after pushing me away?"

"You stupid woman." His anger faltered. "I'll always care, always look after you. Because I can't stand it—I can't watch you hurt. I—"

He trailed off, the confession choked back. Slowly, tentatively, his thumb traced a line across your cheek.

"Let me protect you," he whispered. "Please, just let me keep you from the worst of it."

"And what about you? Who looks after you?"

He held your gaze, the intensity holding you captive.

You'd seen glimpses of this before — flashes of protective fury or moments of vulnerability. But never like this. Never so raw, unguarded. He looked at you as if you held the key to his survival, as if your very existence was both his lifeline and his undoing.

Love.

It was the word you choked back, the emotion you refused to give voice to. Yet, it hung heavy in the rain-drenched air. It blazed in his eyes, a confession too raw to be contained.

His touch lingered, then retreated.

He stared at you, the rain making it impossible to tell if the glistening sheen on his face was water or something other.

"You have to stop looking at me like that," you whispered.

"I know," he said, burying his face against his shoulder for a moment. "Just because we can't be together...It doesn't mean I've stopped loving you."

You took a deep inhale, your heart a clenched fist in your chest.

"You know, in those four weeks—," you began. "I wondered if it was worth it, the pain, the hurt, for those sweet moments of being with you, or if it would've been better to never meet you at all."

"And did you find an answer?"

"I don't know," you admitted. "Part of me wished you'd just call me, say it was all a cruel joke."

"I wanted to but—"

"I know," you cut him off.

He didn't need to say it.

You didn't want to force the confession from him, didn't want to break something inside him you couldn't bear to see shatter, didn't want to see him crumble under the weight of his choices.

There was no need for him to voice the regret, the guilt.

You knew it, saw it in his eyes.

"I know," you repeated softly.

He was suffering too, you knew that. But a wounded part of you needed him to feel the pain, to feel the burn of it, to understand the depth of the wound he'd inflicted.

"It's okay," you said. "But I can't pretend I don't sometimes wonder how you could do this to me. Why you took it so far. You knew it would end like this, that you weren't strong enough, you knew, didn't you? And still, you let me confess...all while knowing you couldn't commit."

"I—," he started but you weren't done.

"I'm not finished," you said, a hand raised to silence him. "I wanted to scream, to rage, to make you feel my pain. But I kept quiet, kept my distance. Because I knew you weren't ready to face this. And I won't force you to."

Silence fell, broken only by the relentless rain.

"I didn't deserve this, Satoru," you forced yourself to say. "You know it."

There was no accusation, no plea for explanation. Just a simple truth, a raw wound laid bare in the unforgiving rain.

"I know."

"I don't know if I can forgive you yet, Satoru. I don't think I'm strong enough right now."

He reached out, gently brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. "It's okay," he said. "I'll wait. Forever, if I have to."

"And I'll wait for you," you echoed. "Until you're ready."

You took a deep breath. In this rain-soaked moment it seemed, all that remained were raw truths and a shared pain that bound you together even as it tore you apart.

You searched his face. "How are you? How have you been?"

"I...managed."

Convincing as always.

You could see the toll this had taken on him, the shadows in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Satoru, in his stubborn pride, would rather break than admit vulnerability.

Perhaps you weren't so different after all.

You tilted your head. "And how's that working for you?"

His gaze drifted to the ground.

With a sigh you slowly, hesitantly, reached for his hand.

His hand was cold against yours, damp from the persistent rain. You traced the faint scars on the back of his hand, the ones you'd stitched. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly found yours, intertwining with a desperate vulnerability that startled you.

It was familiar, his touch, his skin, yet undeniably foreign at the same time.

He looked up, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. And so, beneath the relentless rain, you simply sat.

Words felt unnecessary.

There was no need for declarations, no need to dissect what had gone so horribly wrong. The truth was in the shared breath, the tremble of your intertwined fingers, the unspoken ache that you both shared.

You knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that your souls were intertwined in a way that refused to be undone. Yet, that same knowledge brought a crushing weight, a reminder impossibility, the painful chasm you couldn't seem to bridge.

Too bad love wasn't enough.

"I love you," he finally whispered. "As long as I breathe, I'll love you."

"I hate you," you said.

He sighed, with a hint of a defeated smile. "Come on," he said, gently pulling you to your feet. "Let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

Grief isn't pretty.

It's not elegant tears and soft whispers.

Sometimes it's a relentless ache, a gnawing emptiness throbbing beneath the thin veneer of forced normalcy.

You threw yourself into work, anything to outrun your thoughts.

You barely slept, barely ate. You wrote, then erased, then wrote some more.

Endless cups of coffee and the frantic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard replaced sleep. Your apartment became a prison, phone buzzing with unanswered calls, dishes piling up, the world outside your window a meaningless blur.

You existed on a ragged edge, refusing to let your mind wander. Every sting of grief, every echoing memory was ruthlessly shoved down, buried under data, statistics, intricate theories.

It wasn't just research anymore. It was a shield against pain.

You reread old papers, your eyes scanning pages until the words blurred, searching for some missed detail, some hidden clue that would unlock a breakthrough — anything to justify this madness.

You couldn't stop, needed to function.

Because what else was left of you if you didn't anymore?

So you worked. Because to stop is to surrender, to stop is to face the truth — that without this work, all that remained was the ruin of what you once were.

Days melted into nights.

You massaged your temples, the headache now a constant companion.

The laptop screen blurred, diagrams and data swirling. Your mind felt like a tightly wound coil, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

You looked over to the window. The world outside, bathed in the soft glow of early morning, seemed like a foreign land. You hadn't been out in days.

You needed fresh air.

You slipped on shoes and crept downstairs. On the landing, your gaze fell upon Mrs. Tanaka, your elderly neighbor. Her hands fumbled with a tangle of keys, her fingers trembling slightly.

You knew Mrs. Tanaka, knew her kind smile, knew the early signs of her dementia.

"Need help, Mrs. Tanaka?" you asked.

She turned, her eyes widening in recognition. "Oh dear. I seem to have misplaced my keys again. Silly me."

"Here." You knelt beside her, retrieving the spare key from its familiar hiding spot under the potted plant. "Is this it?"

"You're an angel, dear," she said, her hands finally steady enough to work the lock. She paused, peering at your drawn face. "You look exhausted, dear. Are you getting enough rest?"

"Oh, I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just a long night of studying."

Mrs. Tanaka's nod was slow, her gaze lingering. But she said nothing further, just patted your arm gently before disappearing inside her apartment.

Your walk around the block was a blur, legs moving on autopilot.

The energy drink in your hand was a pathetic substitute for real sleep. Back in your apartment, the silence was deafening.

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Think.

And suddenly — there it was, a flicker of an idea, a twist on existing theory so audacious it bordered on madness.

It wasn't a cure, not yet. But it was... a start.

Adrenaline surged through you, chasing away the exhaustion. You barely noticed the tremors in your hands as you scrambled for a fresh notebook. Diagrams sprawled across the pages, messy yet precise, a frantic attempt to capture the idea before it slipped away.

Your hand ached from scribbling, your mind throbbed. But the fire was back, a destructive force perhaps, but a force that fueled you nonetheless.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn painted the sky, you had it. Not a cure, not yet. But a starting point. It was messy, audacious, and riddled with uncertainties. But it was something.

You reached for your phone.

[8:27 AM] You: Can we meet later? Lab. After classes. I think I have something.

─── ·✧· ───

You clutched your steaming cup of coffee like a lifeline.

Shivers ran down your body as a gust of autumn wind cut through your thin sweater, carrying with it the scent of damp leaves and the promise of winter's impending cold.

The late afternoon sun offered little warmth as it filtered through the branches of the oak trees that shaded the outdoor seating area of the cafeteria. Students bustled past, their bright faces and carefree chatter unbearable.

"You awake?" Maki's voice cut through the haze that had settled over you.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the concerned looks on your friends' faces.

"You look like absolute hell," Maki continued. "Seriously, have you slept at all this week?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't even start with that. We know you, and you look like you're about to lose it."

You took a long sip of your coffee, somehow, defending yourself seemed like too much effort.

"She's right, you know," Yuta chimed in, his voice gentler than Maki's but no less concerned. "This research they're piling on you, on top of everything else... it's too much. Even we're struggling with the new semester, and we don't have half the stuff you're dealing with."

"Yeah," you sighed. "Tell me about it."

The looks exchanged between your friends were anything but reassuring. They knew you, knew your stubborn streak, but they also saw the toll this was taking on you. The shadows under your eyes, the tremor in your hands — they couldn't be ignored.

"It's not right," Maki said. "They're basically blackmailing you with your scholarship. That's messed up, even for this university."

"I know, it's messed up. But what am I supposed to do? Fighting it will just make things worse."

"But you have to!" Maki insisted, her voice rising. "Yaga's using you! You're just a student. We should report him, expose this whole thing."

"Maki, it's okay," you sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Nothing about this is 'okay'," she retorted. "You look like you're about to have a breakdown. You can't keep this up forever."

You slumped back in your chair. "It's complicated."

They were right, of course. You couldn't keep going like this. It was unsustainable, a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest breeze. But what other choice did you have? The alternatives seemed even worse.

"We just—we worry about you," Yuta said. "Maybe we can help with the workload? Notes from class, study sessions—"

"Yeah," Toge chimed in. "Notes."

You offered a faint smile. "That would be great, thank you."

But Maki, as always, was less concerned with comforting and more with the injustice of it all. "I still can't believe you're stuck working with Gojo again. I mean, who does he think he is?"

You winced, wishing she hadn't brought up Satoru. Your head pounded, a migraine threatening to form. You rubbed your temples, but Maki's gaze was relentless. You knew what was coming next.

"Don't even ask," you pleaded, but it was too late.

"Have you talked to him? Like, really talked?"

You sighed, burying your face in your hands. "Maki, please—"

"Girl, he dragged you in front of an ethics committee, broke your heart, and now he's acting like nothing happened. Why are you still protecting him?"

"I can't tell you why," you said, your voice muffled. "Just trust me on this."

You couldn't really tell them, could you?

You couldn't tell them that your professor, a world-renowned neurosurgeon, was an opioid addict. That you'd fallen for him, hard. That the research project had gone sideways, not because of your actions, but because of something else that eventually led to a twisted game played by one of his former friends. And that Satoru, in his fear and self-loathing, had pushed you away, convinced he was doing you a favor.

Yeah, that wasn't exactly coffee-break conversation.

Maki raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your non-answer.

"He's...afraid," you said. "But he's trying."

"Trying what, exactly?" Maki scoffed. "To break your heart again? How long are you going to wait for him to get his shit together? How many times are you going to let him hurt you before you realize he might not change?"

Her words, harsh but undeniably true, cut deep. You knew the risks, the potential for heartbreak. But you also knew that love wasn't always rational, that sometimes the heart held on to hope long after logic had abandoned it.

You met Maki's gaze, a silent plea for understanding in your eyes. She was trying to protect you, and as much as it stung, you couldn't fault her for that.

"I think what Maki's trying to say," Yuta interjected, "is that we're worried about you. And this situation with Dr. Gojo doesn't help. He's your professor. If anyone finds out about your history, you're fucked."

"There's nothing to find out. It's over."

"Over? So you talked to him? Ended things?" Maki pressed.

"Ended is a bit strong."

"You really want me to go over there and end it for you?"

You wanted to argue, to defend the fragile hope that still flickered within you, but the words wouldn't come. You were simply exhausted.

Just then, your phone, lying forgotten on the table, lit up with a notification.

[12:37 PM] Satoru: We're in the lab. Take your time, we'll wait for you until your class is over.

Maki raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of the devil?"

You gathered your things, a sudden urgency replacing the weariness. "I have to go," you said, looking to Yuta with a silent plea. He understood immediately.

"Don't worry," he said, a smile on his lips. "I'll take notes for you. Don't want you falling behind on top of everything else."

"Thanks, Yuta, I owe you one."

But as you turned to leave, Maki crossed her arms, a stern expression on her face.

"Don't be mad at me," you pleaded, sensing another lecture coming on. "I've got this under control, I promise."

"Sure you do. Just like you had that whole thing with Gojo under control?" She paused, her voice softening slightly. "We're just worried about you. Don't shut us out."

The weight of their concern settled heavily in your chest, a guilt that twisted like a knife in your gut.

You wanted to tell them, to let them know the fucked-up mess of emotions and impossible situation you were in, but the words stuck in your throat.

You couldn't tell them.

You simply couldn't tell them.

Not when it meant risking his secret, his reputation, his entire career.

Not when you still cared, foolishly, stubbornly cared.

─── ·✧· ───

You pushed open the door to the lab.

It had been weeks since you'd last stepped foot in this space, weeks since you'd worked with Suguru and Satoru here. Somehow it's the same, the same lab, the same white coat, the same machinery, the same smell of antiseptic in the air, but the project was different.

No, it was not the same.

You slipped into your white lab coat and dropped your bag in the corner.

Satoru and Suguru were already immersed, standing in front of a whiteboard. Satoru, stretched out in a chair with a mug of coffee precariously balanced on a nearby stool, was gesturing wildly while Suguru scribbled.

You walked over to them. Satoru's head snapped around as he heard your footsteps, nearly spilling his coffee on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Satoru asked. "Don't you have a lecture right now?"

"Yuta's covering for me. It's fine."

He stared at you for another moment, his brow creasing as he assessed your weary features. "That's not how this research will work. You won't jeopardize your studies for this."

"Last time I checked this was my research. Remember?"

Satoru merely scoffed, tilting his head to assess you with those impossibly blue eyes. You tucked your trembling hands behind your back, hiding the caffeine-fueled tremors from his observant gaze.

"You look exhausted," Suguru observed. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"I'm fine," you lied, though they probably wouldn't be fooled. Exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, and the effort to maintain your composure was becoming unbearable.

They glanced at each other for a second, sharing a worried look.

It felt like a jagged saw against raw nerves. You wanted to prove them wrong, to prove you could handle this — handle all of it. This fight wasn't your choice, but it was yours now. And you wouldn't crumble beneath its weight.

"Look, I have an idea." You walked towards the whiteboard and relieving Suguru of the marker. With a few harsh strokes, you erased their notes.

It was shit anyway.

"My original approach was too theoretical—too cautious," you began. The marker flew across the whiteboard, outlining your new strategy. "I wanted to use CAR-T therapy to treat brain tumors like blood diseases, but that's not enough. What if we combine CAR-T with targeted antibodies?"

Suguru took a seat beside Satoru, his gaze following yours as you scrawled out diagrams and equations. "Antibodies...what kind?"

"T-cell engagers," you replied. "We can engineer them to bridge the gap between the CAR-T cells and the tumor."

Satoru shifted in his seat. "Such things never been tested before."

"That's why we'll be the first," you countered, keeping your back to them and focusing on the whiteboard. "We'll modify the CAR-T cells to specifically target the glioblastoma's antigen fingerprint. But we need to combine them with T-cell engagers, designed to simultaneously bind the EGFR protein. This way we can maximize tumor cell destruction."

You spun around, the marker poised in your hand. "And we'll inject them directly into the brain."

They both starred at you, as if you went insane.

"That's," Suguru paused, searching for the right word, "—bold."

"More like insane," Satoru countered. "When was the last time you actually slept?"

"Ha?" Your gaze flickered between them. "Tell me this doesn't make sense."

Suguru leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest. "It does. Theoretically, it might even work."

Satoru, however, remained unconvinced. "Combining CAR-T with antibodies? Direct brain injection? We don't have preclinical data, not even hypothetical models to support something this radical."

Your pulse hammered against your skull. Your idea was a shot in the dark — that was undeniable. But in your gut, you knew, this could work.

"So?" you challenged. "Isn't that what groundbreaking research is about? Taking risks, pushing boundaries?" You gestured to the whiteboard. "This—this is worth the risk."

Suguru stood up from his chair. He paced the lab, your idea stirring an excitement in him that matched your own. He stole the marker from your hand and began scribbling.

"She's right," he began. "Direct injection cuts through the blood-brain barrier issue. And targeted antibodies...that opens up possibilities we haven't even considered."

"The potential for cytokine release syndrome—," Suguru mused aloud. "If the T-cells overreact, we could trigger a inflammatory response."

"We can manage that," you countered. "Steroids, anti-IL-6...strict monitoring protocols."

You knew the risks, perhaps even better than they did. And they were monstrous, undeniable. But those risks paled in comparison to the potential.

Suguru continued scrawling notes. "And what about the target itself? EGFRvIII is notoriously heterogeneous. We need robust evidence that our antibodies won't miss their mark—"

"Is it just me, or am I the only sane person in this room right now?" Satoru, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally snapped. "We're not talking about hypothetical models here. We're talking about messing with someone's brain. Someone's life."

You glared at him. "I'm well aware of the risks, Satoru."

"Aware and reckless aren't the same thing," Satoru shot back.

"Coming from you, that's rich."

Satoru run a hand through his hair. "Look, you've barely slept for a week, and now you're proposing—what, supercharged T-cells?" He gestured wildly towards the whiteboard. "Have you both lost your goddamn minds?"

"This could work, Satoru. Or are you too much of a coward to even try?"

His eyes narrowed. "Ha?"

You leaned into him, your hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. "Tell me, do these supercharged T-cells unnerve you? Make you uncomfortable with yourself?" Your lips were mere inches from his as you whispered, "Too bad you can't fuck them into submission, right?"

He stiffened, the muscles in his jaw clenching. He understood your taunt, the challenge clear in his eyes, the anger and — maybe something other as well.

Suguru, who had been watching the exchange with an expression that bordered on annoyance, suddenly stopped mid-thought. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his expression hardening as he glanced at the screen.

"Damn it." He answered the call. "Alright, I'm on my way," he said finally, ending the call with a curt nod. He turned to you. "We'll pick this up later. There's a situation at the hospital. Get some rest. You look like hell."

Ouch.

Before you could say anything, he was already striding towards the door, his white coat flapping behind him.

With Suguru gone, a heavy silence descended upon the room.

Satoru remained seated, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. It felt like an assessment, not just of your audacious proposal, but of you — standing there, the weight of sleepless nights visible in the dark circles beneath your eyes.

"So—," he began. "When was the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept?"

You rubbed your aching temples. "I'm fine."

You didn't know how many times you'd said that before today. But each time it was a lie. The exhaustion now throbbed behind your eyes, the beginnings of a relentless migraine.

Satoru stood. "Yeah, right." He crossed the distance between you in a few strides, his towering height suddenly oppressive.

"Listen, we can argue about this crazy plan of yours later. Right now, you look like you're about to collapse." He reached out, gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Don't lie to me. I know you're not fine."

"This idea is good, Satoru," you insisted. "It could actually work."

"I don't give a damn about theoretical breakthroughs right now," he said. "Stubborn, reckless idiot. I care about you. And right now, you're pushing yourself way past your limits."

"I don't need your concern, Satoru. Right now, I need your brain to help me with this."

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Oh, where did all that anger at me go?"

"Screw anger. I'm being a genius now."

"You're not a genius right now, more like a madman."

"That's what it takes," you muttered, the defiance fading as your voice softened. "This research...it's personal."

He studied you closely, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I get that. But you can't save anyone if you fall apart in the process."

"I won't fall apart."

"Yes, you will. I've known you long enough to know that."

Part of you longed to surrender, to let him take the weight you carried, even for a moment. But pride, a fierce, protective instinct, urged you to resist. You couldn't afford to rely on him, not anymore. You had to fight your own battles, win or lose.

"Let us help. Just a little. Share the burden."

"I'm—"

"Don't," he cut you off. "Don't say you're fine. Not when I can feel you trembling."

"I'm... okay," you said instead.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and painfully perceptive.

His breath brushed against your lips, making your knees weak in an instant.

The world narrowed to the mesmerizing blue of his eyes. He leaned in, your bodies mere inches apart. His hands snaked around your waist, pulling you against him. Each inhale brought the subtle scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him.

"Satoru, what are you—"

He smirked. "Just testing out a hypothesis."

His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. You leaned into him, unable to resist his pull, cursing your treacherous body in the very same second.

"What hypothesis?"

He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours before tracing a searing path down the side of your throat. A soft moan escaped your lips as his tongue flicked out, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"Ah," he whispered against your skin, "that would be telling."

Before you could react, his hands slipped beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck. He carried you effortlessly toward the lone chair before his desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Research," he declared, a playful lilt to his voice.

He lowered himself into the chair, his hands never leaving your body, guiding you onto his lap as if you belonged there. His warmth enveloped you.

"Time to delve into your reckless methods, wouldn't you agree?"

Your legs were lifted, draped over his thighs as he pulled you closer. He reached for his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Satoru, I—"

"Shhh." His fingers grazed your cheek, then slipped into your hair, stroking the back of your head in a soothing rhythm. "Just rest for a moment. I'll handle this for now."

"But I—"

His grip tightened, a gentle but firm reminder that your protests were futile. "If you don't sleep now, I swear, I'll slip a sedative into your next coffee, love."

You grumbled something unintelligible, but the fight had drained from you. The exhaustion was too overwhelming, his warmth too tempting.

You surrendered to the moment, your body relaxing against his. As your eyelids fluttered closed, the world narrowed to the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his breath against your hair, and the undeniable truth that despite the chaos — you were exactly where you were meant to be.

But even as your eyelids grew heavy, your researcher's mind kept churning.

"EGFRvIII..." you mumbled, the words barely audible against his chest. "Heterogeneity...off-target effects..."

He chuckled, his chest vibrating against your cheek. "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Doctor. I might be a bit more experienced in this field than you, you know."

"But cytokine storm markers...cross-reactivity...you forget them often..."

"Bossy even in your sleep, huh?" His fingers continued to run through your hair as he spoke. "Don't worry that pretty little head. Just...sleep. I've got you."

And with that promise, he pulled you closer, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a deep, desperately needed slumber. The last thing your conscious mind recognized was a kiss placed on the top of your head.

─── ·✧· ───

Ten years.

Ten years since the sterile hospital room, the rhythmic beeps of the monitor dissolving into a horrifying silence.

Ten years since the brain tumor had devoured your father, the man you looked up to, the man you admired more than anyone.

Who would have thought that ten years later you'd be doing research on that very brain tumor again.

What a cruel joke.

Today, all you craved was to burrow yourself under the covers and let the world fade away. University, research, responsibilities — they all felt trivial, meaningless.

You were hungry, stomach growling.

You didn't want to eat.

Dragging yourself out of bed was a herculean effort. Even the simple act of brushing your teeth felt monumental, exhaustion seeping into your bones like a poison.

The familiar ache intensified. You missed him. Missed his booming laugh, his gentle teasing, the unwavering belief in his eyes that you could achieve anything.

He would have understood this desperate research, this burning need to find a cure — not just for others, but for a chance to rewrite the ending to your own story.

Maybe throwing yourself into this research was a desperate way for you to feel close to him again, maybe it was a futile attempt to get over it, end the suffering, end the what if's.

Coffee, black and bitter, was the only thing you could stomach. Just as you were about to take a sip, your phone buzzed.

[10:12 AM] Satoru: You with friends today?

You stared at the screen. Why would he ask that? But as quickly as the thought came, you dismissed it. No, not today. You really didn't need another emotional mess on this day.

You ignored the message.

With a sigh, you tossed the phone aside and buried yourself under the comforting weight of your blankets. You just wanted to sleep. Sleep and forget. Pretend for a moment that the world wasn't crumbling around you.

Afternoon passed in a haze of restless slumber and tearful awakenings.

Another buzz — a call this time.

Satoru.

Your finger hovered over the decline button. Why was he calling? Was there an emergency? Even if there was, you wouldn't be much help today anyway.

Ignoring the call, you shut your phone off completely. He can handle whatever is going on on his own. He's a grown man after all.

The silence returned, thick and heavy.

Curled up tight, you drifted into a restless sleep again.

You awoke with a start, disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. You blinked against the dim light, the rhythmic thumping at the door a harsh intrusion. Ignoring it, you burrowed deeper under the covers.

Maybe, just maybe, whoever it was would go away and leave you alone. But the knocking persisted. With a frustrated groan, you dragged yourself out of bed. Throwing the door open, you were met with the last person you expected to see.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His white dress shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up. Dark navy tie around his neck. His brows were furrowed, the usual playful smirk replaced by a worried expression.

"You weren't answering your phone."

"And?"

"I'm concerned about you."

"No need."

You reached for the doorknob to shut the door. But his hand shot out, stopping the door. His gaze locked with yours, those impossibly blue eyes piercing into you.

"You didn't tell anyone, did you?" he asked softly.

"Tell anyone what?"

"That today...it's the day of your father's death."

You felt an icy grip tighten around your heart. How did he know? You hadn't told anyone, not wanting the pitying looks or empty platitudes, least of all from him.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

His gaze held you captive, draining the fight from you. It wasn't anger, nor pity, but something like concern, and something more — something you told him not to look at you like that again.

You stepped aside and shuffled towards the kitchen to get yourself another cup of coffee. "How did you even know?" you asked, pouring yourself another cup.

"Google."

You turned, coffee sloshing in your mug. "Seriously? You Googled my father's death day?"

He didn't answer to that.

Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze unwavering. "Thought you'd be with friends today. Maki's fiercely protective, she wouldn't leave your side on a day like this. So when I saw her and the rest of the group on campus, I figured you hadn't told anyone."

"Yeah, because I wanted to be alone. Besides, shouldn't you be at university right now?"

"Called in sick once I realized you weren't with them."

"You really trying to get yourself fired, don't you?"

He closed the distance between you, the small kitchen suddenly feeling crowded with his presence. His eyes swept across your face, taking in the exhaustion etched around your eyes, the weariness in your posture.

"Have you eaten anything today besides coffee?"

"How much hydromorphone have you taken today?"

"Don't distract from the subject."

You crossed your arms. "I just changed the subject."

He ran a hand through his unruly white hair. "Alright, stubborn one. Let's get you some real food."

"I don't need you to babysit me, Satoru."

"Yeah, I know you don't. But you can't stop me, can you? So, move it." He gestured towards the door, his gaze unwavering. "Or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you out myself."

The threat, delivered with a hint of a smirk, was not entirely a joke. You knew him well enough to know that. He was dead serious, and you were too exhausted to fight him, to resist the gentle command in his voice.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of you didn't want to fight him, was thankful for his support.

"Fine," you grumbled. "But I'm paying."

"We'll see about that, first-year."

─── ·✧· ───

You didn't pay for it.

He'd already taken care of the bill before you could even reach for your wallet.

Silence fell between you as you navigated the bustling streets in his car, your stomach full. He smoothly merged from the parking lot onto the main road.

You were halfway through your energy drink, the sugary sweetness suddenly feeling heavy in your stomach. "Wait... where are we going?"

Glancing out the window, you saw a road sign indicating the highway. It pointed towards the direction of your hometown, a place you hadn't set foot in for nearly a year. Your stomach suddenly turned.

"You..." you stammered. "Why?"

His eyes briefly met yours, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. "Don't you want to visit him?"

His words hung in the air, a simple question — should have been a simple question.

But a wave of nausea roiled in your stomach. Guilt for neglecting the place that held so many memories, fear of confronting the raw grief that still lingered, a deep-seated yearning to reconnect with a past you'd desperately tried to outrun.

"I don't know." You slumped back in the seat. "I don't think I can."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, his hand found yours, fingers interlacing with your own. "I'm here with you. Every step of the way."

You hated him.

Hated that he wouldn't force you, wouldn't pressure you. Hated that he would simply be there, as he always seemed to be. Even when you didn't ask, even when you didn't want him to.

You wanted to curse him for his audacity, for somehow knowing what you needed now, for understanding you better than you understood yourself. But a part of you was grateful.

The truth was, you didn't have the strength to face this alone. And deep down, you knew this visit was long overdue.

Your fingers fumbled with the edge of your sleeve. "You planned this all along, didn't you?" You glanced over at him.

His lips curved into a slight smile. "Get some rest," he replied, eyes returning to the road. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

The highway stretched before you, an endless ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the horizon. You leaned back, exhaustion pulling you under. The warmth of his hand lingered, a comforting weight on your thigh.

Lately, it seemed, you could find peaceful sleep only in his presence.

─── ·✧· ───

Hours dissolved into miles, the familiar cityscape giving way to rolling hills and quaint towns. The pain in your chest was still there, but with Satoru by your side, it was lighter, less heavy, less suffocating.

But as the car pulled into the all-too-familiar cemetery parking lot, the dread you'd been suppressing clawed its way back. Satoru cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening, broken only by the mournful creak of the windshield wipers against the lingering drizzle.

Satoru got out of the car and rounded it to opened the door for you, his hand lingering on the window frame. You got out of the car only to find yourself trapped, his body not moving an inch.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." You ducked beneath his arm, breaking the hold of his gaze, and stepped onto the rain-softened ground.

The desolate expanse of the graveyard stretched before you, a sea of gray and brown punctuated by the stark white headstones that stood like silent sentinels. Without a word, you walked the familiar path, each step a heavy weight dragging you down.

The wind howled. It whipped through the trees, skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Each gust of icy air tore at your hair, biting at your exposed skin until you finally stood before his grave.

Satoru remained a few paces back.

You hadn't been here since the funeral, avoided it at all costs. And now you were here, standing in front of his grave. Somehow, you didn't even remember the reason you avoided this for so long.

Maybe seeing his grave made it all too real, too painful.

But now you were here.

And it became real, and it was painful.

"You want me to leave you alone?" Satoru asked.

"No." With a silent plea, you reached out your hand. "Please, stay with me."

His response was immediate. In a few quick strides, he closed the distance between you, his hand enveloping yours in a warmth that chased away some of the icy dread. "Where else would I go?" he mused, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You swallowed back a sob, unable to form words.

Time lost all meaning as you stood there, hand in hand, the world narrowing to the headstone before you. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the sun sinking lower, painting the graveyard in fiery hues of orange and red.

But the silence became unbearable.

Memories flooded you, each one a bittersweet wound, a yearning for the past that wouldn't be silenced. You couldn't stand still anymore. Your fingers tightened around Satoru's.

"I asked my father to read me his neurology books as a child," you finally spoke, your voice a fragile whisper. "While other kids were reading about princesses and fairy tales, I wanted to understand what my father did, wanted to understand his work."

You took a shaky breath. "He loved this. Surgeries, research, saving lives... it was his whole being, and somehow, it became mine too. I remember knowing how to clip an aneurysm before I could do the Pythagoras theorem."

"When I was old enough, he took me to the hospital. Showed me everything. I was probably there more than I was at school." Your voice trembled, the dam threatening to break. "I loved it. I loved it so much."

"Sounds like he was a great man," Satoru offered quietly.

"They tried everything," you continued. "Chemo, radiation... poison, burning him from the inside out. But the tumor was too aggressive, too progressed." Your voice trembled, your fingers turning to ice in his grasp. "Surgery was his last option."

Satoru moved closer, his grip tightening.

"We didn't want him to, we wanted him to try radiation a little longer, stay with us a little longer," you confessed, the words spilling out in a rush. "But he chose surgery anyway, went into surgery without telling us."

Suddenly the memories came back, how weak and fragile your father already was from all the procedures. How the doctors still suggested surgery. It was risky. It was stupid. But your father still wanted it. Even after you begged him not to do it.

But what could you do?

You were a high school student at the time.

Young and dumb.

You know now, that it was his only chance. You understand now, why he wanted to try anyway, even though he knew the risks.

"He didn't make it," you finally choked out, tears welling up in your eyes. "He died on the table. Alone. I never even got to say goodbye."

Suddenly, Satoru's arms enveloped you, strong and warm against the chilling evening air. He pulled you close, one hand on your back, the other pressing your head against his chest.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm here, and I'll always be here."

You bit your lip. You wouldn't cry. Wouldn't let the grief consume you. Not here, not now. But Satoru's arms tightened around your trembling form as your tears nevertheless dampened his shirt.

You didn't know how long you remained like this, but his grip on you never faltered for a second, he didn't back away for a second. Even as twilight descended, casting long shadows across the headstones.

He held you until your tears dried, he held you until your tight grip on his shirt eased, until your heart felt less like a stone in your chest.

"We should probably find a place to stay," Satoru finally spoke, his voice gentle, hesitant. "It's getting late, we can drive home tomorrow—"

You pulled away, just enough to meet his gaze. Your voice was surprisingly steady despite the tear-streaked tracks on your face. "I know where we can stay."

─── ·✧· ───

"She's a little...different," you warned Satoru after ringing the doorbell.

The porch creaked beneath your weight. Your eyes swept across the worn wooden planks, the once vibrant yellow paint on the siding faded to a sickly pallor, the rusty mailbox overflowing with unopened letters. Rose bushes wild and overgrown.

You averted your gaze, a lump forming in your throat.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've mentioned that. Like, a hundred times."

"Just so you're prepared."

"I'm a doctor, remember? Crazy doesn't faze me."

"Just wait," you muttered, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. "And, uh, whatever you do, don't mention my father."

His eyes widened slightly, the playful smile disappearing. But before he could respond, the front door flew open. Your mother appeared in the doorway. Surprise, then unadulterated joy, flashed across her face as her gaze fell upon you.

"Oh my baby girl!" she exclaimed, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. "You've grown so tall! My, how long has it been? All the way from Tokyo? Are you alright? Why didn't you call?"

Her questions tumbled out in a torrent, the words tripping over each other as she finally noticed the tall, white-haired man standing behind you. "And who is this?"

"Mom," you managed, your voice muffled against her shoulder. "It's good to see you too..." You gently extricated yourself from her embrace. "This is Satoru...he's a...," you turned around to glanced at him, "friend."

Satoru raised an eyebrow at the label.

Your mother's eyes raked over him. He, in turn, flashed her a smile so bright, so disarming, it almost made your skin crawl. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Wow, he really could play the perfect son-in-law when he wanted to.

You suppressed a sigh, knowing your mother was already half-smitten. Before she could unleash another barrage of questions, you quickly interjected, "We're just passing through, and need a place to stay the night."

"Of course, of course!" Your mother's enthusiasm returned in a flurry. "Come in, come in! You must be starving. I'll whip up some tea, and there's apple pie..." She chattered on, ushering you both into the familiar warmth of your childhood home.

─── ·✧· ───

Before you could blink, your mother had you both in colorful floral aprons, protest was futile. Satoru's awkwardly tied over his shirt, the apron way too tight for him. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, the crisp white fabric bunching around his elbows.

The awful smell of lavender, tinged with something sweet, hung in the air.

How you hated that smell.

Your mother bustled around the kitchen, flinging open cupboards, clattering utensils, and assigning tasks. You found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru at the counter, a mountain of carrots and a too-small cutting board the only barrier between you.

You glanced at him and mouthed a silent 'sorry'.

Satoru leaned in, a wry grin playing on his lips. "Think I finally figured out where you got your stubborn streak."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Before he could answer, your mother stood between you, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand like a weapon. "So, Satoru, tell me, where did you meet my lovely daughter?"

The question nearly made you drop the knife.

"We met in the operating room," he began, while cutting carrots. "I was performing a quite complicated operation and was a bit stuck, and your daughter over here helped me out."

"Oh, you're a surgeon?"

"Neurosurgeon, yes," Satoru replied. "But apparently, I'm not as clever as your daughter. She's got quite the mind on her."

Your mother let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing in the cramped kitchen. "That's my girl," she exclaimed, patting your arm with a flour-covered hand. "Always the smartest one in the room."

Then, she reached out to pinch your cheek. "Mom!" You swatted her hand away. "Stop it!"

"She's astoundingly intelligent," Satoru added, his eyes flickering to you with an admiration that lingered a beat too long. You rubbed your cheek, a blush warming your face. "Couldn't ask for a better research partner."

You shot him a warning glance, and he finally tore his eyes away, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

"You work together?" your mother asked, her curiosity piqued as she turned around to tasted something from the simmering pot.

"We're involved in the same research project—" Satoru began, but you cut him off.

"It's nothing special," you interrupted, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. "Just some boring data analysis. Nothing exciting."

Satoru glanced at you. You shook your head subtly, hoping he'd catch the unspoken plea.

The rest of the meal preparation was a blur of nervous glances and sharp elbow jabs.

Your mother asked more and more personal questions, making you want to crawl under the table and disappear. You dodged, deflected, and offered vague answers. Satoru, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem to reveal every fucking inappropriate detail of your shared past.

You could practically feel the bruises forming on his shins. By the time the food was ready, you were ready to throttle him.

He must absolutely hate you, you thought, shooting him a death glare as you sat down at the table. But even your anger couldn't fully mask the warmth that spread through you at the sight of his charming smile, the way he seemed to effortlessly charm your mother with his stories.

You'd hoped the interrogation was over, but as soon as the first bite was taken, your mother launched into a fresh round of inquiries.

"Made some good friends in Tokyo, have you?"

"Yeah," you mumbled around a mouthful of casserole. "They're great. Don't worry."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Your mother clasped her hands together. "You were always a bit of a loner, you know. I was so worried you'd be all by yourself in that big city."

The backhanded compliment made you roll your eyes. Some things never change.

Before you could reply, she continued, "But you've even found yourself a boyfriend! That's wonderful!"

You choked on your food. "Mom, no, that's not..." you coughed, fighting for composure, "He's just a friend."

"Ouch," Satoru muttered under his breath, a smirk playing on his lips as he took another bite.

You shot him a glare, the unspoken 'shut up' hanging heavy in the air.

"So, you two are working on that neuroprosthetics project together, then?" your mother continued.

You were mid-bite, unable to answer before Satoru piped up, "We were. But we're working on something else now."

"Oh? What happened to the neuroprosthetics?"

You swallowed, forcing the words out. "It was...shelved. For now."

"Why?"

Damn it. Her relentless questioning was grating against your already frayed nerves. You avoided her look, tracing the worn pattern of the tablecloth with your fingers.

"Some complications," you lied. "We're waiting on funding."

You couldn't really tell her the truth after all, could you?

"So, what are you working on now, then?" Your mother wouldn't let it go, her voice a relentless drill boring into your skull.

"It's nothing, really. Boring stuff," you dismissed it, desperate to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters.

"Ah, but I want to know!"

"It's...medical research."

"That's what I thought! But what kind? It must be important if you're working with a seasoned surgeon." She beamed at him. "Tell me, I'm dying to know!"

Your gaze flickered to Satoru, a silent plea for him to remain quiet. He simply watched the exchange with a carefully neutral expression, probably unsure of what's going on.

The knot in your stomach tightened. You knew she wouldn't let it go. "It's... brain tumor research," you finally admitted.

The kitchen fell silent.

Your mother's forced smile vanished, a mask you knew all too well finally fell. Her eyes hardened into shards of ice.

"So," she finally hissed. "It's back to that foolish research, is it?"

It hurt — after all this time it still hurt so awfully.

"It's not foolish," you retorted, your own anger flaring in response. "It's important. It could save lives."

But your words fell on deaf ears. She slammed her hands on the table, the force of it rattling the plates. Her face twisted with a grief-stricken rage as she rose, towering over you. "Why? Why are you so obsessed with this?"

The words pierced you like a thousand tiny needles. It was the unspoken accusation that had haunted you since his death — that your relentless pursuit was somehow an act of betrayal, a denial of his death.

But she was worse.

"Because he's dead, Mom!" you screamed. "He's gone! And he's never coming back!"

The words hung heavy in the air, a brutal reality she desperately tried to outrun. Your mother's face crumpled, the carefully constructed mask of normalcy finally shattering. Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against the worn tabletop.

"Dead?" she whispered. "You know that's not true. He's...he's just...away. You're lying. You're a liar!"

The accusation, so childlike in its desperation, was a punch to the gut. You wanted to scream, to shake her out of this self-imposed delusion. But the words died in your throat.

What was the point?

It was useless. She hadn't changed a bit.

This was the same wall of denial you'd run up against so many times before, a fortress built to keep the pain at bay. But you were done banging your head against it.

"I'm going to bed," you choked out, the words barely audible. You turned and fled, each step a retreat from the battlefield you had lost long ago.

The familiar smell of her cooking, now made you want to throw up.

─── ·✧· ───

Each step creaked as you climbed the familiar stairs, the once vibrant floral carpet now muted and worn beneath your feet.

Nothing had changed.

Your childhood bedroom, untouched since you'd left. Your mother hadn't changed a thing. Same striped bedspread. Dusty neurology textbooks still lined the shelves. Moonlight filtered through the threadbare curtains, casting elongated shadows across the walls.

It was all achingly familiar, yet utterly foreign.

You collapsed onto the bed and starred up at the cracks in the aging ceiling. That goddamn lavender smell all around you. Your mother seemed to have sprayed the air freshener everywhere — some habit she had developed after your father's death.

She wanted the house to smell good for his return.

Your head began to throb.

Then, a soft knock at the door. "Can I come in?" Satoru's voice broke the silence.

You mumbled a weak assent. He entered, closing the door softly behind him.

"Could you calm her down a little?"

"I did my best," he said. "She's sleeping now."

"I told you she's different."

He walked over to you. "She's in denial, probably a prolonged grief disorder. Is she in therapy?"

"She won't go." You rolled onto your side, your back to him. "I've tried."

Wordlessly, Satoru slipped onto the bed beside you, his warmth enveloping you as he nestled against your back. His arms encircled you, pulling you close until your back was pressed against his chest. His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands.

You didn't resist.

You knew you were crossing lines again, lines that should remain clear. But in that moment, the exhaustion, the heartache, the years of repressed grief — it all became too much.

You just wanted to be near him, damn the consequences.

So you surrendered, your body relaxing against his. You could feel his breathing, the steady beat of his heart against your shoulder. Slowly, the tension eased from your shoulders, replaced by a weariness you could no longer fight.

"My mother lost it after his death," you whispered. "She shut down completely. Wouldn't leave the house, wouldn't eat... wouldn't even speak. I had to take care of everything, the house, the bills, keep her from falling apart. It got better, eventually. But those first few months were a living nightmare."

"I know she lost her husband." Your voice caught in your throat. "But I lost my father. I was grieving too."

Satoru listened, his fingers gently stroking your hair as you continued.

"I couldn't take it anymore. It was hell." You swallowed against the burn of tears. "I was so relieved when Suguru offered me a way out, a chance to transfer to Tokyo, to leave it all behind, move far away, away from here. I never looked back, never came back. I left her alone. I couldn't anymore. I hate this place."

It was humiliating — a shameful admission of weakness you'd never dared to voice aloud. But now it escaped your lips, you simply couldn't hold it in any longer.

You never wanted him to see this side of you, the weak, helpless girl who'd run from her responsibilities, the broken girl you tried to bury beneath layers of ambition and scientific accomplishment.

"Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

Satoru's hand stilled in your hair. "No," he whispered. "You were a child, forced to grow up too fast, forced to take on too much responsibility. Walking away from that doesn't make you a bad person, it makes you human."

"But why does it feel so wrong? I should have been there, I should have—"

"Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to walk away from the things that hurt us," he interrupted gently. "You were protecting yourself. That doesn't make you bad, it makes you brave."

"I'm not so sure."

He pulled you closer, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Nothing you do, nothing you could ever do, would make me think less of you," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "No matter what you've done, I'll always love you. You can't scare me."

How could he say that now?

How could he offer this unwavering love while dismissing your own?

Did he think you were so weak, so easily scared by his mess?

How could he not believe you, when you'd sworn the very same words to him?

It was a painful irony, a hypocrisy that made your stomach churn. He was so convinced you would abandon him, so afraid of your judgment, but couldn't he see?

You wouldn't leave him. You couldn't.

He didn't need to be perfect. He didn't need to be whole. He just needed to be himself. You loved him, flaws and all, and you were willing to fight for him, even if it meant fighting against your own better judgment.

The unfairness of it all made you want to scream. But all you could do was remain close to him, the warmth of his body a painful reminder of the love that could have been, the trust that had been shattered.

"I hate you," you whispered. "I hate how easy this is for you, how you can be so damn controlled even when you're high. It should be harder for you, shouldn't be me that falls apart."

"I've been doing this a bit longer than you, love," he murmured against your hair.

"Doing what?"

"Life."

You scoffed.

"It used to be hard," he admitted. "But it got easier over time. Now, I guess I'm just...a better person on drugs than off them."

"You really think that?"

"You see the proof, don't you?"

"So, you won't ever stop, will you?"

The silence that followed was an answer in itself. You shifted in his embrace, the darkness making his features hard to read. Even so, you could sense the defensiveness in his posture, feel the faint tremor in his hands.

"I'm afraid, Satoru."

"Of what, love?"

"That you'll kill yourself with the pills, and that I'll have to watch, unable to do anything about it."

He shook his head. "That won't happen."

"Don't fool yourself, you're not stronger than your body."

In a swift motion, he shifted, hovering over you. His hands on both side of your head. The moonlight cast stark shadows across his face, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away.

"That won't happen," he repeated with an intensity that sent chills down your spine. "Because how could I ever leave you? You're the last thing I want to see before sleep, the person I crave to wake up beside, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with."

He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips. "How could I leave, when you're the one who showed me I could still feel? Who gave me something I'm terrified to lose?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were cruel — reminder of what you'd lost, of the future he'd carelessly shattered — cruel reminder of the love he had no right to claim. It left a bitter taste on your tongue.

"You ended this," you whispered. "You ended us."

"I know." He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as if the weight of his confession was too much to bear. "But I'm still yours. You still have all of me."

"That's not fair."

"I know." His hands found your waist, his touch searing through your thin shirt. "I know I'm being selfish. But I can't—fuck, I can't stay away from you."

"You're just scared to be alone."

"No." His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly close until you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own. "It's not that. It's—" He paused, struggling to find the words. "I swear, if I could, I'd melt you into my veins, let you run through my bloodline forever."

"Satoru, I—"

"No." His lips hovered inches from yours, his mouth slightly open, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Don't—don't say anything. Not yet."

He tilted your chin upwards, his gaze searing into yours. His brow furrowed, a tense line between those striking blue eyes.

"You're carved into me. Heart, soul, every damn part of me I can't even begin to understand." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "I'm tethered to you, and I don't know how to cut the cord."

His lips hovered, a hair's breadth away from yours. His gaze flickered to your lips as he leaned impossibly close.

You ached into him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. Weeks of forced distance, the pain of his choices, the impossible future — it all faded as you closed your eyes, surrendering to him — like you always surrendered to him.

But just as your lips were about to touch, something crossed your mind.

Tethered.

"Tethered!" You shoved him away with a sudden surge of adrenaline. Mind racing, you scrambled out of bed. You tore open drawers and rummaged through your childhood bedside table. "Where's a pen? marker?"

Satoru, momentarily stunned, watched with a furrowed brow. "What's going on?"

Then you found a marker. "No time to explain," you declared, already uncapping the marker. You walked towards the wall opposite the bed, a blank canvas of white paint. Satoru watched as you draw with the marker on the wall without a second thought.

With a flourish, you started sketching a series of diagrams, lines connecting and branching out, notes scrawled in messy handwriting beside them.

Finally, you stepped back, chest heaving. "Okay," you began, "with glioblastoma, the big problem is, how do we keep those CAR-T cells and antibodies glued to the tumor, right? How do we stop them from wandering off and screwing up the whole show?"

Satoru's eyes followed your every move, his brow still furrowed. "Yeah."

"We need a delivery system," you continued, the words tumbling out faster than you could write them. "Something that keeps those cells localized, focused on the tumor, like a...a guided missile." You stabbed the marker at the wall, emphasizing your point. "Otherwise, the treatment won't be effective. It'll just dissipate, a waste of time."

He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his chin. "Some kind of molecular anchor, maybe?"

"Not exactly. But you're on the right track. Think smaller. Nanoparticles."

Satoru raised a questioning eyebrow. "Nano-what now?"

You grinned. "Microscopic carriers, basically. Biocompatible ones, of course. Imagine we wrap those CAR-T cells and antibodies in these little packages, and engineer them to stick to the tumor like glue."

"So they stay put, right where they need to be?"

"Exactly." You nodded. "They deliver their payload directly to the tumor, then break down harmlessly. No more stray cells wreaking havoc on healthy tissue."

"But won't the body eventually get rid of them? Immune system, natural breakdown, that kind of thing?"

"Absolutely. That's why we use biodegradable polymers for the encapsulation. They'll dissolve over time, minimizing any long-term risks. But it's—," You paused, a flicker of doubt crossing your face. "We have to figure out the exact release rate—enough time to kill the tumor, but not so long that they cause other problems."

Satoru's gaze swept across the diagrams on the wall. Then, he pushed himself off the bed and walked towards you. You held your breath as he studied your handwriting.

"So?" you asked. "What do you think?"

"Stubborn, reckless, absolutely brilliant." His azure blue eyes met yours, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You stubborn, reckless, absolutely brilliant woman."

Before you could react, he swept you off your feet, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as he spun you around. "Satoru!" you protested, clutching your legs around his waist, laughter bubbling up.

He stopped abruptly, holding you aloft, your bodies mere inches apart. His hands warm against your hips, your fingers threaded through his hair. Your heart hammered in your chest. But as you stared into his impossibly blue eyes, you found yourself unable to look away.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, then back again. "Damn it, you drive me insane."

"We have a lot of work to do."

"We always do. But this—this is different. We're going to do this. We're going to make it work."

"Are we still talking about research?"

"Of course, love," he replied, leaning closer, his lips mere millimeters from yours.

Time seemed to slow, the space between you burned. You could feel the warmth of his breath, smell his intoxicating cologne. You wanted this, wanted him with a desperation that clawed at your very soul.

But just as your lips were about to touch, he pulled back, abruptly setting you on your feet, shattering the moment like glass.

"We should get some sleep," he said. "Long drive tomorrow."

You nodded, your throat suddenly tight.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't kissed you. Because deep down, you knew that if he had, you wouldn't have been able to stop.

"Yeah. We should sleep," you finally said. "You'll be sleeping on the floor, just so you know."

"Ha?"

"You think I'm letting you sleep in my bed after that?" You crossed your arms. "You can't be trusted, professor. There's a futon in the closet."

"You're kidding, right?"

─── ·✧· ───

You woke with a groan.

Rolling over, the familiar striped print of your childhood bedspread met your gaze. Sunlight filtered through the dusty curtains, casting the room in a hazy glow. Beside you, the futon was empty, the faint scent of Satoru the only evidence that he had been there at all.

Why hadn't he woken you?

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you reached up to touch your lips. The faint ghost of his kiss still lingered on your skin. A headache threatened to rise as you hastily dismissed the memory.

Not this again.

The house creaked and groaned as you made your way downstairs. Halfway down, you froze.

There, in the sun-drenched kitchen, stood Satoru. Leaning casually against the counter, his unruly white hair seemingly catching every ray of sunlight, he looked startlingly at home. Your mother stood beside him, a genuine smile on her face as they talked.

Seeing him here, in this familiar space, in this casual domestic setting with your mother, sent a strange feeling of warmth through you. Your lips twitched upwards as you caught a glimpse of your mother's laughter, a sound that had been far too rare in recent years.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, Satoru's gaze snapped to you, his eyes brightening.

"Well, there she is!" your mother exclaimed. "Satoru was just giving me an update on your research. Sounds like you're onto something really interesting!"

Your brow furrowed. What was she talking about? She couldn't be talking about the brain tumor project. She'd rather chew glass than willingly delve back into that nightmare.

You were rooted to the stairs, exhausted and confused.

Satoru crossed the distance between you, that familiar lazy grin playing on his lips. He held out a hand. "Ready?"

"Yes," you said and reached for it. His fingers closed around yours. "Let's go back."

─── ·✧· ───

Birdsong filled the crisp autumn air.

Morning light filtered through the gnarled branches, casting dappled shadows across the porch. The chipped paint on the railing, the faded welcome mat — you never pictured yourself missing this place, your hometown, your childhood home. It was too intertwined with loss, too full of ghosts, to really miss it.

Yet, today, saying goodbye was somehow hard.

"Thank you." You gave your mother a tight hug. Her embrace was warm, reassuring, but you felt her tremble slightly. "For everything."

"Come back and visit soon, okay? And call me when you're back in Tokyo. Promise?"

"I will," you lied.

Your mother squeezed you with surprising strength. Then, with a low voice she whispered, "I think...I'll try therapy."

Stunned, you pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Why now? After years of denial? Your gaze flickered past her to find Satoru leaning against the porch railing, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. Could he — Was he behind this?

Before you could form the question, your mother turned to him. "And you! You take good care of her, you hear?"

"I will, but I also wanted to ask you something." Satoru pushed off the railing and walked over. He took your mother's hand in his, the gesture strangely formal. Then, in a move that left you momentarily stunned, he bowed slightly and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

His blue eyes met hers as he asked, "May I have your permission...to marry your daughter?"

Haaaaa?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: hmmm friends, i can't with soft, desperate satoru. was literally melting while writing this. but i hope this chapter gives you all a little more hope for a happy ending, haha. i know some of you were doubting after the last one (which, btw, wasn't even the lowest point yet, just sayin'). but we'll get there, promise !! Just a whole lotta chaos and hurt to get through first.

also, please don't ask me about any of the medical stuff in this chapter. i have no idea what's going on, lol. loosely based it on this study (DOI: 10.1056/NEJMoa2314390), but seriously, i don't understand any of it. just ignore anything that doesn't make sense — it's all for the sake of the plot ahaha.

also was hesitant to share too much of yn's backstory since this is technically an x reader story, but you guys wanted to know more, so i went for it. i'm so glad i did !! i think it makes her character more well-rounded and shows her vulnerabilities.

and omg, satoru being supportive no matter what? trying to make things right? i'm a sucker for that. and of course, he had to meet his future mother-in-law sometime, right? hehe. but don't worry, we'll also dive into satoru's past and how it shaped him in future chapters.

one last thing note on suguru: this won't turn into a love triangle. reader's heart belongs to satoru, and while suguru's feelings will be there, it'll be more of an undercurrent than a major plot point. so, no worries there !!

and lastly, thank you so much for reading. your support means the world. seriously, you make this whole writing thing so much fun !! so thank you for being the most amazing readers a writer could ask for !! <3

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @starrynight-777 @vina21 @michelleeveline @boba-is-a-soup @cre8inghavoc @love-jelly @daimiyu @d0nk3y-k0ng @mo0nforme @smolbeanzzz @oneiricals @ynishalee @gojolvrr34 @nanasukii28 @ariiiii0938 @kelppsstuff @tojisdollx @drakenswifeyy @bakarinnie @vina21 @phoenix-eclipses @nanamis-baker @neptnszn @browrm @hfdkhjghjkghfj @marcillyan @roses-and-reeses @yungbloode (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future, this way it's easier for me to keep track!)

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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

Text

i just can’t… everytime i tell myself i won’t cry and there we go again 😤

the way y/n was so much hurt and she just threw up everything (THE SPIT ON HIS FACE PLS I BURST OUT LAUGHING) but he stills see in her his future wife

NICI I CAN’T

symptoms and causes | ch. 11

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ wc 13.5 k (enjoy your meal lol)

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hey loves!! thank you so much for your patience, i know it's been a while. buckle up, because we're taking another trip inside satoru's mind, so yeahhh. it's gonna be wild, oh and we're continuing right were we left off in the last chapter. this chapter is again in satoru's pov!! i've also updated the trigger warnings, so please take a look before reading (might be spoiling tho). and lastly, credit to the fanart in the cover, if you know the artist, pls let me know!! can't wait to hear what you all think & thanks for sticking with me!! ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

They say before you can love someone else, you have to love yourself first.

And there lies the damn problem.

I don't know how.

Never have.

Why am I thinking this now?

I knew this was right.

Right for her.

But then why does my heart feel like it's being ripped out by the fucking roots?

Suguru will take care of her. He always does. That's the only thing that keeps me from screaming, keeps me from chasing after her.

I trust him, damn it, but it shouldn't be him.

It should be me holding her. Me, who knows how she likes to be held when the panic claws its way up. Me, holding her until the world feels less sharp, less cruel.

Me, who knows that she doesn't want to talk about it. Me, who knows to give her space. She needs space. My strong girl needs space first.

I hope he gives her space.

But he wouldn't know any of this. He couldn't comfort her in the ways I instinctively knew how.

Me, who knows how to soothe the invisible wounds, the ones even she denies exist. Me, who knows the soft words she needs to hear after it passes.

It shouldn't be him.

Sorry.

It shouldn't have been him.

Past tense.

It all might be past tense now.

And the thought is more than I could bear.

Shattered.

Was that the word?

Was there even a word for what I felt in that moment?

How could I ever convey this suffocating agony that's tearing me apart with mere words?

Words are meaningless in the end.

Meaningless when they couldn't be spoken to her, couldn't reach her, couldn't make her understand, couldn't heal the wound I'd carved into her heart.

So, yeah, maybe shattered is the right word.

The wrong word.

The sterile air was acid in my lungs. Each ragged breath felt like sandpaper against my throat. I held my breath, a desperate plea for the world to stop spinning, for the clock to rewind, for a chance to undo everything.

But time doesn't care.

It marched on, relentless, while I stayed trapped in this hell, drowning in the mess I made.

My lungs burned. My vision blurred. I waited until she disappeared. The world seemed to tilt sideways, losing all color and shape, leaving only the sharp, agonizing realization that I'd made her walk away.

I didn't want to breathe anymore.

Not in a world where every breath ached without her.

"Dr. Gojo?" A voice, distant, muffled.

Irrelevant.

My gaze flickered to Sukuna. He watched, a predator savoring the kill.

His twisted smile fueled rage within me. But there would be no fighting this. No grand defense. Not when her life was the bargaining chip.

So, I lied.

Each word a nail in the coffin of the connection I craved more than life itself.

Each word a drop of poison forced down my throat. A self-inflicted wound, a desperate mutilation of the only thing that had ever felt real.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes I loved so fiercely, wide with confusion and horror. The strangled gasp, the way her body went limp in Geto's arms — a haunting image that would forever be etched on my heart.

Muscles screamed, a silent protest against my own pathetic stillness. But I remained frozen.

This was my punishment.

I had to watch her leave, had to sear the pain into my very being, an endless penance for the choices I'd made.

The door clicked shut behind them.

That simple sound, final, absolute.

My lungs filled with air, a betrayal. Oxygen I didn't deserve, didn't want.

My own body, this treacherous thing kept going, kept me alive against my will, kept me tethered to this cruel reality.

The room swam back into focus, the judges' accusing faces nothing but a blurry backdrop. The sounds of their inquest washed over me like meaningless noise.

"Dr. Gojo? Can we continue?"

I nodded.

They pressed on. More questions about the research, her involvement, their accusations of favoritism.

How stupid.

Of course, I favored her.

How could I not?

She is everything.

Oh, sorry. Forgot. Past tense.

She was everything.

Did I regret it?

Did I wish I could go back and treat her with the same damn indifference I afforded everyone else?

Yeah, maybe.

A familiar craving stirred my senses, the desperate need for the numbing escape that would mean failing her even more. My fingers clawed at my forearm, trying to replace the hollowness with physical pain. It wasn't enough.

My responses were rote, mechanical.

Yeah, I favored her.

Yeah, I let her into the OR because of it.

Yeah, and she outshone every damn surgeon twice her age.

No, she didn't know I'd set it up.

No, she never asked for special treatment. She just worked until her eyes were bloodshot, pushing harder than anyone else.

And hell no, she didn't do a single thing wrong.

Except maybe — maybe loving me.

After what felt like an eternity, the judges seemed satisfied, or perhaps just exhausted by my robotic replies.

They painted me the arrogant professor with a weakness for a young student, who abused his power, who played favorites.

Whatever they wanted to believe, fine.

Didn't even have the energy to care anymore.

Let them drag my name through the mud, tarnish the reputation I'd worked so hard to build.

Because the title, the position, the facade of success meant nothing when all I wanted was to rewind time, to undo the damage I'd done to the one person who truly mattered.

I didn't feel anymore.

I was done.

─── ·✧· ───

I burst out of the courtroom.

I needed escape, not just from this sterile prison of a room, but from my own traitorous flesh.

That itch.

It was a wildfire beneath my skin, a thousand insects gnawing their way to the surface. My fingers twitched, claws desperate to tear, to bleed out the poison of this relentless craving.

My legs moved without conscious thought, pushing me towards my office. Somewhere. Anywhere I would be able to breathe again. The guilt was a serrated blade twisting in my gut, each movement slicing me open anew.

Her terror-stricken eyes seared into my very soul.

The walls of my office closed in, the familiar space suddenly too small, too suffocating.

My fist slammed into the desk. Papers scattered to the floor, a meaningless sea of white against the dark wood.

They didn't matter. None of it mattered.

A half-finished coffee mug followed. Porcelain shattered. Dark liquid splashed against the wall.

My blood roared in my ears.

Across the room, my framed diploma. I ripped it off the wall. Glass smashed. Sharp edges bit into my palm, drawing blood. But it wasn't enough. I hurled the frame against the wall.

Blood, hot and slick, coated my hands, the pain nothing.

In the shattered frame, I caught a glimpse of myself — wild eyes in a sweat-slicked face, a man on the verge of collapse.

It was a stranger.

I was across the room before I even registered the decision.

The drawer.

My fingers ripped it open.

There, like a coiled viper, the amber vial gleamed, a venomous promise of oblivion.

Don't —

Don't come at me now.

Did you really think I wouldn't keep a backup?

My hand reached, then hesitated.

The world lurched to a sharp halt as a knock pierced the chaos. My breath hitched, the vial a burning brand in my bloodied hand.

The door creaked open.

And there he was. Sukuna.

He leaned against the doorframe, that sickening smirk plastered on his face. It was like a lit fuse to a powder keg. The rage that had been gnawing at my insides, tearing me apart, finally found its target.

Before a single rational thought could form, I was on him. Fist to jaw, heard the crack, felt it in my knuckles. He stumbled back, the smirk finally wiping off his face.

I pinned him against the door. Forearm across his throat, crushing his windpipe. His eyes widened, but even then, there was that damn flicker of amusement.

"Well, well," he choked out, "this is a nice welcome back."

"Funny to you?"

He coughed, a harsh laugh scraping out of him. "C'mon, Satoru, relax. I did you a favor," he sputtered. "Your precious little student, she's better off now. You know I'm right."

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He was right.

In his twisted way, he was.

And that's what made it all so much worse.

My grip on his throat tightened. But there was nothing, no satisfactio, no release in the violence.

Sukuna saw it, the hesitation. His mouth twisted into a smirk again. "See, you get it. Sweet thing doesn't belong in this mess, does she? It's not for her, Satoru. It's for us."

His words scraped like nails on a chalkboard.

Yes, she was safer now, untouched by the rot that festered within me. Some desperate, logical part of me clung to that. But how could I hold on to that when my heart was screaming for her closeness?

"Or maybe," Sukuna drawled, pushing the knife deeper, "maybe you wanted to see where this goes. Stain her a bit, make her just a little bit more like you."

My breath hitched. For a split second, the floor vanished beneath me.

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

"Shut the hell up!" I couldn't face it, couldn't face the ugly truth as it would tear me apart. "You twist everything. Play with lives just for your own sick amusement."

This was his game.

Sukuna thrived on chaos, on exploiting pain.

He knew my guilt, my fear for her, and wielded it like a scalpel, laying bare the raw nerve of my fragile sanity.

"Perhaps. But ain't I right? You needed to end it, but you lack the guts for it. Waited a bit longer, it'd be a total disaster."

I hesitated, then my grip on him slackened. I stepped back.

"You know I'm right," Sukuna continued. "You know how this would have ended. Suspension. Scandal. She'll be doomed forever for getting involved with her professor for favors. You wouldn't destroy her like that, would you? You're not that cruel."

"I'm not so sure." I ran a hand through my hair. It had taken everything in me to push her away.

But I can't deny that an ugly part of me wanted to keep her close. Drag her down with me.

See her drown.

"Damn, you hit hard," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Go beat up some students again, not me."

"Stop giving me reasons to punch you." Exhausted, I slumped into my desk chair, burying my face in my hands. My head pounded, the infuriating itch worsening with each damn moment. "Was this your plan all along?"

"What?" he scoffed.

I lifted a single eyebrow at him.

"You think that low of me? Honestly, Toru, a bit of credit, please. It was your pathetic indecision that made this entertaining. You basically gift-wrapped this mess and handed it to me."

"Besides," he continued, "let's be honest, you were holding her back. Now maybe she'll have a chance to become someone who might surpass you one day. You wouldn't deny her that, would you? No thanks needed."

He was right, and I hated that more than anything.

Sukuna sank into the chair across from me, a picture of smug satisfaction despite the visible bruise. "Damn, that punch still stings."

I opened my desk drawer and wordlessly tossed him the bottle of opioids. His eyes widened in surprise, before he gave the bottle a knowing shake. "Still on the hydromorphone?"

I didn't answer. The sound alone threatened to shatter what fragile control I had left. The itch was unbearable, each nerve ending screaming for relief.

Sukuna observed me, a predator watching its prey struggle. "Withdrawal never suited you," he said, popping a pill. "You always get so—" he paused, savoring the word, "—tense."

"Yeah, real supportive of you."

"Actually, I'm being incredibly supportive. I'm leaving for a little research trip overseas—four months. Ethics committee can't meet without me, so—" He leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Gives you time to get your shit together. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Shut the hell up."

"C'mon, I put in a good word for you too. No suspension for now. You can keep teaching, just no surgeries. Yaga really hates my guts, doesn't he? But hey, at least you're not totally screwed."

"You expect a thank you?"

"Relax, Toru, the show's over," he said. "Trust me, they don't want a scandal, let alone lose their star surgeon. When I get back, a slap on the wrist, maybe a semester's suspension, then you're back to the boring old grind."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Last I checked, you were the one pushing for a scandal."

He rolled his eyes. "Someone had to do it. Knew you'd drag this out forever, playing the tragic hero. Needed a villain to get things moving." He gave a mocking bow. "At your service, my friend."

"Also," he continued, leaning forward in his chair, "the focus is off you now. The committee's sniffing around those implant engineers. Funny, isn't it?"

Sukuna paused, savoring the moment. "Honestly, never thought there was anything wrong with your surgeries. You wouldn't make that kind of mistake. Tech malfunction more likely."

Of course.

The bastard never doubted the damn research. It had all been a game to him — my career, my sanity, her — just pieces on his chessboard.

It should've made me furious, lash out, pound his face in again — but all I felt was a bone-deep exhaustion, a weariness that seeped into my very soul. I was too tired, too hollowed-out to do anything but swallow the bitter truth.

"That supposed to make me feel better?"

"A little," he said, tossing the opioid bottle back. "This, though? That'll do the trick even better."

I caught it, my fingers clenching around the plastic.

He rose, stretching with a theatrical sigh. "Well, time to go. Remember, you owe me big time. You should take one," he gestured towards the pills, "you look like shit."

My grip on the bottle tightened. I looked up at him. "When all of this is done, I never want to see your damn face again."

He laughed. "We both know that's a lie. You and me? We need each other."

"The only thing you need is some damn therapy."

"Ah, Toru," he dismissed me with a smirk, "you'll come crawling back soon enough. We both know how this works."

With that, he was gone. I was left alone in the echoing silence, the pill bottle a burning weight in my hand. The world seemed to sway around me, my eyelids growing heavy.

The will to fight simply wasn't there anymore.

─── ·✧· ───

Cruel.

Cruel how one little pill can undo everything.

Cruel how one little pill can silence everything.

Cruel how one damn pill can soften the world, make it — bearable, almost.

Unfair.

It's truly unfair.

The screaming under my skin, that relentless itch — it's still there, but it had dulled to a faint hum, pushed back by the familiar numbness.

Finally.

Oh, finally some fucking silence.

I let out a shaky breath. It wasn't peace, not really. I knew that all too well. Borrowed time, each second ticking closer to the inevitable crash, the return of that relentless screaming in my head.

But for now, it'll have to be enough.

I collapsed on the couch, smoke curling lazily before my eyes.

I knew I shouldn't mix opioids with cannabis. That's something they teach you within the first year of university. What I used to teach students within the first year of university.

What a hypocrite I am really.

Another drag — harsh, burning down my throat.

The urge to close my eyes, to sink into oblivion, was almost overwhelming. But sleep wouldn't bring respite. Only nightmares. I knew that only too well.

So, I lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

It really came down to me failing again, huh?

What was it now?

Attempt number five?

Six?

I started losing count.

Maybe this was my fate.

A broken record, stuck on the same damn track.

Deep down, under the chemical haze, guilt gnawed at me. It was a dull ache now, no longer the searing pain of earlier, but a constant, insidious reminder.

She were out there, her life forever marked by my choices, while I was — here. Hiding in a haze of pills and smoke.

God, I hoped Suguru was looking after her. Making sure she ate, making sure she was safe — that she didn't hate me too much.

I brought the joint to my lips again, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling. It left an acrid taste in my mouth.

I watched my hand for a second.

Bloodied earlier, the wounds had scabbed over, the blood dried. It was perfectly still now, the trembling smoothed out by the chemicals in my blood.

I clenched it into a fist, then unclenched, watching the movement like it belonged to someone else.

Traitor.

This body was a traitor — betrayed myself, betrayed her, betrayed everything I held dear.

Weak.

Broken.

A pathetic mess.

Was that it?

Living as a slave to these chemicals to patch up my crumbling sanity one day at a time?

Chained to pills, each dawn a ticking clock until the next dose, until I could silence the screaming for a few damn hours?

My eyes locked onto the half-empty vial on the table.

Took too many, didn't I?

I knew that, even through the haze. But a cold certainty twisted in my gut. There'd be more. Always more. Until there was nothing left.

Before I could think, I threw another down my throat. Bad idea, probably, after a few clean days.

Suddenly, the haze warped, twisting into nausea. Bile rose in my throat.

I lurched to my feet, the world tilting precariously with each step. Surfaces rippled, the bathroom light stabbing into my skull.

I barely made it. My stomach heaved. Each retch wracked my body, leaving me gasping, weak.

Too many.

Way too many.

How the hell did I forget? Forget my body's limits? Somehow, I felt like some reckless student again, stumbling through experiments, blind to the consequences.

Stupid. So damn stupid.

Darkness swam at the edges of my vision. Another wave of nausea, and I was back, hunched over the toilet.

I hauled myself up, hands shaking, clinging to the sink. In the mirror, a stranger stared back. Eyes bloodshot, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

This wasn't me anymore.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the acid burn. Didn't help. Drops of water ran down my face, felt like they were melting the damn skin off.

My knees buckled. I slid down the wall, my head heavy against the tile wall.

The bathroom light, needles in my brain moments ago, seemed impossibly distant now. Each breath was a ragged gasp, each pulse a dull throb in my temples.

I waited for it to pass, the nausea, the haze. But as minutes crawled by, a new, searing pain gnawed at me.

My fingers trembled against my abdomen, pressing into the tender spot. Liver, of course.

Wrecked it, just like the rest of me. I'd known the risks, had ignored the warnings, and now my body was demanding payment.

How pathetic.

Darkness gnawed at the edges of my vision, pushing back against the stubborn spots of light. My head felt heavy, detached from my body. Arms and legs useless.

Each breath a battle I wasn't sure I'd win.

Time warped. Stretching, then snapping, leaving me floating in nausea and pain. Then I heard something — muffled, distant. Footsteps, getting closer.

My eyes struggled to make sense of the shifting shadows.

Then, a voice. Soft, achingly familiar. I couldn't make out the words, but the warmth of it—

I knew that voice — would always recognize it.

Cold water hit my skin. Hands, gentle, but firm, on my face. I strained to focus, to see her, to soak in the sight I needed, yet feared more than anything.

Oh, how desperately I needed to see her. Needed her to be real.

But my eyes betrayed me.

She must be so beautiful. She always was.

Then, a touch on my outstretched leg, a flash of metal — was that a scalpel?

Agony ripped through me, shattering the haze. I jerked back, my scream ragged against the tiles. My head slammed back with sickening force.

Before I knew it, a needle pierced my skin.

The room spun as whatever she'd injected battled the comfortable blur of the pills. Nausea churned in my stomach, the numbness receding with terrifying speed.

Groaning, I shifted on the floor.

My vision sharpened, my senses returning with brutal clarity.

The first thing I noticed was the metallic glint of the discarded syringe beside my leg.

Then the cut, a ragged gash through the fabric of my dress pants where she'd stabbed the needle in — the unnecessarily deep and brutal cut — but in the chaos, I let it slide. Didn't even register the pain as I watched the blood drain from the cut.

I reached for the syringe and read the label.

Adrenaline.

Smart girl.

But as I turned it over, a frown creased my brow. Two fucking milliliters? Was she trying to give me a damn heart attack?

I lifted my head, the question burning on my tongue. But the words died unspoken as my gaze locked on hers.

She stood there, just a few feet away, her breath ragged, her eyes — those pretty eyes.

Terror.

There was raw, unadulterated terror etched in her eyes. But I was right. She looked as beautiful as ever. Even with those terror-stricken eyes she was breathtaking.

She stumbled back, slumping against the wall opposite of me with a choked gasp, pulling her knees up. I didn't move, couldn't move, my gaze locked with hers.

The terror faded slowly, replaced by a weariness that was far worse.

For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of that familiar defiance, the spark I both loved and feared. But even that felt strangely muted now, as if even the energy to fight had been drained out of her.

She simply watched me. In silence, in that devastating silence.

How I hated her silence.

Because her silence was far worse than anything she could have screamed, any insult she could have hurled my way. Her stillness, her silence, was the most terrifying weapon she'd ever wielded against me.

And for the first time in a very long time, I was truly afraid.

Time stretched, then I choked out, "You're angry."

Her answer was blunt, devoid of emotion. "Oh really? What makes you think that?"

I glanced down. Blood still seeped from the gash in my leg. With a trembling hand, I fumbled for a towel and pressed it against the wound. "Your cut is kinda deep. Was that on purpose?"

She didn't say anything.

It probably was on purpose.

My gaze fell on the syringe. "Where'd you get that?"

"What happened to your hand?"

"I asked first."

"Don't try to play games now, Satoru. You're walking on thin fucking ice," she snapped.

"Shattered some glass," I said after a pause ", and punched Sukuna."

"Stole it from the hospital."

"What?"

"You think I'd date an addict and not have adrenaline on hand?"

My lips twitched into a weary smile. Oh my beautiful, brilliant girl, always prepared.

"But you know, two milliliters is a bit much." I moved my leg slightly to check if she had cut any tendons, which would complicate the healing a bit. "Or are you trying to kill me?"

Her gaze pierced me, colder than any scalpel. "Looks like you're doing a fine job of that yourself."

My smile faded.

Silence.

Oh, that cruel silence again.

She didn't say anything. Maybe I should be thankful for that, because if she said anything now, I'd probably crumble completely — if I haven't already.

Ironic, wasn't it?

How much power this woman had over me.

Yet it was me who destroyed her.

She dropped her head, ran a shaking hand through her hair, then looked at me again. "How much did you take?"

Huh?

Why would she ask that?

Didn't she see that it's over?

That I'm too far gone?

It was unbearable.

It was unbearable, how she could still look at me and see someone worth saving. It was unbearable, knowing she believed in me even when I didn't.

Almost pissed me off, how stubbornly she clung to that stupid hope. Because seeing that hope in her eyes — it made me hate myself even more.

I wouldn't change, couldn't. Not for her, not for anyone.

"Doesn't matter. It's over."

"Satoru, please," she choked out, pain raw in her voice, the pain I caused, "cut the crap and tell me. Now."

"It doesn't matter," I repeated, my voice cold. I couldn't bear the flicker of hope, couldn't bear to fail her yet again.

Then, the first tear rolled down her cheek and my heart shattered, the fragments piercing me from within.

I'd never wanted to be the reason those beautiful eyes filled with pain, the reason her sweet lips trembled. Every fiber of my being wanted to pull her close, erase the hurt I'd caused.

I would have given anything, sacrificed anything, if only I could make it stop.

But I couldn't.

Because I was the problem. I was the poison.

She buried her face in her hands. "I'm tired, Satoru."

"I know."

"I'm so fucking tired," she whispered through tears.

"I know, love."

My eyes burned as I watched her fragile body shudder. Each sob of her driving a stake deeper into my already bleeding heart. I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

I hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself because — because I was the reason for all of this.

She'd never wanted this, never wanted to fall in love with me to begin with, but I dragged her into it anyway.

Because I was selfish.

Knew how it would end.

And now, I could only watch — only watch in this unbearable silence as the woman I loved wept over the man I hated.

"It's for the best, believe me—"

"No," she cut me off. "You're sacrificing me for this—this reputation of mine you think matters. It doesn't. I don't want any of it without you. I don't want a future where you're not in it."

She looked up then, eyes red and filled with unshed tears. "Because I love you, Satoru."

What?

The words turned my blood to ice.

After everything — the lies, the ways I'd hurt her, the desperate attempts to push her away — there it was, the confession I'd craved and feared in equal measure.

My heart was being ripped apart and stitched back together again in that very moment — vulnerable and yet so unbearably full.

She loved me, she said it.

She loves me.

And I love her.

God, how I loved her. More than I thought possible.

I've never once loved in my entire life.

Not until her.

Not until she changed me completely.

What is that, anyway? Love?

How can I possible describe the type of feeling I feel when I'm with her? How can I ever convey the words when they are not even clear to me?

How cruel it is. How utterly cruel the type of feeling is, that she makes me feel.

Because how could I ever live without it.

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

How to live.

How could I ever go back to what I was before her — was there even something before her?

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

With her.

For her.

Because she is the air that fills my lungs.

The pulse that keeps me alive.

And nothing can ever change that. So how could I ever go back to what I was before?

Oh, how she tortures me, tortures me with feelings I rather not feel, tortures me with her love that I deserve so little.

Nothing.

I deserve nothing and yet she gives me everything.

Why can't I give it back? What chains me, binds this rotten heart? Why does it fail me so cruelly to love her the way she deserves?

Because she does.

She deserves everything.

She is everything.

Yet there is only my own failure in loving her. I'm failing her again and again. I hurt her again and again. I hate myself, hate myself for the pain I cause her.

Still—

How can I let her go, when she's the only good thing in my life?

It is selfish, selfish to say the least, to want to keep her close when all I do is fail her.

Her tears were molten iron searing my insides. But I clench my jaw, refusing to let them break me. If she saw weakness, she might hesitate. Might stay and continue to be broken by me.

Every fiber of my being wanted nothing more than to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her it would all be okay.

More lies for a heart that deserved nothing but the truth. So I swallowed down the love threatening to spill from my lips.

I would give her anything, my life, the last shreds of my sanity — except the one thing she asked for, the only thing she ever ask for.

Because loving her, truly loving her, meant letting her go. Even if it destroys me.

"I spare you," I rasped.

"No." She slowly shook her head. "You're killing me. Can't you see?" There was a cold edge in her voice now. "You're killing me."

"I can't change. Love isn't enough. I can't stop."

"You're the only one who thinks that." Her reply held a flicker of her old, beautiful defiance, a defiance I loved so dearly. "I'd follow you anywhere, Satoru. Even if you can't get clean, then so be it. I don't care. I won't leave you."

The sincerity in her voice was a blow, a beautiful, terrible blow. Complete, unwavering acceptance of who I was, in all my brokenness.

And in that moment, I finally realized.

It wasn't about saving her. It was about saving myself from the terrifying vulnerability her love demanded. From the weakness that threatened to drown me if I let her in.

Perhaps I'm just a coward after all.

My heart was too damn small, too messed up. Of course I had to push her out, deny her the love she offered so freely — because it terrified me.

Her love terrified me.

"I can't do this to you," I choked out, the words scraping my throat raw. "You deserve—" I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. "You deserve better."

"Better?" She leaned forward slightly. "You are my better."

Oh, love, that's not true.

You are my better. I'm your worst.

I wanted to say that, should've said that.

But I remained silent, unable to say anything.

"Say something, Satoru."

I couldn't, simply couldn't. Because mere words were too hollow, too insignificant against the depth of her pain.

"Say something, damn it!"

"It will get easier someday," I chocked out. Each word felt like a stone I was forcing down my own throat. Each word empty — we both knew it.

"Is that what you hope for?"

"I have to."

She closed her mouth. Her silence more devastating than any scream. She didn't explode, as I half-expected. Instead, she straightened, her movements slow, weary.

I watched her, unable to move, unable to look away, as a horrifying realization bloomed across her face. It wasn't anger, wasn't sadness — it was a terrible understanding.

She knew. She always knew.

Perhaps that's what I hated about her the most.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's it."

She watched me. Not in anger, but with chilling detachment. Her eyes, usually so filled with warmth, were now as distant as those of a stranger.

Still, I burned the image into my soul, knowing it might be the last time.

Then, without another word, she turned. And walked away.

When she finally disappeared from sight, a wave of crushing despair washed over me. It wasn't just the loneliness. It was the terrifying certainty that there was no going back from this.

I had destroyed the best thing in my life — a sacrifice she didn't even ask for.

But then again, my sacrifice is really only an illusion after all, masking a desperate, terrified selfishness.

Because I'm selfish.

I do love her. Gods, how I love her.

But my fear was stronger.

And I was too damn weak to fight it.

─── ·✧· ───

Four weeks.

Was it four weeks?

I can't remember.

Time — it didn't tick or flow anymore.

It was a shapeless thing. Punctuated only by the empty thump of my heart in this wrecked chest.

Those first days — or weeks, who knows? — they melted together in a haze. After she left, I was — raw. One giant exposed nerve.

Each damn breath without the pills felt like scraping sandpaper across it, a reminder of what I'd lost — no, what I'd destroyed.

So I was barely sober.

My body didn't even protest. At first, it was almost — nice? The rush, the way it wiped out not just the pain but any thought at all.

But the crash was always brutal. Mornings, if you could even call it that, I'd wake up shaking, sick to my stomach, and terrified of — what was I even terrified of? Somehow of everything and nothing at all. But I knew the fix for that.

It was a sick, relentless cycle.

The phone rang, vibrated with messages. Suguru mostly. His messages growing more urgent with each unanswered text. Liver issues. Treatment. Something about irreversible damage.

It was all white noise compared to the screaming in my head.

Her name, though, cut through the haze.

There were nights — or was it days? — when a desperate, clawing need to hear her voice, to see her face, would rise up in me. I'd reach for the phone, fingers hovering above her name. Then the fear would crush that impulse.

I knew that reaching out to her would be the final act of cruelty.

So I stumbled on, each day collapsing into the next.

Until the next semester started and I remembered I had an actual job.

─── ·✧· ───

I stood in the corridor outside the auditorium.

My fingers fumbled with the familiar pill bottle. Just enough to numb the edge, get me through the lecture. With a bitter swallow, I tilted the pill into my palm, chasing it down dry.

Four weeks. Four weeks of barely holding it together, four weeks since I almost OD'd, four weeks since she left, and the weight of it all threatened to crush me at any moment.

Yet, muscle memory took over.

I limped slightly as I walked into the auditorium. My leg still hurt after she basically cut my muscle in half.

She definitely did that on purpose. She was too smart not to not know what she was doing.

The usual chatter died down when I walked in. Old routine. Time for the performance. Pretend I'm the professor, pretend like this whole thing isn't ripping me apart, piece by piece. It should have been comforting.

Once, perhaps, it was.

Wordlessly, I grabbed a marker, scrawled my name on the board. Like they didn't already know who I was, right?

Everyone on campus knows, especially after this summer's mess.

With a sigh, I turned towards the class.

And there she was.

My breath hitched, the marker clattering to the floor. My lips parted, but no words came.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Second-year lecture.

How the hell could I forget that?

She was here, after everything, right in front of me. The pain of the past weeks, that suffocating emptiness — it all melted away, replaced by a pounding headache in that one instant.

My eyes clung to her, unable to look away, drinking in the sight of her. That stubborn tilt of her head, the pain in those beautiful eyes — God, how I'd missed her.

Yet with every beat of my yearning heart came a fresh wave of guilt. I longed to reach out, to apologize, to tell her how much I'd missed her.

But I knew it was wrong.

Then, it hit me. Every eye in the room was on her, following my gaze like a spotlight burning into her. Damn it.

Still, she didn't flinch.

Endured it like she has always endured everything.

Clearing my throat, I managed to speak as I adverted my gaze. "So, uh, let's start the lecture."

My voice echoed in the now tense auditorium, words tumbling out in a forced attempt at normalcy. The lecture blurred. My own words were just noise in my head. I pushed through the lecture. Don't even remember what I lectured about.

It was routine, should have been easy, but — not with her there. Never with her.

Every damn minute, my eyes flicked towards her, drawn like a magnet. I couldn't help it. Because all I could see was her. But she avoided my gaze.

Should've expected that.

Shouldn't make me angry, right?

Still did.

Finally, thank god, the bell rang.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

I remained behind my desk and gathered my notes. Students surged towards the exit, a faceless blur of motion. My traitorous gaze remained locked on her as the auditorium slowly emptied.

She and her friends passed by me. Before I could even think, the words tumbled out, "Wait, not—not you, first-year."

Silence.

Her friend's chatter halted abruptly. I hadn't meant to say it, hadn't thought before the desperate need to speak to her had short-circuited my brain.

Now, it was done.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes, met mine. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Her friends exchanged glances. I could feel Zenin glaring daggers at me, didn't even need to look. She'd always been fiercely protective.

"I'll catch up later," she said then to her friends, a strained smile plastered on her face.

They left, leaving us alone in the vast, suddenly suffocating auditorium.

Silence again.

My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud I feared she could hear it.

Finally, she spoke. "You know I'm not a first-year anymore."

I rounded the desk, the wood rough against my fingertips. "Yeah, right. Sorry." Leaning against it, I crossed my arms.

"Didn't you get suspended?"

"They postponed it."

She watched me for a moment, those beautiful eyes drilling into me. Her eyes held a coldness I've never seen before. For a sickening moment, I thought I might throw up.

"How are you?"

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't ask me that. Don't you dare pretend to care after—"

She stopped herself, the silence louder than any accusation. After everything you did. After you pushed me away. After you nearly killed yourself.

She didn't need to voice it.

My hands clenched into fists against the edge of my desk, nails digging into my palms in a futile attempt to ground myself. Needed to maintain this thin illusion of control.

I do care. Dammit, I care more than you'll ever know.

I wanted to scream it, to tear open my chest and show her the bleeding wound she'd left behind. But the words stuck in my throat.

Pointless now, anyway.

Knuckles turned white, nails digging deeper.

She stepped closer. Her hand darted into her bag, then shot out, palm open. Keys glinted in the harsh light — the keys to my apartment.

I watched them for a second. Should've expected that. Shouldn't hurt me. Still did.

"You don't have to return them. I want you to keep them."

"Why? I won't need them anymore, will I? Or are you planning on overdosing again?"

Each word was acid on an open wound.

I deserved this, the anger, the contempt, it was all on me. But why the hell did it make me so fucking angry?

"Have you ever thought about how I felt when I found you?" she snapped, her voice rising. "How terrified I was when you wouldn't respond? When you couldn't even recognize me? When I thought you'd die on me?" She took a shaky breath. "Fuck Satoru, I held your face in my hands while you were barely breathing!"

I tried to speak, but she cut me off. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Four weeks," she went on, her voice sharp, laced with a fury that cut to the bone. "Four weeks of silence. Ever think I might be drowning, haunted by what I saw? Or were you too busy numbing yourself with pills? Hell, I didn't even know if you'd overdosed for good this time!"

Her words hit me cold, but they weren't the storm tearing me apart. It was the image of her, terrified, holding my barely-alive body, that ripped my insides out.

Those eyes — her eyes filled with a terror that was all because of me. The guilt choked me. Seeing my near-death through her haunted eyes is twisted a knife in my gut.

It was the look of someone who'd had a piece of her soul ripped out.

It was the look of someone who loved me.

"But then again, you never cared about me, did you?" she added, the raw hurt bleeding beneath the anger.

My stomach twisted. "Don't you dare say that," I rasped, the words ripping from my throat. "I care so much it damn near killed me. You were the only thing keeping me alive, the only reason I fought at all! Don't you dare say I don't—" I choked, the pain unbearable.

The room seemed to tilt, my anger threatening to consume me.

I took a step towards her, closing the distance in one move. We were so close, I could smell her damn shampoo. "Every damn thing I did, every stupid decision—it was all because I care about you too much."

Her eyes widened. But only for a second. Then, that cold defiance was back, and it cut deep.

"You're really pathetic, you know that?" she spat. "You talk about caring, but in the end you threw everything away. Because you are too terrified to let yourself love me. Because apparently your own damn peace is worth more than me."

Her words were knives, finding their mark with cruel efficiency.

"Shut up," I whispered. "You know nothing."

"Oh really?" She glared at me, "then let me paint the picture for you—the minute things got difficult, the second you had to face actual consequences for your actions, you used it as an excuse to back away. Shut yourself down."

She moved closer still. "Convenient, wasn't it? Pushing me away, destroying us—it absolved you from having to confront anything real."

Her accusations hit uncomfortably close to home.

And I didn't want to hear it from her lips.

Not from hers.

"Shut up," I growled.

"Don't you dare tell me to shut up," she snapped back, her voice rising. "You don't get to play the victim here. You did this. You ruined everything."

Fury ignited, not at her, but at myself.

Blindly, I reached out, my fingers gripping her jaw so tight it bordered on violence. I forced her to look at me, my eyes burning into hers. "Shut up, or I swear to god, I'll make you."

Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing. "I dare you."

The words set me on fire. Every rational thought, every vestige of self-preservation was devoured by a sudden, desperate need. My gaze fell to her lips, slightly parted, a vulnerable target I craved to claim.

Without even thinking, my hand went to her waist, fingers digging in as I pulled her impossibly close. My other hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. Our eyes locked, some kind of messed-up challenge.

I could feel her rapid breaths on my skin, smell that damn perfume of hers that I'd always loved, but now was driving me to the edge of control. Her heart pounding against mine.

Everything in me screamed to close the distance, claim those lips that had haunted me, haunted me for weeks.

I wanted to claim her, to silence her, to lose myself in her, but my last shred of sanity held me back.

Because pushing her further into my nightmare was the ultimate act of cruelty.

"Uncomfortable, isn't it? Getting confronted with the ugly truth?" she whispered against my lips.

My grip on her tightened. She really didn't know when to stop, or maybe she simply wanted to watch me burn. Perhaps both.

"Don't push me."

"Why? Scared of what you'll find if you let yourself be honest for once?" Her head tilted. Her gaze was fire, and I was already ash. "You run, Satoru. From everything, but most of all, from yourself."

"And that," she leaned closer, almost brushing my lips, "is what makes you the most pathetic person I know."

Oh, she could be so viciously cruel when she wanted to. So disgustingly cruel. It was one of the things I'd fallen hopelessly in love with. Even now, as it tore me apart, I still loved it.

But I also wanted nothing more than to fuck that attitude out of her right then and there.

"You're right. You're always right. Maybe that's what's terrifies me about you so much."

"You're not terrified of me," she whispered. "You're terrified of yourself."

The air between us crackled. Every rational thought in my brain begged me to stop. Still, I couldn't resist. I inched closer, helpless against the force that binds and burns us both.

My hands tightened their hold as I took a sharp inhale. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling.

Our lips hovered, almost touching, two aching souls suspended in that impossible space. So much unspoken words, so much hurt, and the destructive pull between us that had always tethered us together.

Then, the auditorium door creaked open.

Her head snapped towards the sound. But I couldn't look away, wouldn't miss a second of her. Because this, right here, was all I had left.

Had to be Suguru anyway — anyone else would be screaming their heads off by now.

After a pause, she turned back at me. "You know, I'm still waiting."

"For what, love?"

"For it to get easier."

I looked at her, the woman I loved, and guilt clawed at my insides. That hurt, that anger on her face — I deserved it all. Because it was the consequence of the pain I'd caused.

"You said it would get easier," she added.

It was a lie. Nothing about this was easy. Nothing ever would be again. Suddenly, the room felt too small, the air thick and unbreathable.

"I don't know if it ever will."

Perhaps I was only meant to love her in silence.

In distance.

Because at least then I couldn't hurt her anymore.

Suguru cleared his throat. He stepped into the room, breaking the moment.

Reluctantly, I let go of her. She stepped back, eyes holding mine for a second, something flickering there that I didn't dare try to read. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

I watched her go.

Suguru approached me, stopping close by. He didn't say anything.

I leaned against the desk, running a hand through my hair. The adrenaline from that almost-kiss crashed, leaving behind a hollow ache.

The sound of the door slamming behind her echoed in the empty auditorium, way too loud.

Suguru's hand landed on my shoulder.

"You really have a thing for bad timing," I muttered.

"Bad timing," he echoed, "or good timing to stop you from doing something stupid?"

I didn't answer. The memory of her, so close, choked every thought out of my mind.

"You know it was the right thing to do. With everything going on, letting her go was the right decision."

"I know," I said, pushing off the desk and rounding it to gather my things. I couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm trying to remember that."

Suguru then started placing pill bottles on the desk with a serious expression. The first clink of plastic on wood cut through the silence.

"Prednisone for the liver inflammation." Another bottle. "Lactulose for the hepatic encephalopathy." Then another. "Vitamin B and K for the nutritional deficiencies."

"But you know the first step would be to—" he paused for a second then placed another two bottles in from of me. "Methadone, to manage the withdrawal and craving. And Naltrexone, to block the euphoric effects of your opioids."

Hesitantly, another bottle appeared. "Clonidine, in case you feel like you're dying."

"Suguru—" I began, but he cut me off.

"Satoru, you have to get clean. The pills won't do a damn thing if you keep wrecking your liver."

"Yeah, it's a little late for that, don't you think? It's the only thing keeping me sane right now."

He sighed. "You're the absolute worst patient ever."

"Aw, come on, I thought you liked a bit of challenge. You're the best doctor, you'll figure something out." I rummaged through my bag, pulling out a folder.

"Even the best doctor on earth can't help if you don't—"

I shoved the folder across the desk, cutting him off. "What's this?"

"It's a patient. An anyeurism. I'm still not allowed to do surgery, not until this thing with the ethics committee is over."

Suguru opened the folder, flipping through the pages. "You want me to do it? Is there something special about this patient?"

"I want you to take her with you," I said quietly. "She likes aneurysm clippings."

Suguru looked up, that familiar crease between his brows. "She'll figure it out. Sooner or later. Latest when you're in the hospital waiting for a liver transplant, not lecturing anymore."

Silence stretched. My eyes fell on the pill bottles lined up on the desk.

I sighed, then gathered them and crammed them into my bag. "Let's go. I need fresh fair," I said as I brushed past him, putting the withdrawal meds back into his hands.

Without another word, I left the auditorium.

─── ·✧· ───

My eyes snapped open.

I sat upright, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat threatening to burst right out of my chest.

For a disorienting second, the world was a blur. Sweat drenched my skin. My lungs screamed for air.

Damn nightmares.

Another night of that shit.

I clutched at my chest, trying to quell the frantic pounding. Cold sweat made my shirt cling to my skin. The room spun. My pulse thundered in my ears.

I fumbled for the lamp, the sudden brightness stinging my eyes. But it didn't chase away the image seared into my brain. Her face, cruel, beautiful, cruelly beautiful, twisted in absolute terror. My stomach twisted.

My fault.

Always my fault.

I couldn't breathe right.

Sleep was a lost cause now. First decent rest in a week, and my brain decided to torment me again. Exhaustion was its own kind of hell, but it was nothing compared to this. That, more than anything, was the real torture.

I slumped forward, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I'd hurt her.

I'd hurt her, the one person who meant something.

Every day, it felt more like I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. Letting her go, pushing her away, I—

I hated myself.

Hated the way I ruined everything.

Hated the way I ruined every chance at something good.

It was like a damn curse.

Nothing good ever lasted for me. I should've known that by now.

Damn it, I knew it was wrong. But how the hell could it be wrong when it'd felt so damn right? When she was the only thing, the only person, that cut through the crap, made this whole mess seem like it might have some sort of meaning?

How could that possibly be wrong?

Guilt ate at my insides. Had I been a damn coward? Too scared to fight for something that made me feel, really feel?

Perhaps.

Easier to push her away, sabotage the whole damn thing, than risk actually letting her in. Letting anyone in. Losing control. But it didn't matter now, did it?

It was over.

I needed out. Out of my head, out of this apartment, out of my own damn skin.

The silence was unbearable.

I pushed off the bed, muscles screaming in protest. I slipped into running clothes, the routine automatic. As I laced up my shoes, a sharp sting shot through my leg from the still-healing cut on my leg.

That bitch.

The more I thought about it, the more sure I was she'd done it on purpose.

Good thing I was addicted to painkillers, huh?

I drowned a pill — no two, for good measure — before stepping outside into the pre-dawn chill.

Cold autumn air bit at my skin. Each step echoed on the empty street. The pills kicked in, dulling the sharp pain in my leg. Good. Long as the cut didn't split open, I didn't damn care.

I pushed myself, needing the burn in my muscles, the ache in my lungs, to drown out the constant echo of her voice, her name, in my head.

The world blurred. Streetlights, shadows, it all melded together. The only reality was the ache in my body, the cold air forcing its way into my lungs. My mind, for once, was mercifully blank.

No nightmares, no guilt, no memories of her haunted eyes — just the simple focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I didn't set a goal, didn't choose a destination.

Just moving, pushing, escaping.

Sweat dripped, but I barely registered. With each mile, the crushing weight eased. Not gone, hell, not even close to forgotten, but — manageable.

I ran until the city was a smear of lights, until my legs burned and my lungs screamed.

Finally, gasping for breath, legs threatening to give out, I stumbled to a halt. The neon lights of a Seven Eleven cut through the pre-dawn darkness. My throat was sandpaper. I pushed through the door.

Inside, the harsh lights stung my eyes. I grabbed a water, my body on autopilot as I shuffled toward the register. The bored-looking teenager behind the counter gave me a sidelong look as I fumbled for my wallet.

"Rough night?"

"Something like that." I glanced down at my leg, the still-healing cut a visible red line. Wincing, I shifted my weight, favoring the uninjured side.

I pulled out my card to pay, but then a flash of color caught my eye. Beside the cashier's register, stacked in a gaudy pyramid, was a display of energy drinks. I starred at them for a second, the name oddly familiar.

I knew why the name was so familiar.

I reached for a can and placed it on the counter. "And this."

Outside, I downed the water in a matter of seconds. Then, I cracked open the energy drink. The first sip hit my tongue. Surprisingly, it didn't taste half-bad without a shot of stale coffee to ruin it.

But the taste wasn't the problem, wasn't it?

Memories flooded back. Her, hunched over a massive anatomy textbook in the dim library, those beautiful eyes ringed with exhaustion. Beside her, half-empty, a mug of coffee — spiked with the sickeningly sweet energy drink I currently held.

Just the thought of that awful mixture made my stomach turn.

Still, a smile tugged at my lips.

Dammit, I didn't want to think about her. But to be fair, thinking, not thinking — it was all the same. The dull, constant ache of her absence throbbed beneath it all.

I chugged the rest of the energy drink, crushing the can in my hand.

Ah, fuck it.

Before my sanity could interfere, my legs were in motion.

I knew this was wrong. Knew every step took me closer to more pain. Knew all along this was stupid, reckless — inevitable.

I couldn't stop.

The pull towards her was too damn strong. I needed to see her, to confirm her existence, to know she was real, to fix — what? What the hell could I fix? What the hell did I even think I was doing?

Finally, gasping for breath, I stumbled to a halt outside her apartment building.

A glance at my watch confirmed the hour — well past 3 am. Insane. I hadn't expected her to be awake. Just needed the pathetic reassurance of her presence. But as I looked up, my breath hitched.

In a second-floor window, a flicker of warm light spilled into the darkness. And there, etched against that warmth — her silhouette. Unmistakable.

A heavy exhale escaped my lips.

She was there.

Here.

On this same cursed world with me.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I knew, I had no right to be here. But god, I needed this, needed to see her.

She sat on the windowsill, book in hand. My future wife. Even in the dead of night, she was studying. How I loved her.

My gaze traced the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way the soft lamplight painted her skin with warmth, highlighting the strands of hair escaping her messy bun.

In that stolen moment, I could almost convince myself that things were different, that my actions hadn't irrevocably shattered something precious.

But then, she moved. Rising from her seat, she stretched, drawing the fabric of her shirt upwards. Before my mind could catch up, she was at the window, pushing it open. I froze.

She was staring down — right at me.

Shit.

I held my breath. For what felt like an eternity, we simply stared at each other. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Then her gaze dropped, breaking eye contact.

"You're bleeding."

I glanced down. The edge of my shorts was soaked through, a fresh stain of crimson spreading. Damn it. The cut had reopened.

"Yeah," I said, looking back up at her, "I'm a mess."

I braced myself for whatever was coming. The anger, the disgust, the righteous fury — it would all be justified. I deserved it. But she simply watched me. Her gaze was steady, devoid of emotion.

"You know where the entrance is," she said finally, then leaned back into the soft glow of her room and closed the window shut.

Before my brain could catch up with how wrong this was, I walked toward the apartment building.

─── ·✧· ───

I sat on the edge of her bed, she on a chair in front of me, her hands already on my leg as she pushed the fabric of my shorts up. "How could you not notice that?"

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off, "Wait, forget it."

Yeah. Now she remembered.

With practiced efficiency, she began cleaning the wound. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, considering how pissed she must be.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of bandages and my occasional sharp intake of breath when the antiseptic hit a raw spot.

My eyes wandered. Her space, even small and half-finished, felt warm, lived in. Smelled like her. Books spilling everywhere, papers scattered on a desk, a yoga mat forgotten in the corner — the organized chaos was so perfectly her.

Then my gaze landed on the half-unpacked boxes stacked against the wall. She really still didn't fully move in. Occupied with my mess, huh?

Guilt flooded me. I didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her gentle hands on me, not after everything.

Yet, a selfish part of me wanted nothing more than to stay exactly like this, wanted nothing more than to keep her hands on me.

With a sigh, I sank back against her pillows. Exhaustion seeped into my bones. Pain returned as the effects of the pills wore off.

Her fingers brushed the reopened cut. I winced, throwing an arm over my eyes. The relentless pounding in my head threatened to split me open, spilling all the ugly thoughts onto her pristine sheets.

"You've had nightmares again, haven't you?"

Huh?

I lifted my head a fraction, struggling to meet her eyes. She glanced up briefly, her eyes guarded, then focused back on my leg.

"Yeah, something like that." My head thumped back onto the pillow. "Hard to sleep when your head won't shut up."

"What dose?"

"You really don't want to know."

"I asked because I do," she countered. The sharp tug as she tightened the bandage around my leg was enough to make me speak.

"Ten milligrams," I admitted, wincing. "The usual."

She scoffed, then another, even sharper, tug had me gritting my teeth. "Ngh—fuck," I moaned.

I really needed a pill now.

She stood, gathering the first-aid supplies. "Heals slowly, doesn't it?"

I knew it.

I popped myself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look. You know damn well you deserved it."

I let out a dry laugh. "You really are a bitch sometimes." I dropped back onto the bed, my hand reaching for my throbbing head.

I needed two pills now.

"You've got some damn nerve. You show up here in the middle of the night, injured, high—"

"I'm not high—"

"Save it," she spat. "You know what your fucking problem is? You can't stand being alone. Alone with your thoughts, with yourself. So you run. You run to pills, to whatever distraction you can find, anything to fill the void."

Yeah, how the hell am I supposed to want to be alone after feeling what it's like to be with you, stupid.

"You're too damn scared to face your fears," she continued, her voice laced with a bitter edge, "and when someone threatens your artificial peace, someone who might actually force you to look in the damn mirror, you panic. You sabotage it, push them away before it all gets too real, too close."

She stepped closer. "Because it's easier, isn't it? Safer to stick with the misery you know than risk having to face that void."

Every word stung, but I couldn't deny it, couldn't lie anymore.

"You're right. And I'm sorry—"

"Don't." She rose a hand at me. "Don't pretend you care, Satoru. You've made it clear how little I matter."

How little you matter?

Oh, love, you couldn't be more wrong.

A harsh laugh escaped me.

"You find this funny?"

"No, love," I said, pushing myself up. My leg throbbed in protest, but I ignored it. Everything narrowed down to her. I moved closer, a strange recklessness fueling me. "Quite the opposite."

Something flickered in her eyes — surprise? wariness? — but the anger remained.

"Keep going," I insisted, moving closer. "Let it out. Yell at me, tell me how pathetic I am. Make me feel something, anything other than this damn emptiness."

She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine, and for a breathless moment, I hoped that her fury, her anger, would burn away the numbness, making me feel something, anything.

Because even her anger was better than her indifference.

I couldn't stand being indifferent to her.

Might as well make her hate me.

"You want me to yell at you?" Her voice rose, the first hint of the storm I craved. "Fine! You wanna be a pathetic mess? Go ahead! Piss away your career, your life, whatever the hell you care about, I don't give a damn anymore!"

Each word hit me, but there was a desperate relief in it. Finally, she wasn't looking at me with that chilling indifference, that cold pity that twisted a knife in my gut.

Her rage, it was fire — scorching and brutal, but alive. And I loved it.

Because it was prove she still cared, even if it was just to hate me with every fiber of her being. It was better than the void, that terrible chasm that had opened up between us after I'd pushed her away.

I closed the distance, enjoying the anger in her eyes. She flinched, but didn't back down.

"More." I grabbed her waist, lifting her with ease, and hauled her towards the bed.

"You're weak!" she spat, pushing against my chest, her voice rising with each word.

Yeah, so damn weak for you, love.

"You're selfish! So consumed by your own self-pity you can't see how you hurt everyone around you!"

Her words should have hurt. They probably would have, under different circumstances. But right now, I couldn't care less.

"Keep going," I rasped, my pulse pounding in my ears. I forced her onto the bed and hovered over her, my body trapping her between the mattress and my own. "C'mon, love, let it all out."

"You don't deserve me," she continued. "You don't deserve anyone who gives a damn, because you only know how to destroy things."

Each word was a knife. Yet, with each insult, the suffocating hollowness inside me eased a fraction. I wanted her anger, the full force of it, wanted the burn only she could inflict on me.

"More."

Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing. "You keep breaking my heart over and over, then come crawling back when it suits you, like it doesn't matter!"

"You're right." I leaned in, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. The thin fabric of her shirt did little to hide her shivers. "C'mon, love, give it to me. I know you can do better."

In one swift move, I ripped my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. I leaned down again, my breath ghosting over her lips. "Hate me." My hands went for the flimsy waistband of her shorts. "Tell me how much you despise me."

Her breaths came fast, quick gasps against my skin. I could see it all over her face — the rage, the fear, and maybe — yeah, maybe that darker edge, the same desperation burning in me.

"I fucking hate you, Satoru. Hate that you made me care, made me fall for you, then crushed it."

"Don't stop," I said, my voice a hoarse rasp. "Say it again." Before she could react, her shorts were down, exposing her to the night air. My own pants followed hasty, desperate. "Say you hate me."

"I fucking hate that you treat me like I'm just another damn plaything to fill whatever void your messed-up mom or whatever left you with!"

Okay, now it gets personal.

"I fucking hate that you act like you can control me," she hissed, but her body betrayed her, shivered running down her skin as my hands gazed her collarbone. "Hate that you make my choices for me, decide what's good for me, like you got to have control over something when you obviously can't control yourself!"

Damn, Freud himself is on to something tonight, huh? She really doesn't know when to stop.

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?" I leaned closer, my mouth close to her ear. "You hate who I am, but you crave this, don't you? Giving up control, being at my mercy. Admit it."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She lifted a hand, as if to slap me, but I was faster. I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, pressing them hard into the mattress.

"You know it's true," I pressed, relishing the way she struggled against my hold. "It's hard always being the composed one, isn't it? The responsible one. It's draining. Maybe that's why you're drawn to me. You love the thrill as much as I do, don't you?"

She stared at me, silent, her lips a tight line.

"Prove me wrong, sweetheart. Call me a liar, and I'll show you just how wrong you are," I leaned in closer, my voice a harsh whisper against her lips. "We're the same, you and me. We feed off each other. Even if you hate to admit it, I fill that emptiness inside you same as you do for me."

"You arrogant piece of shit!" she spat, twisting and bucking against my grip. "You think you know everything, control everything!"

"Don't I?" My grip tightened, feeling her pulse throb against my fingers. "Seems I've got you pinned pretty damn well, wouldn't you say?"

"You know it's true. You love this. Makes you feel something your books, your fancy grades never could."

"Screw you, Satoru," she hissed, venom in her voice. "We're nothing alike."

"You really are a fool, for wanting to fix something so broken it'll cut you to shreds the moment you get close and then you cry afterwards—"

Her spit hit my face. I closed my eyes for a second, then a smile twisted across my lips.

My future wife just spit in my face — what a good anecdote on our wedding day.

"That's my girl," I rasped, shoving her legs wider. "Tell me how much you hate me. Scream it."

"I fucking hate you Satoru, I hate you—"

Her words died on her tongue as I thrust forward, filling her completely. I closed my eyes, letting my head hang heavy for a second.

My god, the things this woman's body could do to me. I could feel her body trembling beneath me, her heart racing as she arched her back.

How treacherous a body can be, huh?

"Hate you, Satoru," she managed to say before she closed her eyes, biting down her lip as I thrust deeper still. Her thighs spread further apart, inviting me closer, urging me onward.

She's so damn beautiful.

I grinned, my hands still holding her wrists in place over her head. "I know you do, love. But you know what?" My lips were only a breath away from hers. "I hate you, too. I hate how you make me feel, how you expose every broken piece of me, how I crave you like I crave another fix."

Hell, I might just be addicted to this woman.

I pulled out fully, before thrusting back into her. Her head fell back, pressing into the mattress as a strangled moan escaping her lips.

She felt incredible.

Pulling back slowly, I watched her body react to the absence, her eyes flickering open to meet mine. Those pupils dilated with need, mirroring my own hunger for her.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not our fight. Not our problems. Not our insults that had left our lips moments before. Just us — two halves coming together in a perfect whole.

I pushed back into her, deeper, harder.

With each thrust, I felt myself sinking deeper into her, losing myself in her. Fuck, if there was anything better than this — well, I hadn't found it yet.

This woman owned me — plain and simple.

It was madness, this pull towards her.

Insane, perhaps.

But it was also undeniably real. So real that even though dawn threatened to break soon, stealing away whatever remnants of darkness remained, I couldn't help but chase after that high only she could provide.

Even knowing full well that when morning arrived, reality would crash down upon us, forcing us back onto opposite sides of the divide.

"Look what you've done to me, love. You're making a fool of me." I whispered against her lips without touching them.

Weren't together anymore after all.

Kissing would be too much.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath me. Her nails dug into my skin where my hands gripped her wrists. With each deep thrust, I watched her face contort with pleasure and pain, her features illuminated by fleeting streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains.

I loved that look on her face.

I wondered if I could make that look even more pathetic.

I pulled out, dragging the tip of my length across her clit before pushing back in. She squirmed underneath me, arching her back. But I denied her, keeping my unhurried pace. I wanted to draw out this sweet torture for as long as possible.

Hours passed — or perhaps mere minutes. I couldn't tell anymore. All that mattered was this woman writhing beneath me.

Groaning in frustration, she attempted to break free from my grip. "Dammit, Satoru. If you won't finish what you started, then get off me!"

I smirked. "Why so eager, love. Can't handle the wait?" I leaned in to kiss down the side of her neck. She shivered beneath me, her breath hitching as my teeth grazed her skin.

With my free hand I reached down, running my fingers down her quivering stomach, relishing in the shivers that coursed through her body.

She glared up at me, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Stop calling me 'love'. I don't belong to you, not anymore—"

She gasped into my mouth when I found her clit. Slowly, deliberately, I began to circle it with my thumb, feeling her surrender to me. I plunged deeper, thrusting into her mercilessly.

Let her hate me all she wants. She can't deny the chemistry between us — a spark that refuses to fade, no matter how hard either of us tries.

She must have hated this — hated how she surrendered to me, even with all that anger. Made me wondered if I could rail her up even more.

"You think you're so much better than me?" I rasped. "So strong, so selfless, always putting others first? It's a lie, and you know it. You're just bored."

"You fucker!" Before I knew what was happening, she broke free of my grasp and had flipped us over so that she was now straddling my hips.

Without warning, she reached forward, gripping my throat with surprising strength as she leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain around our faces. I couldn't help but smile.

"Don't project your bullshit on me," she seethed, her face inches from mine.

Her words sent a chill down my spine, stirring up a fresh wave of desire within me. Damn, this woman was infuriating — and captivating in the worst way possible.

We glared at each other like enemies preparing for battle.

"Aren't you a little tired? Pulling up that act all the time?" I choked out, feeling her fingers dig in further. "Deep down, you're just as bored as me, you're just too righteous to admit it."

"Shut up," she hissed, pressing harder, choking the words out of me.

This was madness. Destructive madness. But for this one desperate moment, I didn't care. It was exhilarating, addictive. Because love, our twisted, broken love, wasn't supposed to be pretty.

It was messy, chaotic, and borderline abusive. But sometimes all you need is a firm grip around the throat to remind you that you're alive.

"Harder, love," I gasped, a laugh bubbling up in my constricted throat. "Come on, make me feel your rage."

Slowly, deliberately, she began grinding her hips against mine, setting a maddening pace that left me reeling. Fuck, I think I love it even more when she hates me.

"Ahh, shit," I gasped, clutching at her thighs as she rode me mercilessly. "That's it."

Eyes squeezed shut, my head rolled back. Chills prickled my skin, possibly due to the cool breeze drifting in from the window. Or perhaps it was merely her.

She rode me with increased speed, and I could barely contain the overwhelming sensations coursing through my body. Every fiber of my being screamed for release.

My knuckles on her thighs turned white from the force. "Oh, shit, you're going to kill me," I moaned between choked sounds that escaped my lips.

My lips twisted into a smile again. "Admit it. You love the chaos as much as I do. The thrill, the way it makes you feel alive."

"You're wrong," she said, increasing her pace making my cock twitch inside her. "We're nothing alike."

"Keep telling yourself that," I replied, struggling to catch my breath, as she made me lose my mind. "But I know the truth—we're two sides of the same coin."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"Why else would you be here, like this, with me?" I countered. "Face it, we're addicted to each other—the highs, the lows, the constant push and pull. It's exhilarating, isn't it?"

"You're the only addict here."

"Liar," I rasped.

Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She was close. Each contraction of her pushing me further towards a peak that I knew would soon shatter me.

But I wasn't ready yet. Not quite.

I shifted our positions, sitting upright before spinning us around so she was now beneath me on the mattress. I positioned myself behind her, forcing her down onto the mattress.

I slowly slid my hand along her spine as I pushed her further down, feeling her tremble beneath my touch, the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

It was intoxicating to watch her submit to me.

"Fuck, you'll be the death of me."

Leaning down, I pressed my lips against the small of her back, feeling her shiver once more. My hand continued its descent, stopping just short of where she needed me.

"Satoru," my name fell from her lips.

Oh, how I loved it when she breathed my name like that. I couldn't resist her — could never resist her. I was at her mercy. Even now.

She arched her back, silently pleading for me to continue. I slid my hand between her legs. "God, you're so fucking wet," I murmured, slipped a finger inside her, then another. She was so tight, so warm.

I couldn't wait to be inside her again.

She gasped, pushing back against me. "Don't stop."

Curving my fingers, I searched for that spot that I knew would drive her mad. When I found it, she cried out, her hips bucking against my hand. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets, grasping for purchase as I started to move inside her.

"Yes, fuck," she moaned, spreading her legs wider. "Right there."

Oh, love. I know you like that.

I smiled, relishing the fact that I knew her body better than herself. I knew every inch of her, every freckle, every scar, every sensitive spot that made her squirm.

"More," she begged.

I happily obliged, adding a third finger and thrusting deeper. She was soaking wet, her juices coating my fingers as I fucked her with my hand. Her moans grew louder, more urgent. She was close, so close.

I increased the pace of my fingers, pumping them in and out of her as I used my thumb to apply pressure to her clit.

However, as her moans reached a fever pitch, I withdrew my fingers, denying her release.

She gasped, glanced over her shoulder at me, her mouth open, but said nothing — probably out of breath.

I brought my fingers to my mouth, savoring the taste of her. It was so uniquely her. I couldn't get enough.

Leaning in, I pressed my body against hers from behind, my hard length probed at her entrance.

I leaned down over her, my hand snaking into her hair. I grabbed it tightly, forcing her head up to meet mine. "I love you, first-year," I murmured against her ear.

She trembled, but her defiance remained strong. "I hate you."

I sighed — always so fierce, makes me wonder what it takes to fuck that stubborn attitude out of her.

"It's alright, I love you enough for both of us."

With that, I pushed her head down into the mattress. Her cry muffled by the sheets beneath her as I thrust into her once more, bottoming out inside her with a groan.

I began to move in and out of her. Faster now, harder until the headboard slammed against the wall. Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She clawed at the sheets beneath her, her moans muffled by the fabric.

As her cries grew louder, I quickly pushed her face further into the mattress. "Quiet, first year," I murmured as I angled myself to rub against her G-spot, making it harder for her to keep quiet. "Wouldn't want to disturb anyone in the middle of the night, would we?"

Neither of us spoke a word — not that she could but — perhaps because there was nothing left to say. Instead, we communicated solely through our actions, saying everything that needed to be said without opening our mouths.

I increased both the pace and pressure. Nearly causing her to fall forward hadn't I held her in place with one hand on her waist and one sill in her hair. Her breath hitched, her entire body tensed as she approached her breaking point.

Oh, how I loved feeling her tighten around me.

Bringing her closer to the edge was a thrill like no other. Watching her lose control, hearing her cries and moans, feeling her body tremble beneath me — it was intoxicating.

I could feel myself getting closer to the edge, my balls tightening as I approached my own release.

Her cries grew louder, more urgent, until finally, she shattered around me, her orgasm triggering my own.

With a final thrust, I emptied myself inside her, filling her completely. Her contractions milked every last drop from me, her body still quivering around me.

I stayed inside her, savoring the feeling. It might be the last time.

I was panting, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I tried to catch my breath. My cock was still twitching inside her. Reluctantly, I pulled out with a low moan.

I stayed behind her for a moment longer, admiring the curve of her waist, the sheen of sweat on her skin in the sliver of moonlight.

Don't know when or if I'll ever see that again.

Time seemed to stand still, suspended indefinitely as we tried to find our breath again.

Then she turned her head. "You're a fucking idiot," she finally said.

"Tell me something I don't know."

She shifted to face me, her expression serious. "Promise me something."

"Anything you want, love."

"Promise me, you won't kill yourself with your pills."

I swallowed hard. That's not what'll get me, I thought, as I felt a sharp pain lancing through my right side.

I moved closer, cupping her face with my hands that trembled slightly. For an insane moment, I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I couldn't — couldn't ever again. "I promise," I rasped.

The words heavy with a lie we both knew.

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: wooooaaa, another insane!gojo chapter lol. this chapter really killed me, was crying, screaming, throwing up while writing.

i'm equally scared and excited to hear what you think about todays chapter, ngl. originally i didn't plan a smut scene in this chapter, but you know, somewhere down that line gojo just happened and here we are.

also like, i think now both their's darkest secrets are now out — in the worst way possible. also because i keep getting messages regarding how much chapters are left of the story, idk i write form chapter to chapter. we're down somewhere the 60—70 % line with the story i guess, but we'll see. still more to uncover of gojo's past and all that.

also sorry for the people asking of for more fluff and happy moments, ehhh, there will be some in the future?? also i'm still sticking to the plan of a happy ending, so don't worry!! gojo fucked up big time and the next chapters will center about him trying to fight his fears and get shit together — let's see if he can do that. curious myself.

so thank you so so much for sicking by with the story. sending kisses to all of you lovely people seeing me messages, leaving likes, comments and reblog stuff. it really makes my heart happy everything i see a notification. love you all sm!! ♡

okay my last note, just so you know, i'm going on vocation soon, so the next chapter will be a bit delayed again, sorraaaayyy!! wishing you a great day or night and an awesome weekend ahead! ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @starrynight-777 @vina21 @michelleeveline @boba-is-a-soup @cre8inghavoc @love-jelly @daimiyu @d0nk3y-k0ng @mo0nforme @smolbeanzzz @oneiricals @ynishalee @gojolvrr34 @nanasukii28 @ariiiii0938 @kelppsstuff @tojisdollx @drakenswifeyy @bakarinnie @vina21 @phoenix-eclipses @nanamis-baker @neptnszn (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future!)

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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

Text

aaaaaah! not but the mother bwahahaha 🤣

the way satoru is so desperate in this fic drives me maaaaaad asf

but i can finally start r&r after the chap 14 bc i’m maniac to finish my things 😂😂

symptoms and causes | ch. 13

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ wc 15.1 k

ღ warnings 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, dark and mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, moral ambiguity, borderline insane behavior by all involved, heavy angst with happy ending, panic attacks, family drama/trauma, mentions of death, illness, and blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hello again !! we're back to our beloved insane gojo and he's down bad for our reader in this chapter hehe. sorry, for saying this chapter will be calm bc i kinda reworked it and made it angsty again ooppsii. anyway, as always love to hear your thoughts and a big big thank you for reading and supporting my writing !! <33

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

Your eyes were dry.

Your vision began to swim.

You'd been hunched over the microscope for what felt like hours.

With a weary sigh, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples in a vain attempt to ease the throbbing pain behind your eyes.

Just as you were contemplating taking a break, you heard loud footsteps echoing down the corridor outside the lab, followed by the all-too-familiar voice of a certain neurosurgeon.

"That old bastard!" Satoru burst through the door, slamming it open with enough force to rattle the test tubes. "Who the hell does he think he is?"

Suguru followed close behind, his own expression equally angry. "Fucking piece of shit." He walked over to the corner of the lab where he'd left his white coat. "I can't believe he had the fucking balls to drag Higurama into his bullshit."

You glanced up, one eyebrow arched. "You're late."

At the sound of your voice, Satoru's head whipped around. His anger seemed to dissipate as his gaze landed on you, a slow smile forming on his lips.

He walked over to you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you close, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Sorry about that."

"What's going on with Yaga?"

Satoru's gaze flickered over to Suguru, who was now shrugging into his lab coat, an entire conversation between them seeming to pass in a mere heartbeat.

"Don't ask," they said in unison, their voices grave.

You frowned, gaze darting back and forth between the two men.

Satoru reached up to loosen his tie before cradling your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. "You okay?" he asked softly, tracing the shadows under your eyes with his thumb. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine, Satoru. Don't worry."

He didn't look convinced, not even a little bit.

His piercing eyes studied you for a long moment, his brows furrowing slightly. "You know, I love it when you lie to me."

"Could say the same about you."

"Fair point."

Reluctantly, Satoru moved away and headed over to his workstation to start prepping. "So, I had this idea for the project," he began. "I was thinking we could—"

But you were only half-listening.

You sank deeper into your chair, your body feeling heavy. Your fingers found your temples once more, trying to smash your skull in to relieve the pain.

Your nerves felt raw, exposed, every sensation amplified to an unbearable degree. The scratch of your clothing against your skin, the hum of the air conditioning, even your own heartbeat — all of it assaulted your senses mercilessly.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small plastic cup, setting it down on the table beside you with a decisive thud.

Satoru's movements abruptly halted. He stared at the cup, before slowly lifting his gaze to meet yours. "What's that?"

You met his gaze head-on, the pain making your voice sharper than intended. "What does it look like?"

Satoru's eyes darted between you and the cup. "You want me to take a drug test?"

"You really think I'm going to let you work on this project while you're high?"

"You know it's gonna take me a few hours to get clean."

"Yeah, well, I hear exercise helps speed up the process," you said, your tone dry.

"You serious?"

You tilted your head. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

For a long, tense moment, you stared at each other, a silent battle of wills playing out between you. Satoru's hand came up to scrub his face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Finally, he let out a dramatic sigh, his shoulders slumping.

He stepped closer, leaning down until his face was mere inches from yours. "Fine, first-year." He braced one hand on the back of your chair, his fingertips brushing against your shoulder. "I'll go rub one out thinking about you. That count as exercise too?"

You met his gaze unflinchingly. "Whatever helps you get clean, Professor. Just make sure you clean up after yourself."

"You know, you could make it a bit easier on me. Maybe we should make a little video next time, give me something to really focus on."

You leaned forward until your face was just a hair's breadth from his. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I think you know exactly how much I'd like that. The question is, would you?"

"I don't think you could handle me on camera, Professor."

"Is that a challenge, first-year?"

"You wish."

Satoru's smirk widened. "Oh, you have no idea, love."

He straightened up, snatching the drug test from the table and grabbing his jacket. "I'll be back in a few hours," he called over his shoulder with a quick wave as he headed for the door. "Try not to miss me too much."

In his wake, an awkward silence settled over the lab.

You could feel Suguru's eyes on you, but you stubbornly avoided his gaze, focusing instead back on the microscope in front of you.

"We'll be working alone on this project, if you're going to send him away every time he's high," Suguru said.

"Yeah, seems like it. But I'm not gonna let him jeopardize this project."

"Satoru was always on opioids when he worked. Why now?"

"I don't know," you said softly, and it was the truth.

You didn't know why this time felt different, why you couldn't turn a blind eye as you had before. Maybe it was the project, or maybe it was the unfamiliar vulnerability that had burrowed under your skin since that day back home.

Maybe it was the terrible realization of how much he meant to you.

How terrible you loved him.

And how terrible it would be to lose him.

Sometimes you wished you could just tear that love from your chest with your bare hands, plunging your fingers into your own flesh, grasping for that pulsing, traitorous organ and crush it in your fist.

It would be easier.

Your migraine pulsed. You closed your eyes briefly, trying to center yourself. When you opened them again, you saw concern in Suguru's eyes, and you realized how much of your inner struggle must be visible on your face.

You looked away.

Suguru was quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between you like an endless chasm. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so soft you had to strain to hear it. "You know, I'm not going to act on these feelings."

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

You'd avoided thinking about it, pushed it to the back of your mind. But now his confession hung in the air, threatening to shatter the fragile denial you'd built up.

You took a deep breath. "I know. You respect me too much for that."

He looked down at his hands, absently flexing his fingers. "I just want you to know that I care about you."

"And I care about you, Suguru. I really do. That hasn't changed, that won't change."

His lips twisted into a sad smile, a look of pain flashed across his face, a fleeting vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, hidden behind a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but you knew him too well to be fooled.

You could see the shame burning in his eyes, the self-loathing that ate away at him.

Stupid.

Stupid because he shouldn't be.

No one can control their feelings after all.

"Don't be sorry," you said.

His head lifted to meet your gaze.

"I can tell," you said, a faint smile touching your lips. "By the look on your face, the way you look at me sometimes. You don't have to apologize for your feelings, Suguru. You can't control them." You paused, your heart heavy. "I know that all too well."

He watched you, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips once again, the shame still lingering in his eyes. His jaw clenched and unclenched, as if he was physically holding back words he knew he couldn't say.

"Come on, we have a bit of work to do." You tried to smile. "Nobel Prize doesn't win itself after all, right?"

Suguru paused, his expression softening. "I'll always care about you."

"I know. And I'll always care about you."

And you meant it.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a small genuine smile finally breaking through. "So, what's on the agenda today? Cell manipulation or paperwork?"

You raised an eyebrow at him.

Suguru's smile widened. "Cell manipulation it is, then."

─── ·✧· ───

"So, the key here is that the enzyme acts as a catalyst, lowering the activation energy and speeding up the reaction."

You head throbbed.

You were hungry.

And you hated biochemistry.

At least the library was quiet, save for the sound of pages being turned and the soft scratching of pens on paper. Dust motes danced lazily in the rays of the midday sun filtering through tall, arched windows.

Not many students, at least not in this corner. It was lunchtime after all. But you still sat around a table with Maki, Toge, and Yuta, each of them focused intently on their studies.

Well, Yuta was focused, at least.

He was walking you through biochemical pathway, his voice low as he tried to fill in the gaps from the lectures you'd missed. But try as you might, you were having a hard time keeping up.

"So, see here," Yuta said, pointing to a diagram in your notes. "This is the citric acid cycle. It's like the powerhouse of cellular respiration, where glucose gets broken down to produce energy."

You squinted at the diagram, the symbols blurring slightly. "Right, right."

"So, as glucose gets oxidized, it generates NADH and FADH2, which are then used in the electron transport chain to produce ATP."

"The energy currency of the cell," you recited.

"Exactly." Yuta smiled, his eyes lighting up with a genuine enthusiasm that was frankly a little intimidating. "Now, the key thing to remember is that the citric acid cycle is a series of enzyme-catalyzed reactions. If even one enzyme is deficient or inhibited, the whole process can get thrown out of whack."

You nodded, trying to look like you were absorbing the information.

He went on to explain the different enzymes involved, their specific roles and the potential consequences of their dysfunction. You listened, struggling to take in the information through the fog of sleep deprivation and pain.

Still, you were truly thankful for Yuta's help.

"Did you get that?" he asked.

"Yeah, kinda." You tilted your head as if that would somehow help. "I might need to reread this bit later, though. Just to make sure it sticks."

Yuta smiled. "You'll get it."

"Thanks, Yuta. I seriously owe you one."

Maki, who had been observing the exchange with barely concealed impatience, finally interjected. "Okay, enough biochemistry for one day. We all need a break."

"Agreed," Toge said, his nose still buried in his biochem textbook.

You were about to protest, guilt nagging at you for falling behind in your studies, but the sheer exhaustion that weighed down your limbs made it impossible to argue.

"Yeah, I could definitely use something to eat," Yuta said, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands on his stomach. "I'm starving."

Then, a shadow fell across your textbook.

You looked up to find Satoru standing there. His hands were tucked casually in the pockets of his perfectly tailored dress pants. Crisp white shirt, navy tie. His expression was unreadable — as always.

He didn't say a word, just held your gaze with those piercing blue eyes that always seemed to see right through you.

Silence stretched.

Satoru's gaze remained locked on you, as if the others in the room didn't even exist.

Maki rolled her eyes. "We'll head out," she announced, gathering her things with a pointed look in Satoru's direction. The scrape of her chair against the worn wooden floor was jarringly loud in the hushed library.

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you later," you said.

Your friends gathered their belongings, shoving notebooks and pens into their bags. Toge paused briefly, glancing back at you. You managed a weak smile in response, as they filed out one by one, their footsteps echoing in the now eerily quiet space.

And then you were alone with him.

"What are you doing here, Satoru?"

"Just checking in on my favorite student." He set a bulging folder on the table with a soft thud.

You eyed the folder. "What's that?"

"Take a look."

Reluctantly, you reached for the folder and flipped it open.

Inside, neatly organized notes and summaries of the lectures you'd missed stared back at you, each page filled with carefully highlighted passages and detailed diagrams. Brightly colored sticky notes peeked out from between the pages, explanations and key points meticulously written in Satoru's messy handwriting.

You flipped through the folder. It wasn't just notes. He'd even gone through the old exams, the ones you'd failed due to, well, everything that had been going on in your life lately — him mostly to be fair.

"These are old exams," Satoru explained. "Nanami has a habit of recycling questions. Lazy bastard. Doesn't like to put in the effort."

You met his gaze. "Isn't that cheating?"

"Do you want to be an orthopedic surgeon?"

"No?"

Satoru shrugged. "Then cheating is fine."

You looked down at the papers again, your fingers tracing over the notes in Satoru's handwriting, the neatly highlighted key points. The sheer effort he'd put into this—

"You did all this...for me?"

"Why does that surprise you?" Satoru tilted his head, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just taking care of my future wife, aren't I?"

Your head snapped up. "I didn't say yes. And you haven't exactly asked me."

"Oh, first-year," he chuckled, leaning forward. "You already said yes. It's written all over that beautiful, exhausted face of yours. I was more worried about your mother saying no, but apparently she's already planning the wedding. Wait, what did she say again?" He paused, then mimicking your mother's voice with uncanny accuracy. "Oh, please, Dr. Gojo, take my daughter. She's so lucky to have such a handsome, intelligent man as a husband—'"

Your cheeks burned.

You grabbed your half-empty, now lukewarm coffee cup, and before you could even think, the contents splashed across his smug face.

Satoru stoped, momentarily stunned.

Then, he raked his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back as droplets of coffee trickled down his forehead.

"Ouch," he said, that infuriating smirk returning to his lips. "Is this how you plan to treat me in our marriage? Because I have to say, it's turning me on."

"Again, I didn't say yes. Nor did you actually ask." You pressed your fingertips to your temples, trying to massage away the pain. His words grated against your frayed nerves. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning. "God, you're giving me a migraine."

His smirk vanished. "Since when do you have it?"

"Since this morning," you muttered. "I'm out of meds."

"What do you take? Rizatriptan?"

"Sumatriptan."

Without a word, Satoru reached down and scooped up your bag, slinging it over his broad shoulder before you could even think to protest. "Come on," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "I've got some in my office."

You hesitated, your body protesting against every movement.

Satoru's brow furrowed as he met your gaze. You knew that look, knew the stubborn set of his jaw. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, no matter how much you might want to curl up under the table and die.

And, as always, you found yourself powerless to resist.

With a resigned sigh, you followed him.

─── ·✧· ───

You sank onto the worn leather couch in Satoru's office, each muscle protesting the sudden movement. The migraine throbbed in time with your pulse, making your stomach churn.

You swallowed hard, willing yourself not to vomit all over Satoru's floor.

You watched Satoru rummage through his drawers. His desk loomed before you, a chaotic landscape of teetering book towers and scattered papers. Your gaze, drawn by some masochistic instinct, landed on a familiar orange pill bottle nestled among the debris.

He didn't even try to hide it.

But you were in too much agony to care.

"Sorry, I don't have any pills on hand." Satoru still rummaged through a drawer. "Just this." He held up a sleek, blue pen — an auto-injector.

"God, I hate those things." With a resigned sigh, you slumped back against the plush cushions. You shifted, trying to find a position that offered the slightest bit of comfort, but every movement sent a fresh wave of agony crashing through you. "They always sting like hell."

"But they work, don't they?"

Satoru sat beside you and rolled up your sleeve. "Since when do you have migraines like this?" he asked as he pressed the cool plastic of the injector against your skin.

"Since–" You hissed as the needle pierced your skin, a brief sting followed by a wave of numbing coolness. "Since forever. But lately, they've gotten worse."

Satoru's gaze remained fixed on you as he held the injector in place. When the device clicked, signaling that the full dose had been delivered, he carefully retracted it, his movements precise and practiced.

You met his gaze, your own eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. His brows were furrowed, a look of guilt and concern etched onto his handsome features.

"Not everything is about you, you know."

"You never told me," he said quietly. "About the migraines, I mean."

You closed your eyes, sinking further into the couch. "Why? You want a complete rundown of my medical history?"

He stood up and crossed the room. "Yes."

You opened one eye, peering at him. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

You closed your eyes again, trying to find a position that didn't make the world spin. You could feel the medication starting to work, your fingers and toes tingling as the migraine and nausea intensified momentarily before slowly receding.

You knew this shit all too well.

Satoru returned with a cool pack in his hand. "Can you blame me for worrying about you?" He sat beside you once more, gently guiding your head onto his lap. He brushed the damp hair from your temple to place the cool pack on your forehead. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you." you sighed, closing your eyes. "For everything."

"Anything for you, love."

For a long moment, you simply lay there. His hand brushed over your hair in soothing strokes. The office was blissfully quiet, the only sounds the distant chirping of birds outside the open window and the soft rush of the wind through the trees.

"Are you on any preventative medication for your migraines?" he asked, his fingers still idly stroking your hair.

"No, I'm not. I'm done trying every fucking thing. The side effects were too severe. Shaking hands, nightmares, insomnia. You know them."

"Have you considered antibody treatment?"

"Yeah, but you have to try every goddamn pill on this earth before they'll even consider it. I'm sick of it."

"Hmm," Satoru hummed thoughtfully.

You opened your eyes again, blinking away the haze of pain and medication.

As you looked up at him, his gaze met yours, the blue of his impossibly bright — almost too bright, fever-bright, framed by lashes so pale they looked like frost against his skin. His lips were pressed into a thin, a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, tiny droplets catching the light.

He looked ill.

Haggard.

Haunted.

"Satoru," you whispered. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the windows, unfocused. His other hand, resting on the back of the couch, clenched and unclenched, the muscles of his forearm flexing beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a hoarse. "It's hard, coming off the high."

"You—" you started, but the words died on your lips as guilt seized your heart, squeezing painfully.

He looked down at you again, his hand still pressing the cool pack against your forehead. "You said I could only work on this project if I was sober."

"To be honest, I didn't think you would actually do it." The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. You saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, and your heart constricted.

"You really think that low of me?"

"No, I mean—" You reached out, cupping his cheek. His skin was rough with stubble. "You don't have to do this, Satoru. I'll accept you as you are. Addict and all. I don't care."

It was the truth.

You didn't care.

But why did you ask him to be sober for the research then? Why did you try to get him clean in the first place then?

You accepted him.

Loved him, flaws and all.

But deep down, a part of you hated his addiction with a rage that frightened you. Not for the addiction itself, but for what it was doing to him.

For destroying him.

Piece by precious piece.

Somehow, you felt that your unconditional love for Satoru and your desperate need to see him whole again was tearing you apart as surely as his addiction was tearing him apart.

Ironic, isn't it?

He leaned into your touch, his hand covering yours, and you felt the slight tremor in his fingers. "But you shouldn't."

"Why?"

His hand tightened around yours, his grip almost painful. "Because I don't deserve it. Not after everything I've done, not after the way I've hurt you."

"Why should I get to have the good parts of you without the mess?" you said softly. "I want all of you, Satoru."

He looked away. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Stop it. Stop saying that." You sat up, the cool pack falling from your forehead, forgotten. Your hand reached up, cupping his face, fingers splayed across his stubbled cheek as you forced him to meet your gaze.

"Listen to me, Satoru," you paused, waiting until his eyes locked with yours, until you were sure you had his full attention. The intensity of his gaze almost made you falter, but you pressed on. "You think you're the disease, but I think you're the cure. And I'll keep saying it, over and over again, until you start to see it too."

He stared at you, a war raging in his eyes. "But I hurt you," he said, the words catching in his throat. "I'll only continue to hurt you."

"Maybe," you whispered, your thumb tracing the familiar contours of his face. "But let me decide when it's too much."

His gaze searched yours, looking for something — some hint of doubt or hesitation, some sign that you didn't mean what you said. But there was none to be found.

"Stubborn as ever," he said.

"You wanted me, remember? Now live with the consequences."

He smiled then. After a pause, he said, "Let's go throw some hoops. I could use a distraction. Withdrawal sucks."

You let your hands fall from his face. "Sounds like a plan. But I need to meet up with my friends first."

"Alright. I'll wait for you. Like I always will."

"You're stupid."

"No." He reached for your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours, his palm warm and rough against your skin. "I'm in love."

You stared at each other, your eyes locked in a gaze that felt like it could last an eternity. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips twisted into a smile that made your heart stutter in your chest.

He cleared his throat then, breaking the spell.

He turned away and walked over to his desk. He rummaged through his gym bag, his back to you, as he removed his tie and began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric still stained with your coffee from earlier.

You watched as the crisp white fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the expanse of his back. Muscles rippled beneath his pale skin, defined lines, and the faintest dusting of freckles across his shoulders.

He tossed the coffee-stained shirt onto a nearby chair, then reached for a clean, dark blue sports shirt, the material stretching tight across his broad shoulders as he pulled it over his head.

He must have noticed your silence. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his arms still raised above his head as he tugged the shirt into place. "Like what you see, first-year?"

You lips twitched into a smile. But the smile faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a sudden, sickening lurch in your stomach.

Your eyes fell on the faded scars that marked his biceps, trailing onto his shoulders in a mottled pattern. Alarming red. As if he had been scratching at them again. Reopened.

Your heart ached.

"Will you ever tell me why you have those scars?" you asked softly.

He froze, his hands stilling mid-movement. Slowly, he pulled the shirt down, his back still to you, muscles tense beneath the fabric. "Didn't I?"

"Not really."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"You don't have to get clean for me, Satoru," you added. "Not for me, and not for this project. Not when this is the consequence."

Not when it's tearing you apart, you wanted to scream.

He remained silent, then turned and walked over to you. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'll wait for you on the basketball court."

With that, he walked out of the office.

Shame clawed at your throat, threatening to choke you. Somehow, in your own pain, you had forgotten his.

You had always prided yourself on being strong, on being able to handle whatever life threw your way. But now, faced with his addiction, you felt utterly weak, as if you were losing yourself — leaving behind a stranger you barely recognized.

And you were afraid.

God, you were so afraid and terrified of failing him, of not being strong enough to stand by him through this. Shouldn't you be stronger? Shouldn't you be able to handle this without falling apart?

Anger cursed through you — at Satoru for his addiction, at yourself for your weakness, at the unfairness of it all. You closed your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the thoughts in your head refused to quiet down.

Suddenly, the screen of your phone lit up.

You looked down, your heart sinking as you saw his picture on the home screen. It wasn't an obvious photo, but a candid shot you'd secretly taken of him.

He looked so happy in it.

Without thinking, you snatched up the phone, your fingers curling tightly around it and hurled it across the room. It collided with the far wall with a sickening crack.

─── ·✧· ───

Brisk autumn air stung your cheeks as you crossed the campus.

The warm glow of the late afternoon sun offered little warmth against the biting chill, a reminder of the impending winter. But even the sharp cold couldn't numb your mind to the image of Satoru's scars.

They burned in your memory, more vivid than the world around you.

You could almost feel the raised, angry welts under your fingertips, see the inflamed skin puckering and stretching with each of his movements.

Your mind wandered to the reason why he had them, and the thought alone was enough to make your stomach churn. You swallowed hard, fighting against the rising tide of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you.

But deep down, you knew.

Perhaps you just didn't want to admit it.

Didn't want to admit that parents could be so cruel.

Your friends came into view, perched on a low stone wall that bordered the campus green. They had claimed the sunniest spot, their legs dangling over the edge as they tilted their faces up to the sky, soaking in the last rays of sunlight before the day faded into night.

"Took you long enough," Maki greeted you.

"Sorry. Got held up."

"Yeah, we know what held you up." She peered at you over the top of her sunglasses. "Or should I say, who."

You ignored her teasing.

Yuta scooted over, making space for you on the wall. You sank down beside him. "Hey there, stranger," he greeted you. "We were starting to think you'd gotten lost in a pile of research papers or something."

"No, I just kinda didn't know where you went."

"Why didn't you call us?" Yuta asked.

You hesitated for a moment. "I think I need a new phone."

Yuta and the others exchanged a glance, but to their credit, they didn't press the issue. Instead, Toge leaned over, holding open a paper bag with a grease-stained bottom. "Here."

You glanced inside the bag and saw a few donuts, the sugary glaze glistening in the fading sunlight. Your stomach growled, reminding you that you hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

"Thanks, Toge," you said, reaching in and grabbing a donut.

You took a bite. Leaning back on the wall, you tilted your face up towards the sun, savoring the warmth on your skin. You nestled a bit closer to Yuta's shoulder, seeking solace in the familiar presence of your friend. He responded in kind, his body a steady, reassuring weight against yours.

"So," Maki began, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. She leaned back until she was lying on the wall. "How's Dr. Handsome doing these days?"

Wrong topic.

You sighed, taking another bite of the donut to buy time, the taste now ashen in your mouth. "Miserable as always."

"Well, that's nothing new, is it?" Maki said. "I mean, the guy's always been a bit of a mess, hasn't he?"

You didn't respond to that.

"Anyway," Maki said, sitting up suddenly and spreading a wide grin across her face. "I hear Zenin is throwing a party this weekend to kick off the semester. We going, or what?"

"Zenin?" Toge asked.

"Not me, obviously. We just happen to have the same last name, which is kinda creepy when you think about it."

At the mention of a party, your muscles tensed involuntarily. After all, you hadn't had much luck with parties lately, to say the least.

"I don't know, guys," you said. "I'm not really in the mood for a party right now."

"Oh, come on," Maki insisted. "It'll be fun! We'll dance, we'll drink and we'll make some bad decisions."

Yuta blinked. "Hold on a second. Zenin? Is he some kind of distant cousin of yours or something, Maki?"

"Hell no," Maki scoffed. "He's the creep who drugged her at that party last semester," she said, pointing at you like it was no big deal.

Yuta's jaw dropped. "Wait, what? Why would we go to a party hosted by the guy who tried to drug her?"

Not tried. He did.

"Because," Maki leaned in, her smile widening, "rumor has it, Dr. Handsome totally wrecked the guy's face. I'm talking Frankenstein-level shit. And I don't know about you, but I want to see that for myself."

You lifted your head, intrigued despite yourself and exchanged a long look with Maki.

"You're coming, aren't you?" Maki asked.

"When is it?"

"Next weekend. Saturday night. And I'm not taking no for an answer, just so you know."

Yuta, however, remained unconvinced. "Are we seriously considering this? Going to the party of the guy who assaulted our friend?"

Maki shrugged. "It'll be fun. And besides, it'll be good for her to get out, have some fun, forget about all this studying crap for a while, take a fucking break."

"It's not about fun," Yuta countered. "It's about basic decency. Why give that asshole the satisfaction of our presence?"

Maki rolled her eyes. "Look, it's a party. We're not going there to make nice with the creep. We're just gonna crash, have some fun, maybe stir up a little trouble. And besides, I doubt Zenin would be stupid enough to try anything twice."

"I'm down," Toge chimed in.

"See?" Maki declared. "Toge's on board."

Yuta shook his head. "I can't believe this."

Toge merely shrugged.

"C'mon, you can't seriously tell me you're not even a little bit curious," she said to Yuta. "Don't you want to see the look on that douchebag's face when he sees her walking in? Oh, and did I mention? It's not just any party. It's a goddamn pool party."

"A pool party?" Yuta repeated. "In October? Are you kidding me?"

Maki shrugged. "The guy's a total creep. Does that surprise you? But hey, apparently money can buy you anything, even summer in the middle of autumn."

You knew this was a stupid idea, terrible idea even.

Going to a party hosted by the guy who'd tried to hurt you, the same asshole Satoru had bled to protect you from — it felt like a middle finger to everything Satoru had done.

How could you even consider this, after everything Satoru had done for you?

But at the same time, there was this exhausted other part of you that just wanted to let loose for once, to feel like a normal university student, have some fucking fun for once.

And if you were being completely honest with yourself?

You really, really wanted to see the damage Satoru had done to that prick's face and perhaps — some darker part of you maybe even wanted to twist the knife a bit yourself. Show Naoya he hadn't broken you, that you weren't some fragile thing to be toyed with.

You would deal with the consequences later, would find a way to make it up to Satoru somehow. For now, you needed this — needed to feel in control.

"Fuck it," you said. "I'm in."

─── ·✧· ───

The basketball court was deserted.

The sun, a dying ember in the sky, bled its light through the trees that bordered the court. Autumn had sunk its teeth into the leaves, turning them crimson, gold, and shades of burnt orange. A sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of fallen leaves skittering across the cracked asphalt.

Satoru, shirtless and glistening with sweat, stood at the free-throw line, sinking shot after shot. His muscles flexed and rippled as the fading sunlight danced across his skin, accentuating his sculpted physique.

You paused at the edge of the court, watching him.

And then you noticed his scars once more.

Raw. Red. Weeping.

In places, the skin was torn, weeping pinpricks of fresh blood that beaded on the surface like macabre dew. Rusty streaks traced paths down his arm, bleeding barely wiped away.

He was still in withdrawal, it seemed.

And the cost was written in red across his skin.

He kept his word, despite the agony it must be causing him.

You should be happy, right?

But you weren't.

All you felt was a deep, aching sadness.

You wanted him clean, to get sober. God, how you wanted it. But you knew better than to think it would be easy. Satoru had been an addict for so long, that you weren't sure he could ever truly be free of it.

Not completely.

Not in the way that mattered.

You'd sworn to accept him no matter what.

And you meant it, with every goddamn fiber of your being. But seeing him like this, seeing the evidence of his struggle written in blood on his skin, it was hard not to feel a twinge of doubt — to feel that perhaps your efforts were not enough.

He would do anything for you, that much was clear.

He'd try to get sober, even if just for a day, even if only to work on this project with you. He'd set himself on fire to keep you warm.

Except, it seemed, when it came to truly facing his fears, to being with you in the way you craved most desperately. In a way, he would have to take care of himself, let go of his self-destruction.

That thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

It was a cruel irony — he'd bleed for you, but couldn't heal for you.

Couldn't heal for himself.

The tragedy of it was almost beautiful in its brutality.

He caught sight of you then, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh. Look, who's here," he teased, dribbling the ball between his legs with practiced ease.

"You should probably put a shirt on," you said, your gaze lingering on the expanse of his bare chest, following the beads of sweat trickling down his muscles. "Or are you trying to seduce the students here?"

He stopped dribbling, the ball resting in his hand. "Only one."

You stepped onto the court, the familiar squeak of your sneakers against the worn asphalt the only sound in the quiet court. "And is it working?"

"I don't know. You tell me." Satoru tossed you the ball. "You alright?"

"Why you always ask me that?" you said, catching the ball and starting to dribble. You could feel his gaze on you, like a physical weight pressing down on your skin.

"Because you look like you're about to collapse."

Says the one with fresh wounds carved into his skin.

You didn't answer, your mind racing, gaze fixed on the ball as you started to dribble towards the goal. "So, what was that consultation with Higurama about this morning?"

Satoru tried to steal the ball, his body brushing against yours in a fleeting moment. "Higurama held us a whole damn lecture and everything."

"What about?"

Satoru managed to block your shot, his arms outstretched. "Apparently, we're not supposed to be screwing around with students."

You halted. "For real?"

"Fraid so." He dribbled past you, his movements a blur as he easily sank the shot. "You know," he said, turning to you with a wry grin, "you're supposed to stop me from scoring, right?"

The score was now 0-1.

"Yeah, yeah," you mused.

He tossed you the ball again, the movement almost absentminded as he looked at you. You caught the ball and began to dribble.

"I'm sorry," he said then.

"For what?"

"For what I said to you back then. After I came to your place that night, while I was—" He trailed off, his gaze dropping. Leaves fell from the trees, swirling and tumbling in the breeze before coming to rest around his feet.

You knew what he was referring to.

Of course you did. How could you forget?

That night, in the very first week of the new semester, when you'd found him standing outside your window, his face pale and drawn, his eyes haunted, the cut on his leg — that you caused, but anyway — bleeding.

When you'd let him in, and he'd said all those things, those terrible, fucked-up things that had burrowed under your skin.

About how you hated who he was, but still craved him, craved the way he made you feel.

About how you loved giving up control, loved losing yourself in him.

About the thrill.

About how you were just like him.

His words echoed in your mind. Because maybe, just maybe, he'd been right. Maybe that was why you couldn't stay away, no matter how hard you tried.

"You're apologizing for that now?"

"I know, I'm late."

You blamed it on the withdrawal for now, the reason he was saying such stupid things.

You dribbled closer to the goal, your focus on the hoop above you. "It's okay, I think you were maybe right." You took your shot, the ball arcing through the air. It swished through the net with a satisfying whoosh.

The score was now 1-1.

"You know you're supposed to stop me from scoring, right?"

You turned to look over your shoulder at Satoru. He stood there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sport shorts, his gaze piercing as he studied you, the moment stretching out between you like a rubber band pulled taut.

"What?" you asked.

"You're not like me. I shouldn't have said that."

You grabbed the ball, pressing it against your hip as you turned to face him fully. "Why does that concern you so much?"

Satoru's jaw clenched. "Because I don't want to see you become like me."

"Because you think you're that awful?"

He didn't answer.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like shards of glass.

"You're stupid," you said quietly.

You started dribbling again, he sound of it against the asphalt harsh in the stillness of the court, but your eyes were drawn to his arms. He knew you were looking, could feel the weight of your gaze like a physical touch.

"It's not that bad," he said.

"You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?" you challenged, dribbling closer.

His silence was maddening.

Stupid Satoru.

Always tiptoeing around the subject, always afraid to reveal too much, always so damn cautious. It was like walking on eggshells, never quite knowing which step would be the one to crack the delicate shell.

It made you want to scream.

But you bit your tongue, tasting blood, because you knew better than to push him. Because the scars he bore ran far deeper than the ones that marked his skin.

He was always afraid, always terrified that one wrong step, one careless word, would shatter the fragile stability you'd both worked so hard to maintain.

But then again, you were both guilty of that, weren't you?

You sighed. "You still sober?"

Satoru extended his hand, his whole hand shaking. It was worse than you'd ever seen it.

"Yeah, you're sober." You tossed him the ball again. "So, what was your idea with the project?"

Satoru caught the ball easily. "I was thinking about how we address the risk of severe inflammatory responses." He began to dribble, faking a left before pivoting right. "Chances are not exactly small, cytokine release syndrome, neurotoxicity, all that shit."

"What about using corticosteroids to dampen the immune response?" Your feet moved almost by themselves as you intercepted his pass, stealing the ball and heading for the basket.

Satoru chased after you. He managed to block your shot just in time, his hand slamming against the ball. "Steroids might not be enough. We could use tocilizumab or other anti-IL-6 agents, like in CAR-T therapies for blood cancers."

You ran to intercept him. "We could monitor IL-6 levels and administer tocilizumab at the first sign of a spike."

Satoru attempted a layup, but you were there in an instant, your hand slamming against the ball, sending it bouncing off the backboard.

"Fuck, first-year," he said with a grin, "when did you become so damn good at this?"

"Maybe you're just getting old, Professor."

He laughed, before passing the ball back to you. "Or maybe I'm just distracted by you."

You caught the ball. "Lame excuse."

"We should also consider GM-CSF inhibitors to reduce inflammation," Satoru continued.

"Yeah, combining these approaches would be better," you agreed, dribbling down the court. "But what about neurotoxicity?"

Satoru swiped at the ball but missed. You took advantage of his momentary distraction, setting up for a clear shot that arced through the air and swished through the net.

The score was now 2-1.

"We need real-time monitoring of neurological functions," he said, watching your shot. "Frequent, maybe even continuous, neuro exams to catch any signs of toxicity early, before they have a chance to cause permanent damage."

"Yeah, we need a clear intervention plan, something like a safety switch to destroy CAR-T cells if toxicity becomes unmanageable," you added, our voice breathless.

Satoru got the basketball and set up for another shot, his movements fluid despite the tremors in his hands. "Like a gene to destroy them if toxicity becomes unmanageable?"

"Something like that, yeah. Like an inducible caspase-9 suicide gene to selectively eliminate CAR-T cells in severe toxicity," you said, blocking his shot with a quick, decisive movement and grabbing the rebound. "That way, we can protect the patient without harming healthy cells."

"Sounds good," Satoru agreed, trying to steal the ball, his chest pressing against yours. "We could also use less aggressive conditioning before CAR-T infusion to reduce inflammation—"

"—to help the patient tolerate the therapy better," you finished for him, then dribbled quickly and made a shot. "I've considered it."

The score was now 3-1.

Satoru paused, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, and looked at you with an amused expression.

"What?" you asked.

"When did you become so good at basketball?"

"You're in withdrawal. You're slow as fuck."

"Ouch," Satoru said. "But you're right. I'm not exactly at the top of my game at the moment."

He dribbled the rebound ball again, his movements slower than usual, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to keep control. You saw your chance and moved closer. Your hand darting out to steal the basketball, but he was faster.

With a swift motion, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer, your bodies colliding with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. His bare chest pressed against yours, heaving with each heavy breath, the heat of his skin seeping through your thin shirt.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding in sync with your own, as droplets of sweat trickled down from his temple, tracing a path along his sharp jawline. His eyes locked onto yours, before drifting down to your slightly parted lips.

"Satoru?" you whispered.

His gaze flickered back to your eyes. "Come on. Let's go back to the lab. I can't stand this withdrawal any longer." He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips. "And something tells me I'm in for a treat."

─── ·✧· ───

The hum of the ventilation system welcomed you as you entered the lab. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the heat and sweat of the basketball court, and you felt your mind beginning to clear as you breathed in the clean scent of the room.

You and Satoru donned your lab coats, the crisp white fabric settling over your sweat-marked clothes.

Hours melted away, measured not in minutes but in pipette drops and cell cultures.

You both worked in perfect sync as you prepared the CAR-T cells for the next phase of testing. Your hands were steady and sure as you thawed the cells, counted microscopic lives, and ensured their viability.

Outside, the sky had darkened.

Blue fading to a deep, inky black as a storm brewed on the horizon.

Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the lab, throwing everything into stark relief for the briefest of moments, before releasing you back into the warm embrace of the indoor lights. Then, rain began its assault on the windows.

As the night wore on, you could feel the exhaustion of the day catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavy, nearly causing you to fall asleep at your workstation.

But then, Satoru appeared beside you. He placed his hand on your shoulder, waking you from your slumber. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."

You straightened up, stretching your arms overhead in a vain attempt to work out the tension in your muscles after hours hunched over the lab bench. You glanced out the window. Sheets of rain lashed against the glass, blurring the lights of the campus into smears of color.

"It raining again," you mused.

"Yeah, it is," Satoru agreed. His hand lingering on your shoulder, his fingers gently kneading the stiffness out of your muscles.

You leaned into his touch.

─── ·✧· ───

The university doors swung open with a heavy groan.

It was still pouring.

Rain fell in thick, unforgiving curtains, as if the sky itself were melting, plunging the parking lot into darkness. Only the faint glow of sparse streetlights pierced the watery veil, their light fracturing and shifting across the pavement.

Satoru and you stood at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the relentless deluge.

"You don't happen to have an umbrella somewhere, do you?" you asked.

"Nope."

"So...we just wait it out?"

"My car's parked closer," Satoru said, already shrugging out of his suit jacket. He held it above your heads. "Come on, I'll give you a ride to yours."

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your options. But the rain showed no signs of stopping, and exhaustion tugged at your bones.

Decision made, you huddled closer to Satoru, grasping the edges of his jacket. His hand found the small of your back as he guided you towards his car, your footsteps splashing through the puddles.

The rain pounded against your skin, soaking through your clothes within seconds, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. Satoru pulled you closer, your bodies pressing together as you made the final dash to the car.

He opened the passenger door for you, and you practically dove inside. Satoru slid into the driver's seat beside you, rain dripping from his hair.

"Quite the rainy autumn we're having, isn't it?" He shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying in every direction.

"Stop it!" You held up your hands to shield yourself. "What are you, a dog?"

"For you? Absolutely."

"God, you're impossible."

"Says the woman who threw her coffee at me earlier." He reached out, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and flicked a stray droplet of water from the tip of your nose. "Need me to towel you off, first-year?"

"In your dreams, Professor," you retorted, swatting at his hand. "And for the record, you totally deserved it."

"You're always so feisty."

"And you're incredibly annoying."

He navigated the car out of the faculty parking lot and towards the student section on the other side of the campus.

It wasn't long until he pulled up next to your car.

Heavy silence fell, broken only by the relentless patter of rain against metal and glass, and the distant, growling promise of thunder. Neither of you made a move to leave. The windshield wipers swished back and forth.

Satoru's arm rested casually on the steering wheel. He turned to face you fully, his gaze lingering on your face with an intensity that made your lungs forget their purpose.

"Thanks for the ride," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment.

"Anytime, love."

Satoru's eyes traced the contours of your face, lingering on the droplets of water that clung to your eyelashes, the way your damp hair framed your face, the soft curve of your lips. The longing in his eyes unmistakable.

The car suddenly felt too small, too intimate.

Satoru reached out, his hand cupping your cheek. His thumb gently traced your jaw, causing you to take a shuddering breath.

"What did we say about you looking at me like that?"

He held your gaze, unflinching, as his thumb ghosted over your lips, parting them with the gentlest of pressures. A slow, lazy smile unfurled across his face. "Can't help it, love. It's the only way I know how to look at you."

"You're stupid." You pulled away from his touch, unable to stand the hammering of your heart in your chest any longer.

Suddenly, the rain outside intensified. Its steady drumming on the roof grew louder, as if someone had upended an ocean above you.

"Shit." Your eyes darted to the windshield, now a cascading waterfall of glass and water, the outside world reduced to a mere blur.

Satoru switched off the engine, the sudden absence of its low hum making the sound of the rain seem even louder. "Let's just wait it out for a bit. Until the rain lets up." He sank deeper into his seat, his long legs stretched out before him.

With a sigh, you also sank deeper into the leather seat.

Silence fell again.

Neither of you moved.

Until, Satoru's hand reached for yours, his fingers interlacing with yours like puzzle pieces falling into place. His thumb tenderly caressed the back of your hand.

"Remember that first night we stayed late in the lab?" he began. "It was way past 3 AM, you fell asleep at your desk and I just... I couldn't take my eyes off you. You looked so peaceful, so damn adorable curled up there."

He brought your hand to his lips, his warm breath tickling your knuckles as he placed a kiss upon them.

"I kept thinking how wrong it was to stare at you like that, to feel the things I was feeling. You were my student after all. But when I woke you, and you blinked up at me with those eyes... I swear, I could've lost myself in them forever." He paused, a faint smile playing on his lips. "We talked for a bit, remember?"

"I do," you whispered.

"In that moment, I realized I could talk to you for hours and never get tired of hearing your voice. I've never really felt like this before." His gaze met yours. "That's when I knew you were it for me."

"It?"

"The one I want to spend my life with."

"You knew, even back then?"

"Yeah," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was the night I fell in love with you, the night I knew I was totally screwed. Because I promised myself I'd make you mine, no matter what it took or how long I had to wait."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"I don't know. I just felt like you should know."

You searched his face, looking for any clue to explain this sudden vulnerability. Was it the intimacy of the moment? His withdrawal? Or was there something else, something he wasn't telling you?

He glanced down at your intertwined hands, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But as he did, his hand suddenly twitched, the muscles spasming involuntarily. He pulled back, flexing his fingers with a grimace.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"You should take something. You've been in withdrawal the whole day."

Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, his knuckles bleaching white as he clung to it. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

"You're being stupid," you said bluntly. "Come on, didn't you say you deserved a treat for those brilliant research ideas of yours, or something like that?"

He lifted his head, blinking at you. "Brilliant?"

"Mediocre at best."

"Ouch."

"Come on, Satoru. Please. I can't stand seeing you in pain," you said softly.

With a sigh, he reached behind him, fingers slipping into the back pocket of his trousers. He retrieved a small blister pack, the pills rattling softly. He pulled out a single round pill and brought it to his lips.

But then he hesitated. "Wait." His gaze flickered back to you, a smirk forming on his lips. "Open you mouth for me, sweetheart."

"Ha?"

His smirk widened. "C'mon, you know I love the taste of hydromorphone on your tongue."

You pulled away. "You're such an asshole, Satoru."

But he was already closing the gap, his body pressing against yours. "Why so hesitant now? I seem to recall a time when you happily submitted to me doing drugs off your tongue." Slowly, deliberately, he trailed his fingertips along your thigh, leaving trails of heat even through the fabric of your pants.

"In your dreams," you scoffed.

"If you'd prefer, I can lick it off somewhere else." His wandering hand dipped lower, caressing your inner thigh, fingertips trailing dangerously close. "Just tell me where you need it, love. I'm more than happy to oblige."

"Stop it." You squirmed back until you were pressed against the passenger door.

"You know, I love it when you resist. Makes the game so much more exciting." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

"Stop it already, you creep," you hissed, raising your foot to press against his firm chest, trying to maintain some distance between your bodies. "We're in the middle of the damn university parking lot."

"Now, don't tell me you've gone all shy on me?" He grasped your ankle, long fingers warm and strong against your skin, and started to trail kisses along your clothed inner thigh, while he pushed your legs apart with his other hand. "It's not like it's raining, sweetheart. No one's gonna see us anyway."

A strangled gasp escaped your throat as he neared your core, your traitorous body arching into his touch.

He paused, glancing up at you through white lashes, eyes molten. "So why don't you tell me exactly where you want me to lick it off you, hm? 'Cause my withdrawal's hitting hard and I don't know how much longer I can control myself before I decide where you need my tongue most."

Your heart raced, pulse pounding in your ears as he shifted closer, his head firmly nestled between your parted thighs now. You could feel the scorching heat of his breath against your clothed sex, while his fingers crept higher, caressing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

But you remained stubborn.

"You're impossib—" Your words cut off in a choked moan as he lowered his head, his lips brushing over your clothed heat, his hot breath seeping through the fabric of your pants.

Satoru looked up at you, his eyes dark. "So stubborn, yet so weak," he said, his fingers brushing lightly over your inner thigh. "Your body always betrays you, love. It can't resist me."

You bit your lip, suppressing the urge to wipe that smug look off his face with a well-aimed kick.

The bastard knew exactly how to push your buttons.

Then your phone buzzed, the sound thankfully cutting through the haze.

"Wait," you breathed, pushing him away with your foot pressed against his chest. You quickly straightened, reaching for your phone with trembling hands. Glancing at the screen, you saw that Maki had sent you the details for Naoya's upcoming party.

But Satoru showed no signs of retreat. His lips found your thighs again, each kiss a brand against your skin. "What is it?" he murmured.

"Nothing." You tried to focus on your phone, fighting the sensation that threatened to drown your common sense. "Maki just sent me the details for a party this weekend."

Satoru immediately stopped, his head snapping up, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a hard stare. "A party? You remember what happened the last time you went out, right?"

You yanked your leg back from him. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Satoru scoffed, his tone sharp. "You got drugged, for fuck's sake."

"That was one time, Satoru."

"And it could happen again, just as easily."

"It's fine, I'll be with my friends. I don't need you to babysit me, Satoru."

Satoru ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. "I'm not trying to babysit you, dammit. I'm trying to keep you safe. You have no idea what could've happened to you that night."

"So what? I'm not a child. I can make my own decisions. And right now, I wanna go to that stupid party at Naoya's."

"Naoya? Are you fucking kidding me?" Satoru's eyes narrowed. "You wanna go to a party thrown by the same fucker who tried to drug you? Have you lost your goddamn mind?"

Something inside you snapped. "Have you lost your mind? Who the hell are you to order me around like this?"

Satoru flinched, confusion clouding his face. "What? Wait, what's going on with you? What's wrong, love?"

"I'm not yours anymore, remember? Or did you conveniently forget that you pushed me away, broke my heart? You have no right to command me, no fucking right to decide."

It was stupid, you knew it.

Some rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop, but it was drowned out by the roar of your emotions. You were tired, so goddamn tired of him wanting to protect you while he was literally falling apart at the seams.

Perhaps it was more the guilt that spoke out of you, the searing self-loathing that burned like acid in your gut. But in this moment, you couldn't stand the sight of him.

Or perhaps you couldn't stand yourself.

You reached for the door handle, desperate to escape the suffocating confines of the car, to put some distance between you and Satoru. But the door was locked.

You turned to face him. "Are you for real right now, Satoru? Unlock the fucking door."

"We're not done with this conversation."

"Oh, I think we are."

"Naoya tried to drug you back then, probably tried to fucking rape you. You're aware of this, aren't you?" Satoru's voice was harsh, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might shatter.

"And now what?" you exploded, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. "Should I just lock myself away? Never go out, never have any fucking fun, never live a normal goddamn life? I barely sleep, you know that? I'm constantly doing research, going to classes, studying for exams. I don't get to have the typical university experience, the friendships, the stupid parties. And now, the one time I want to feel like a normal fucking student being for once, you want to take that away from me too? Like you haven't already taken everything else?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt sick.

It was unfair.

You knew it.

You knew that Satoru only wanted to protect you.

And you hated him for that.

And you hated yourself even more for hating him.

But still, you couldn't stop. Why couldn't you stop them? Why did it feel so sickeningly good to lash out, to hurt him like you were hurting?

Anger.

What that the feeling?

Not really at him. But at yourself.

It was easier to blame him, wasn't it?

Easier than facing the ugly truth about yourself.

Or so you thought.

Your chest heaved, your heart slamming against your ribcage. "I'm tired, Satoru. I'm so fucking sick and tired of it all."

Satoru only stared at you, his mouth slightly agape, eyes wide with shock and something that looked painfully like understanding.

He was silent.

You lunged forward, reaching across Satoru's lap to unlock the door on his side, needing to escape. Your fingers grazed the lock. But before you could press the button, his hand caught your wrist in a firm grip. You struggled against him, trying to break free. But he held you tight.

"Let me go, Satoru," you demanded. "You can't keep me here, you fucking asshole."

With a swift movement, he pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands, holding you firmly against his chest. You gasped, your hands instinctively bracing against his broad shoulders as you found yourself straddling him.

Satoru's hand moved to cradle your face, his touch so strangely tender, all anger vanished from his eyes.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. Only the rain remained, a relentless drumbeat on the car roof, and your hearts racing as thunder rumbled in the distance.

Darkness enveloped you, broken only by flashes of lightning. In those brief moments of illumination, you drowned in each other's gaze before plunging back into blackness.

"I know you're hurting. I know I'm the one who hurt you." His words were a hoarse whisper, each syllable laden with regret. "I know you didn't choose this, but you stay by my side regardless. And I feel like shit about it, because I know it's selfish of me to still want you, after everything I've put you through. I know I have no right to ask for this. But I'm asking anyway. Because I love you. I never stopped loving you, not for a single fucking second."

Your breath hitched, a painful catch in your throat.

"Stop," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain and the thunder. "Stop saying you love me. I can't—"

He leaned in, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath, warm and ragged, mingling with yours in the small space between your lips. His fingers tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

"I know. I know. But I can't help how I feel, can't fight this fucking pull you have on me, this cursed hold you have over my heart."

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling your defenses crumble like sand castles against a rising tide.

"It's tearing me apart, being without you," he confessed. His brows knitted together, pain etched into every line of his face. "No matter how much time passes, no matter how hard I try to stay away, to move on, my heart will always belong to you. It beats for you, only for you. I'm so fucking lost without you, so empty, so incomplete—"

You crashed your lips against Satoru's, silencing his rambling confession.

Your heart overruled your head. Against your better judgment, against every instinct screaming at you not to, to protect yourself from the inevitable hurt.

You knew it was a mistake.

You knew that it would end in heartbreak again — like it always did with Satoru. But damn it, you couldn't take it any longer. Not when he said those things.

It was maddening, this contradiction.

Wanting to flee and needing to stay. Loving him so deeply it hurt and hating him for having such power over you. Being terrified of the pain he could inflict and still knowing, with bone-deep certainty, that you'd weather any storm to be by his side.

No, you couldn't resist him.

Not now, not ever.

You were water in his hands, fluid and formless, sometimes losing your own shape in the tidal wave that was Satoru's love. You were rain in his storm, mist in his morning, ice in his winter. But it didn't matter.

For you would gladly be formless in his hands if it meant being close to him. For he was the moon to your tides, the wind to your waves, the earth that carved your path. He brought motion to your stillness, depth to your shallows.

Because a life without Satoru wasn't really living at all.

Satoru was caught off guard, his words dying on his tongue as he melted into your embrace, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space between your bodies.

The kiss was messy, a clash of teeth and tongues. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him deeper into the kiss, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

"Wait, what—" he tried to say between kisses.

Shut up, you thought to yourself. Shut up, you told your doubts, your fears, your guilt. Just shut up and let me have this.

Let me have him. Just for tonight.

Just for now.

"Shut up, Satoru," you breathed against his lips before claiming them again. "Just shut up and fucking kiss me."

He hesitated for a moment, but then surrendered. His lips crashed against yours once more, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

Satoru's hands roamed over your back, your sides, your hips, touching you like it might be the last time he could ever feel your skin beneath his fingertips.

The rain pounded against the car roof, the thunder rumbling in the distance. But hell, neither of you cared about the storm raging outside. There was only Satoru, his body pressed up against yours, his every touch setting you on fire in a way that only he could.

"Thought you were pissed at me?" He asked between sloppy, urgent kisses, his hands roaming over your body.

"When am I not pissed at you, stupid."

You could feel his lips curve into a grin against yours. "Fair point."

You shut him up with another deep kiss, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel every inch of him against you. "Stop talking," you panted against his mouth.

The kiss intensified, turning messy and desperate.

Satoru's hands found their way under your drenched shirt, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of your back, making you shiver despite the heat. You gasped into the kiss, hips grinding against his, the searing heat between your bodies rising with each passing second.

He fumbled with the buttons of your white shirt, his fingers trembling with urgency like he couldn't get it off you fast enough. When the wet fabric finally fell open, he claimed your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with yours.

His hand inched higher, gliding over your hip, your waist, before cupping your breast through the flimsy lace of your bra.

A moan escaped your lips as you briefly broke the kiss, but he claimed your lips in mere seconds again, silencing the soft tones that fell from your lips. Your hips moved against him on their own, desperate for more of his touch, more of the maddening friction between your bodies.

Satoru's other hand dug into your hip, holding you in place as he rubbed against you, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his slacks.

He smirked, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before trailing scorching kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his fingers roaming over your bra. You melted into his touch, your head falling back as his mouth traveled lower.

His hands cupped your breasts, caressing the soft skin before his finger shoved the lacy fabric aside. His thumbs brushed over your hardened nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath.

Satoru's smirk turned wicked as he dipped his head, his heated breath fanning over your skin. "God, you're so beautiful," he rasped.

Without warning, his tongue darted out, swirling around one nipple. You moaned, your fingers clawing at his hair, keeping his head in place.

His lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking hard, his teeth scraping your skin, while his other hand stayed locked on your hip, grinding you down onto his hard erection. Your mind reeled, your body melting into him, arching closer to his mouth.

He alternated between your breasts, licking, sucking, nipping at your hard nipples until you were a squirming, panting mess in his lap, your hips rolling against his, chasing any kind of friction you could get.

"Satoru, please," you whined. "Please—"

He gave your nipple one last long lick before pulling back, his eyes hooded and hazy as they locked with yours. "What do you need, love?" he asked, his voice rough and strained. "Tell me."

"You," you panted, your hands fumbling with his belt, your fingers trembling with urgency. "I need you. Only you. Now. Ever. Always."

"God, what are you doing to me?" He said before crashing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue shoving into your mouth, tangling with yours. His hands joined yours, swiftly undoing his belt and zipper, before his fingers latched onto the fabric of your pants.

"You attached to these?" he growled against your lips.

"Wha—?" you managed to get out before you heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.

Your brain couldn't even process that he'd just shredded your pants before he shoved the tattered remains aside and plunged his fingers deep into you in mere seconds.

You gasped at the sudden stretch, your walls stretching and clenching around his fingers as he buried them to the knuckle inside you.

You arched into his touch, your head thudding back against the steamed-up window. Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open on a silent scream as he he pushed his fingers deeper still.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Satoru groaned against the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your sweat-dampened skin. "And so goddamn wet. Fucking soaked for me."

"Shut up."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight, keeping him close. You rolled your hips, grinding down on his fingers, aching for more friction, more of him, just — more.

Satoru claimed your lips once more, his tongue plundering your mouth as if he were trying to devour you whole. His fingers pushed into you to the hilt, so deep you swore you could feel him brushing against your cervix, but he kept them maddeningly still.

Outside, the storm showed no signs of letting up, the howling wind whipping the trees into a frenzy, the rain hammering relentlessly against the car. The windows were completely fogged over. The air thick and humid.

Satoru tore his mouth from yours, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths, his chest heaving. "Fuck, I love you," he rasped. "I fucking love you so much."

"I fucking hate you, Satoru."

Your head tipped back as his thumb joined the torturous game, circling your clit in maddeningly slow, tight circles that made your thighs tremble.

"No, you don't." His lips trailed messy kisses down the column of your throat. "You love me. You're just too stubborn to admit it."

You bit back a moan as he nipped at your neck, no doubt leaving a mark. "I hate you," you said, even as you rocked your hips shamelessly against his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers that he so cruelly refused to move, trying to get what you needed. "I hate you so fucking much."

"Keep telling yourself that, love." He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against your G-spot in a way that made you cry out. "But your body doesn't lie. You're fucking dripping for me."

Moans clawed their way out of your throat as his fingers rubbed relentlessly against that sensitive spot inside you, his thumb flicking over your clit in time with his strokes. But he still didn't move his fingers in and out, didn't give you the friction you needed to come.

"Satoru, please," you whimpered. "I need... Fuck, I need..."

"Use your words, love. Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."

You moaned, your hips twitching, trying to grind down on his maddeningly still fingers. "I need you to fucking move, you dickhead. I need you to make me come."

"Now, was that so hard?" Satoru's lips curved into a wicked grin against your neck. "All you had to do was ask nicely."

And with that, he finally, finally started to move.

His fingers pumped in and out of your clenching heat in a fast and steady rhythm that had your breath hitching. His thumb circled your clit faster, harder, applying just the right amount of pressure.

"God, you're such a fucking dickhead, Satoru," you said, even as you clung to him, your fingers tangled in his white hair as he drove you closer and closer to the edge.

He let out a low, throaty moan, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, guiding your movements as you rode his fingers. "Fuck, I love it when you say that."

"What, that you're a dickhead?"

"No, my name," he panted. "Say it again."

You halted for a moment, your breath catching in your throat.

You gazed deeply into Satoru's eyes, the vibrant blue searing into your very soul even in the shadowy confines of the car. His heavy-lidded stare pinned you in place, his parted lips mere inches from yours, his ragged breaths ghosting over your lips.

"Say it."

"Satoru," you whispered hesitantly.

"Again."

"Satoru," you breathed once more.

"Say it again. I need to hear it." His fingers flexed where they rested on your thigh, tension thrumming through his frame.

"Satoru."

"Again, love. Say the name of the man who's on his knees for you."

"Satoru."

"Say the name of the man who would rip his heart out for you and lay it at your feet."

"Satoru," you moaned as you felt his fingers thrust deeper into you.

"Again. Say the name of the man who's fucking you so good."

"Satoru," you moaned, his name punched out of you on a sudden hard thrust of his fingers. Your hand shot up, bracing against the roof of the car to steady yourself as he increased the pace, your walls clenching around his fingers. "Satoru, fuck, Satoru—"

He crashed his lips against yours, swallowing your desperate chant of his name. "Oh love, you'll be the fucking death of me," he said against your mouth. "I'm so addicted to you."

He kissed you then, deep and slow and full of desperation. Like he was trying to pour every ounce of his love into the press of his lips against yours. Like he wanted to merge with you, to fuse your hearts together until there was no telling where he ended and you began.

And oh, how you wanted to let him.

Wanted to surrender yourself completely to this man, this man that was equally your undoing as he was your salvation. This man who looked at you like you were his entire universe, who touched you like you were something sacred, something to be cherished, adored, and fucked dump with every fiber of his being.

Because this man, this beautiful, broken, perfect man, loved you with every shattered piece of his heart. He would gladly bleed himself dry for you.

And you would gladly do the same.

Because Satoru Gojo was your once-in-a-lifetime.

Your soulmate, your other half, your forever.

And you were his.

For always and eternity.

He ducked his head then, latching onto your nipples again, sucking on them. His thumb pressed hard against your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles that had you hurtling towards the edge embarrassingly fast.

You could feel your orgasm building, your thighs starting to tremble, your walls starting to pulse around his fingers.

"Don't stop." Your head hits the foggy window again. "Fuck, Satoru, don't you dare fucking stop, I'm so close, I'm gonna—"

He doubled his efforts, his fingers curling just right to hit that perfect spot inside you with every deep thrust, his thumb grinding hard against your throbbing clit. "You're doing so fucking good for me, love." His tongue flicked out to swirl around your nipple. "Come all over my fingers. Fucking soak them. Let me feel you."

With one final brutal thrust of his fingers, one last rough swipe of his thumb, you shattered, your body convulsing in his lap.

Satoru held you close, his lips pressing messy kisses to your breasts as you clenched tightly around his fingers, your release gushing out to coat his hand and drip down his wrist.

"Fuck, you're so goddamn beautiful when you come," Satoru rasped, his fingers still pumping slowly, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible, draining every last bit of bliss from your trembling body.

You shuddered and twitched in his lap as he worked you through your orgasm. Your thighs went weak, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Your chest heaved fast, heart racing.

Finally, after what felt like a fucking eternity, Satoru gently withdrew his fingers. You let out a pathetic whimper at the loss, feeling strangely empty without him buried inside you.

He leaned in, his lips capturing yours. You moaned into the kiss, your hands scrabbling under his wet shirt, desperate to touch, to feel, to possess, your fingers roaming over the defined planes of his sweat-slicked chest.

Then, you reached between your bodies, your fingers hastening to free his cock from the confines of his slacks. Satoru hissed through clenched teeth as your hand wrapped around his shaft.

"Fuck." His eyes slammed shut, his brow furrowing as if the sensation of your fingers on him was almost too much to bear. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

You stroked him slowly, almost teasingly, your thumb swirling around the swollen, sensitive head, smearing the drops of pre-cum that had gathered at his slit.

Satoru's breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his hands fisting in your hair, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. But you barely registered the sting, too focused on his hard length throbbing in your palm.

He ground out your name, his voice strained, almost pained. "Fuck, don't stop. Your hand feels so good, you feel so good. You're always so perfect for me."

Your fingers tightened around his shaft in response, your pace increasing as you worked him from root to tip and back again, twisting your wrist on the upstroke in the way you knew he loved.

Satoru's head fell back against the headrest, a rough moan ripping from deep in his chest as his eyes rolled back in his skull, his mouth hanging open as he let out a string of loud, unrestrained moans that sent heat straight to your core.

"Fuck, I swear I'm gonna marry you one day, first-year," he groaned, cum leaking out of him on every stroke. "I'm gonna make you mine."

His abs flexed and jumped under your splayed palm as you brushed upwards beneath his dampened shirt, your nails lightly scraping against his heated skin. "You're talking nonsense, Satoru."

"I'm not," he countered. "You have no idea, fuck, the things you do to me, the way you make me feel—"

He trailed off on a moan as your hand slowed its pace, your fingers barely grazing his throbbing length, teasing him with feather-light touches that had him gritting his teeth in frustration. But then, to your surprise, he laughed.

"You're such a fucking tease."

"Oh, am I?" you said.

Your thumb swirled around the swollen, leaking head, gathering the bead of precum that had formed there and spreading it over the silky skin, drawing a harsh hiss from his parted lips.

Slowly, teasingly, you brought your thumb to your mouth, your tongue darting out to lick the salty-bitter cum of him from your fingertips, your eyes locked on his.

Then, before he could react, you leaned in to capture his lips in a messy kiss, your tongue delving deep to tangle with his, making him taste himself on you, making him moan into your mouth.

Your hand returned to his cock, your fingers wrapping around his shaft and squeezing lightly, just enough to make him gasp before you began to stroke him, your hand flying over his shaft, your grip tight and perfect.

He let out a choked sound, his head falling back against the headrest once more, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to keep his composure. His moans grew louder and more desperate with each inch of your hand, until you were sure that if anyone was in the parking lot, they would surely hear it.

But just as you could feel him throbbing and pulsing in your hand, his own hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was almost painful, stopping your movements.

"Wait," he gasped, his breath coming in harsh pants as his chest heaved with the effort of holding back. "Fuck, I love you. I love you so goddamn much it fucking terrifies me sometimes. But right now, I really, really fucking need you to let me fuck you already, before I completely lose my goddamn mind."

You released your grip on his cock, your fingers trailing up his abs, his chest, as you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his.

"Then take me," you whispered. "Make me yours, Satoru."

And he did just that, his hands gripping your hips hard as he lifted you effortlessly, positioning you over his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. You could feel the hard, hot length of him throbbing against your core, separated only by the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear.

He reached between your bodies, his fingers hooking into the fabric and pulling it aside. Then, he lowered you onto him, inch by inch, savoring the stretch and burn of his thick length as he filled you, completed you, made you whole in a way that nothing else ever could.

Satoru's mouth fell open on a silent scream. His head resting heavily against the headrest as he lowered you deeper and deeper, until he was fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt.

For a long moment, you simply stayed like that.

His chest heaved, sweat beading on his brow, his skin fevered as he fought to maintain control, to not just lose himself. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, every muscle tight with the effort of keeping still, of not just fucking up into you.

As you made to move, Satoru's hands tightened on your hips, halting your movements again. "Wait." His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing as if he were in agony. "Just... just give me a second, fuck, I can't—I'm gonna come if you move, you feel too fucking good."

He tried to relax beneath you, to calm his racing heart. But the slight shift caused his cock to move inside you, rubbing tortuously against your sensitive walls, making you both moan into each other's mouths.

Satoru's hips twitched helplessly, his body screaming at him to move, to thrust, to claim.

"God, why do you always feel so fucking incredible?" he groaned, fingers flexing on your hips, his abs clenching and rippling under your palms as he struggled for control. "So tight and wet and perfect around me, like you were made for me, just for me."

"Satoru, please,," you whined, feeling his length throb and pulse inside you. "Fuck me already."

"Just—just give me a minute," he panted, even as his hips started to rock almost involuntarily, grinding into you with shallow, teasing thrusts that had your core turn molten. "I'm so fucking close already, you feel too fucking good."

Despite his words, he slowly started to move his hips, thrusting into you with barely-there movements that had you whimpering against his lips. He was so big, so thick, stretching you to your limits and beyond, filling you so completely that it felt like he was touching every part of you at once.

Satoru's gaze was heavy on you, moans falling from his parted lips. "Fuck, do you have any idea what you do to me? How crazy you make me? I can't fucking think straight when I'm inside you. All I can focus on is how good you feel, how badly I need to make you come on my cock, need to fill you up until you're dripping with my cum."

"Then do it." You braced your hands on his sweat-slicked chest for leverage as you began to move, rising and falling on his thick length, setting a slow, deep pace that had you both gasping and moaning into each other's open mouths. "Stop talking and make me scream your name already."

He didn't need to hear more.

Satoru met your every movement, his hips surging up to meet yours, his cock hitting all the right spots deep inside you.

He withdrew almost fully before slamming back in, the thick, heavy weight of him stretching you anew with each drive of his hips, your sweat-slicked bodies sliding against each other.

The world outside the fogged windows faded until there was nothing but this, nothing but him, nothing but the intoxicating slide of his thick cock splitting you open again and again and again.

You clung to the back of Satoru's seat with one hand, fingers digging into the leather. Satoru's hands on your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to take him deeper, harder, faster.

Your lips met again, all teeth and tongue, your moans and gasps and whimpers swallowed up by each other's mouths.

"Fuck, love, fuck," Satoru groaned. "I'm so close, I'm not gonna last much longer—"

You felt him pulsing and throbbing inside you, his cock swelling impossibly, stretching you even fuller. Your body trembled, your walls clenching around his length.

Satoru's hand slipped between your sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed fast circles against it, drawing a choked cry from your lips.

"Come for me, love," he panted against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come on my cock."

Just as you were about to let go, a shrill ringing filled the car, making you shutter for a second. Satoru's phone, connected to the car's Bluetooth system, lit up the dashboard with an incoming call.

"Ignore it." Satoru's fingers never ceased their madness against your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Don't you fucking stop now—"

You tried to ignore it. Your hips grinded down onto his, chasing the release that was so close, so tantalizingly close you could almost taste it.

With one hand still gripping your hip, Satoru fumbled for the button on the steering wheel to decline the call and shut up the damn ringing. But in his haste, his finger slipped, accidentally pressing the accept button instead — just as your orgasm crashed over you.

He quickly clamped his large hand over your mouth, muffling the loud moan that tore from your throat as you shattered in his arms, your body convulsing and shaking.

"Fuck, you're so fucking tight—I'm—shit, yes, just like that, I'm gonna—" Satoru babbled incoherently as your walls clamped down around his throbbing cock, squeezing him so tightly that he had no choice but to follow you over the edge.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin, biting back his own moans as he spilled himself inside you, his hips shuddering and twitching as he pumped you full of his cum, each contraction of your core drawing another fresh load from him.

You could feel his cum flooding your depths, the feeling of him pulsing and throbbing inside you was almost too much, and for a moment you completely forgot about the caller on the other end of the line.

"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing right now."

The female voice crackled through the speakers.

Fuck. You knew that voice.

You knew it all too well.

Slowly, you felt Satoru's hot cum start to leak out of you, trickling down between your trembling thighs to stain the expensive leather seats of his car.

He started to rock his hips again, lazily stuffing his own cum back into you with shallow thrusts of his still hard cock. Every time he bottomed out, squelchy, wet noises filled the otherwise silent car. You winced at the overstimulation, sinking your teeth into his palm to muffle another desperate whimper.

Shit, there was no way she hadn't heard that.

You wanted to die right then and there.

"God, Satoru, have you no shame?"

"What do you want, mother?" Satoru ground out, not bothering to lift his head from where it was buried in the crook of your neck, his hips still lazily thrusting into you.

"What do I want? You're the one who wants something from us, remember? You really expect us to just hand over that kind of money for your little lawsuit without so much as a visit first? Where are your manners, Satoru?"

"It's my money."

"It's our property, you ungrateful brat. The least you can do is spare us a measly dinner in return. Is that really so much to ask?"

"Why? So you can lecture me again about what a massive disappointment I am to the family? Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

"You're so resentful, Satoru. We just want what's best for you, can't you see that?"

"Oh, you mean the years of emotional abuse and manipulation? Yeah, real thoughtful of you, thanks for that."

"Abuse? Oh, don't be so dramatic. We're asking you to honor your family with a simple dinner, and you act like it's some great burden. The sheer arrogance—"

"You narcissistic bi—"

His mother cut him off, her voice rising sharply. "Need I remind you that you are still relying on our assets for this little legal venture of yours? You'd do well to show a little more respect and gratitude, young man."

Satoru stilled his moments and let out a low growl. Finally, he lifted his head from your neck, staring at the phone on the dashboard like he could incinerate it with his gaze alone. "When?"

"Next weekend would be fine. I trust you can spare us a few hours out of your busy schedule of debauchery and disrespect?"

"Fine," Satoru spat, reaching out to viciously stab the button to end the call before his mother could get another word in.

Silence filled the car.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Satoru's chest heaved against yours, his heart pounding so hard you could feel it thrumming through your own ribcage. His fingers flexed on your hips, digging into your flesh hard, his whole body practically vibrating with barely-contained fury.

You watched as Satoru let his head fall back against the headrest, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see a muscle ticking in his cheek.

She reached out and gently brushed the damp strands of hair away from his forehead, while he was still buried deep inside you. "You okay?"

"They're the fucking worst."

"Is this about Naoya's lawsuit?"

"Yeah." He let out a heavy sigh, his breath warm and damp against your skin. "The little shit is demanding an absurd amount of money, way more than I have on hand. I had to use my family's funds to cover it, should have known they would want something in return."

"Satoru, you don't have to do this. We can find another way, figure something else out."

"And what? Drag you into a messy court case? No fucking way," he said. "I won't let you go through that. Not if I can help it."

Silence settled over the car again.

"I'm going with you," you said suddenly.

"Huh?"

"You think I'd let you go alone to your parents?"

"You don't have to do that. I can't ask you to—"

"I want to," you insisted. "We're in this together, Satoru, for better or worse."

He took a deep breath, considering.

"You can't stop me anyway, you know it," you added.

He stared at you for second longer, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to peer into your very soul, to gauge the depth and sincerity of your words.

You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, the conflict raging inside him as he wrestled with his instinctive need to protect you and his desperate want to accept the lifeline you were offering.

"You'll hate it," he said.

"More than you?"

"Probably."

"Sounds fun to me."

Then, slowly, a smile began to tug at the corners of his lips.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so goddamn much, you know that?"

"I hate you."

Satoru huffed. His hands slid up your back to tangle in your hair, tugging you down until your forehead rested against his as his cum continued to drip out of you, trickling down your inner thighs in sticky, obscene rivulets to stain the seats of his car.

"You've been saying that a lot lately."

"Yeah, because you keep forgetting."

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: soooo, this chapter was quite challenging for me, even though it's about 50 % smut, which I also find difficult to write. this time, it was more about the other things going on in the story. i've been rewriting it for two whole days because i suddenly didn't like the original vibe and made it angsty again.

i'm not sure if the motives and feelings of the reader character are conveyed well due to these sudden changes i made. anyway, maybe i'm overthinking it a bit.

but thank you so so much for the love and support you've shown for the s&c spin-off remedies and reasons !! my heart is so full knowing that so many of you enjoy diving into suguru's story, with all the heartbreak and hurt. but rest assured, there will be comfort and happiness for him too :''))

lastly, thank you so much for reading !! if you enjoyed this chapter, i'd be thrilled if you could reblog it or leave a comment. your support means the world to me :)) i hope you have the most fantastic day and an even better week ahead, whenever you're reading this! :)) <33

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy

@neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced

@heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator

@erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11

@kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie

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@mua-for-now @yoghurtbrand @genshingeeksworld @nothisispatrick300

₊˚⊹ pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future, this way it's easier for me to keep track :) my other writing to pass time while waiting for the next chapter: masterlist ₊˚⊹

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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

Text

*heavy angst in the whole chap*

what i remember : Dog is so cute!! ><

symptoms and causes | ch. 14

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 18.8 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, dark and mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, moral ambiguity, borderline insane behavior by all involved, heavy angst, panic attacks, (family) trauma, anger issues, fire incident, mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood, graphic injuries and medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

author's note — hey lovelies, we're back with another chapter !! didn't know when to cut this one so you'll get the whole thing in one go. beware this chapter is pretty angsty again and will contain some heavy themes. please read when you feel comfortable with it, i've updated the tw too. other then that, hope you enjoy (if that's the right thing to say to a heavy angst chapter lol).

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

"We can't go to Naoya's party."

"Why not?" Maki asked.

"Because he drugged her, maybe?" Yuta chimed in, backing you up.

"That's not even the main reason."

"It should be the main reason," Yuta.

"It's Satoru," you said, ignoring Yuta's comment.

"Dr. Handsome?" Maki asked.

"Yes."

"Why's that?"

"Because he'll be sad then."

"Sad?" Maki repeated.

"Yeah."

"You want to elaborate on that?"

You didn't look up from your work. "Not really."

"But what about Naoya's messed up face?" Maki pressed on.

"Maki, really?" Yuta groaned.

"Please take pictures for me," you said.

"Shh!" another student hissed, reminding you that you were in the middle of anatomy lab.

You sat at your dissection table, scalpel in hand, carefully slicing through the tissue sample in front of you. Beside you, Maki, Toge, and Yuta were similarly engrossed in their own specimens, their brows furrowed in concentration, despite the conversation whispered between you all.

"But I wanna punch him, key his car or whatever," Maki muttered under her breath.

"Feel free," you replied, still focused on your specimen.

"This whole thing was a stupid idea from the start," Yuta grumbled.

"Stupid," Toge concurred sagely.

"Oh, now you think so too, huh?" Yuta said, side-eyeing Toge.

"Anyway, what's up with Dr. Handsome?" Maki asked, redirecting the conversation.

"He's miserable," you said.

"You always say that about him."

"Because it always fits."

Suddenly, you felt an icy chill run down your spine, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down your back. You didn't need to turn around to know who was standing behind you.

"Are you all quite finished with your chatting, or do you need another minute?"

Slowly, you turned to face your tutor, plastering on your most innocent smile. "Sorry Dr. Nanami, we're done."

"Perhaps you should focus more on your studies than on discussing your personal life. Maybe then you'd actually pass your exams." He gave the others a look that could freeze lava before stalking off.

"Ouch," Toge grimaced. "Brutal."

"He hates me," you sighed.

"Probably because you're so close with Dr. Handsome," Maki said.

"Definitely," Yuta agreed. "But you know, I heard he's not actually that bad. One of the seniors told me he's really supportive of his students, in his own unique way."

"So you're saying he's just pushing me to do better?" you asked, feeling a glimmer of hope.

"Nah, I think he definitely hates you," Yuta said, crushing that hope like a bug. "But hey, at least he's supportive of other students, right?"

"Thanks, Yuta, that's really helpful." You slumped in your seat, feeling like you'd just been punched in the gut. Then, your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

Maki smirked. "Well, speak of the devil."

[10:21 AM] Satoru: Can you come to my office after class? I have something for you.

You read the message, ignoring the few missed calls from your mother that lit up the screen. Pathetic, really. You knew you should call her back. But the wounds were still raw.

Satoru had helped you bridge the gap to her, for a moment, but you couldn't help but feel the old fear of disappointment flare up again, you had been disappointed so many times before. Each disappointment left scars on a heart that was barely able to recognize itself as such.

Satoru had helped you bridge the gap with her, momentarily, but the fear was a constant shadow. You've been let down so many times before, each time leaving scars on a heart that was barely able to recognize itself as such.

You'd call her back later.

Surely.

You shoved your phone back into your pocket.

─── ·✧· ───

After class, you stepped out of the auditorium into the bustling hallway. Maki, Yuta, and Toge fell into step beside you. The hallway was filled with the usual chaos of students rushing to their next classes.

"How about we go to the movies this weekend instead, or to some bar, just anything fun," Maki said. "We could check out that new horror thing everyone's talking about."

Yuta made a face. "A movie sounds good, but I'm not really in the mood for jump scares and gore. I'd rather keep my lunch down."

"What about that action movie that just came out?" you suggested.

"Action," Toge nodded approvingly.

"Sounds good," Yuta said.

"Wow, you people are really boring. But okay, action it is. Maybe we could grab dinner before the movie too," Maki added. "There's that new sushi place that opened up downtown."

"Oh yeah, I heard their food is really good," Yuta said.

"Alright, so it's settled then," Maki said. "Sushi and a movie this weekend."

But then you rounded a corner and stopped dead in your tracks. A cold knot formed in your stomach.

Sukuna.

There he stood, across the hall, leaning casually against the wall, engaged in conversation with some university staff members. Their laughter grated on your ears.

What?

Why was he back?

The ethics committee hearing is not scheduled for another month. Did Satoru know about this?

As if sensing your presence, Sukuna's gaze shifted, his eyes locking with yours. He watched you for a moment, his lips twitching into a slow, predatory smile. Then, he had the audacity to wink at you.

Without a word, you marched toward him, ignoring the bewildered look on the woman he'd been speaking to. Sukuna straightened, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his tailored suit. His chin tilted up.

"Look who it is," he drawled, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. "My favorite student."

"What are you doing here?"

He smirked, his eyes raking over you in a way that made your skin crawl. "Didn't Dr. Gojo tell you, sweetie?"

You glared at him, your jaw clenched, fighting the urge to wipe that smirk off his face. You didn't care that the entire hallway seemed to hold its breath, every gaze burning into your back. All you could see was him, standing there like he had every right to be here.

Sukuna continued, "I'm back for the ethics committee, of course. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's the reason."

Maki cleared her throat from across the hall, the sound cutting through the tension like a siren. You suddenly became aware of the hushed whispers and curious stares surrounding you.

Lowering your voice, you turned back to him. "Can we have a word?"

Sukuna's smile widened. "In private? With you, always."

He gestured for you to lead the way, and you turned, walking down the suddenly quiet hallway. You could feel the weight of everyone's gaze on your back like a thousand tiny needles, the whispers already starting to circulate.

Reaching an empty classroom, you yanked the door open and gestured for him to enter. Sukuna sauntered in, his smirk still in place, as if he found the entire situation amusing. You followed, slamming the door shut behind you.

Turning to face him, you crossed your arms. "Alright, Sukuna. Cut the bullshit. What's your game here?"

He leaned against a nearby desk, his posture relaxed and infuriatingly nonchalant. "No game, sweetie."

"Don't you dare fucking call me that," you snapped.

"Why so fierce? I'm just here to do my job. And ethics lately became so dear to me."

"As if. You're just here to hurt Satoru, that's all you're after."

"Wow, you're losing your temper here a bit, aren't you?" He watched you for a second, then, a harsh laugh echoed through the confined space. "Oh, now I get it. Satoru must be using again, isn't he?

Your blood ran cold at his words, and you took a step forward. "Watch it, Sukuna. I'm warning you."

He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between you until he was mere inches away. "And what then?"

"You know damn well you're responsible for this."

Sukuna leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Oh, I think we both know it's not me who pushes him to the edge."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and before you could even think about what you were doing, your hand was moving. The sound of the slap echoed through the empty classroom, and Sukuna's head snapped to the side from the force of the impact.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Sukuna slowly turned his head back to face you, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. A trickle of blood slid from the corner of his mouth, and he raised a hand to wipe it away.

"Ha," he said, looking at the blood on his fingertips. "Looks like the kitten has claws." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, as if savoring the sensation. "You know, it's funny," Sukuna continued, his voice almost conversational. "Satoru always did have a thing for the feisty ones."

"Shut up. You don't know anything about him."

"And you do? I bet you don't even know half of it. Or do you know why he has all those scars? Do you know even the slightest bit about his past? I bet you don't. Because he doesn't trust you. Not like he trusts me."

He paused, his head tilting slightly to the side as he studied you. "It's almost funny, really. Ever since you two got close, he's been slipping. Losing control. Returning to his old habits. It's almost as if you have a knack for breaking him. Just like his parents."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Feels awful to be the responsible one, doesn't it?"

You flinched, his words twisting the knife of guilt deeper. You wanted to pull away, to deny his accusations, but your body felt frozen in place. Your eyes searched his, desperate for some sign of deception, a hint that this was all a twisted game. But there was none. All you saw was a reflection of your own doubts, your own deepest fears.

"You know he's been stable before you came along, but now he's a mess. It's selfish, really. Clinging to him, dragging him down, all because you're so desperate to be loved. But how will you live with yourself, knowing he died trying to be something he's not, all for you?"

No, you thought. This isn't true. It can't be true.

But even as you tried to escape his accusations, a memory flickered to life. Satoru in that bathroom, his skin pale and clammy, his breathing shallow, the terrifying stillness of his body.

Your eyes began to burn.

"Poor thing." Sukuna's hand cupped your cheek, almost disgustingly gentle, his thumb brushing over your skin. You let it happen, a deer caught in the headlights. "You really are a fool, aren't you?"

His touch seared your skin, branding you with guilt, with shame. You wanted to deny it, to push him away, to scream that he was wrong, that you'd never hurt Satoru, you weren't the reason he overdosed.

You weren't.

You couldn't.

But then again, would that have happened if you weren't there? If you hadn't pushed him, hadn't demanded too much? You tried to speak, to defend yourself. But the words wouldn't come.

He's playing with you.

He's manipulating you.

You know it.

But why was it so hard to fight back?

You had always been the strong one, the one who held it all together. With your mother's fragile grip on reality, with Satoru's self-destructive spiral, you had been the glue that held the pieces together.

You'd swallowed the bitterness, the fear, the crushing weight of it all, refusing to let it break you. So why the fuck couldn't you hold it together anymore? What was wrong with you?

Sukuna's smile was almost pitiful, his hand falling away from your face as if your touch was repulsive. "You're not good enough for him. You never were. And the sooner you accept that, the better off you'll both be."

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty classroom, the sting of his touch lingering on your cheek. You scrubbed at the spot, as if you could physically erase the stain of his words.

You didn't want to believe him. You couldn't believe him. But as you stood there, watching him disappear down the hallway, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Maybe you were the one pushing Satoru to the edge, the one driving him back to the drugs and the self-destruction. And if that was true—

You didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, the air turned thick, suffocating. Your lungs struggled to draw oxygen, each inhale a desperate gasp against the tightening band around your chest. The world swam, blurring at the edges.

You slumped against a nearby student's desk, one hand grasping for support, the other clutching your chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat.

You closed your eyes, fighting for control, willing the panic to subside.

No.

Not now.

Not fucking now.

─── ·✧· ───

You stood rooted to the spot outside Satoru's office, willing your ragged breaths to steady. Sukuna's poisonous words still echoed in your mind. You wanted to push them aside, to focus, to compartmentalize, but they clung to you like a second skin, refusing to be ignored.

You fought the urge to turn and run.

But you couldn't. Not now.

You had to be strong.

Satoru didn't need to see your weakness, not when he was already teetering on the edge. You had to bottle it all up, bury it deep. You took another deep breath, forcing your shaking hands to still.

You can do this. You have to.

With a final, resolute inhale, you knocked on the door.

"Come in," Satoru's voice called from inside.

You stepped into his office, closing the door behind you. Satoru was sitting at his desk, his head bent over a stack of papers, his pen moving swiftly across the pages as he graded. His hair fell into his eyes, obscuring his face.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked.

Satoru didn't look up, his attention still focused on the papers in front of him. "Maybe I just missed you."

"Is that so?" You made your way over to his desk, halting before him, but he still didn't look up, his pen continuing its relentless journey across the page.

"Just a second," he said.

"Sure." You moved to sit on the edge of his desk, tucking your still trembling hands between your crossed legs, hoping to somehow keep them still. Your eyes wandered over the cluttered surface, taking in the stacks of papers, the half-empty coffee cups, the scattered pens.

Chaos. As usual.

Strange, how his chaos always seemed to bring you calm, how it made it easier to breathe, how it always felt like home, how being near him felt like home. You closed your eyes briefly, the trembling in your hands slowly subsiding.

Then, your gaze landed on a folder lying on the edge of his desk, a note scrawled across the front in bold, red letters, "urgent". Curious, you picked it up and flipped it open, your eyebrows rising as you scanned the contents.

"Are you switching your subject?" you asked.

"Huh?"

"This case here," you said, waving the folder. "Failing liver."

Satoru's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he saw the folder in your hands.

"Are you treating liver diseases now?"

Satoru's face paled, his fingers tightening around his pen. "It's an urgent case."

"Urgent?" You eyed the document again, scanning the patient's stats. "That's putting it mildly. Based on these stats, that patient is dying for sure."

"Wow, you're really empathetic for a future doctor."

"I'm just being honest. I don't see how anyone with that liver damage could survive. But the other vitals are pretty impressive for someone in their 50s. Strange." You paused, your eyes meeting his. "But why are you looking into that?"

Satoru leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. "It's Suguru's uncle."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you said, suddenly feeling ashamed for your, indeed, lack of sympathy. "I didn't know."

"It's okay." He sighed. "Do you think treatment is even worth considering at this point?"

You looked over the file again, chewing your lip. You wanted to give him hope, to tell him that there was a chance. But you knew, deep down, that it would be a lie.

"No," you said finally. "Based on these stats, there's no way this patient will survive, even with treatment. The liver damage is too extensive, even aggressive treatment would likely only cause unnecessary suffering," your eyes meet his, "It would be cruel to give them false hope."

Satoru let out a shaky breath, nodding. "That's what I thought."

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.

Looking back, you should have known.

Should have seen it.

Maybe if you had paid more attention, you could have spared yourself the pain. But who can really blame you, between all those battlefields? They turn you blind against what's important.

A lesson learned too late.

You closed the folder. "I'm so sorry, Satoru. If there's anything I can do, anything at all—"

Satoru shook his head. "All good. I didn't want to burden you with that."

"You don't burden me."

Satoru closed his eyes for a moment and then stood up. He rounded the corner and made his way over to his briefcase. He rummaged through it for a moment before pulling something out and tossing it over to you.

You caught it reflexively, your fingers closing around a long, slender plastic pen.

"Strip off your pants," Satoru said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "The leg is best."

You stared at the plastic object in your hand. Turning it around, you read the label on the side.

Erenumab.

"You did not—" you began.

Satoru's lips curved into a small, knowing smile, a smile that never failed to make your stomach flutter. "It's 70 mg," he said. "Let's start with that and see how it goes."

He crossed the room to where you sat, his gaze locked on yours, studying your reaction. You met his eyes, your own wide. You knew that this medicine was rather new. Expensive, if insurance didn't cover it. A single dose cost more than some people earned in a month.

"You didn't have to do this for me," you said.

He smiled. "I told you, I'd do anything for you."

A lump formed in your throat, making it hard to swallow. But before you could fully process what he did for you, you found yourself lying on your back on his office sofa, your pants discarded and Satoru sitting between your thighs.

With gloved hands, he gently parted your legs, draping one over his shoulder and the other across his lap.

He quickly disinfected a small patch of skin on your thigh, then deftly drew the 70 mg dose from the glass vial. Preparing the syringe, he held it up, carefully expelling any air bubbles.

"I think my arm would have been sufficient too," you said.

His lips curved into a smile. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

Hand steady and sure, he positioned the needle against your skin. You felt a brief, sharp sting as it pierced your flesh, followed by a cool, tingling sensation. And then it was over, the syringe empty and discarded.

Satoru stripped off his gloves and placed a tender kiss near the injection site, his lips soft and warm against your skin. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," you said, your gaze fixed on the ceiling above.

Satoru's smile widened. "Good." He released his hold on your leg and rose to his feet to dispose of the empty medication vial.

"See you next month, then," he said, a playful lilt returning to his voice. "For your next dose of preventative migraine medicine. But don't be late. I hate when patients keep me waiting."

"Sorry," you said. "I got held up."

"Something important?"

You hesitated for a moment. "No." Slowly, you sat up, your eyes tracking his movements. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," he replied as he threw away the gloves.

"I'm not going to Naoya's party."

Satoru paused, his gaze meeting yours, a flicker of surprise and relief passing over his features. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," you mirrored back, then stood up and pulled your pants back on.

"Suguru is in the lab right now. You want to join him? I think he's dissecting some cells today," Satoru said, changing the subject.

"Oh, I called him earlier. He said he's pretty much done—" Your words died in your throat as Satoru turned his back to you, a small plastic container clutched in his hand. He shook out a couple of pills into his palm.

One.

Two.

Three.

You should be numb to it by now, but each pill felt like a punch to your gut. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed dry, a practiced motion. Dread tightened in your stomach.

Turning back to face you, he asked, "You want to grab something in the cafeteria then?"

"Sure," you agreed, but your eyes were drawn to the two containers on the shelf beside him. Hydromorphone. You recognized it. But also Alprazolam. Your stomach lurched, the cold knot tightening even more in its pit.

"Since when do you take Alprazolam again?" you asked.

"It's—" His brows drew together. "It's just half a milligram."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't think I have to answer your question," he said, cold, dismissive.

Silence.

Why does it always end like this? A tragedy on repeat, forever at war.

You locked eyes with Satoru, the familiarity of his blue irises suddenly chilling. It was as if a curtain had parted, revealing the same painful scene once again. You were the actress, trapped in a role you couldn't escape.

[SCENE START]

INT. SATORU'S OFFICE - AFTERNOON

SATORU stands opposite of you, his gaze unwavering, a storm brewing beneath his placid mask.

YOU stare back at him, your heart a battlefield of love and fear, poisoned by Sukuna's cruel whispers.

[BEAT]

Act I: Clash of Words

YOU (quiet) So we return to this familiar dance?

SATORU (confused) Return? To what, pray tell?

YOU This game of shadows and silence. You, building walls I cannot breach.

SATORU (dismissive) 'Tis but a trifle, a fleeting shadow.

YOU A trifle? You gamble with your very life, and call it naught but a fleeting shadow?

SATORU (averting his gaze) 'Tis my life—

YOU (interrupting) —to squander? To cast aside as if it holds no worth?

SATORU (voice low) That is not my intent.

YOU (voice trembling) Then speak plainly, Satoru! Unburden your heart, that I may understand the shadows that cloud your judgment.

[BEAT]

Silence reigns, a heavy shroud descends, Unspoken truths, where desperation contends. Sukuna's whispers echo, venom in the air, "He trusts you not, his heart you cannot share."

YOU (quiet) You cannot, can you? For even after all we have shared, you remain a fortress to me.

Satoru remains silent, his face a mask of stone. His eyes, once bright, now clouded and unknown.

[BEAT]

Act II: Aimed at the Heart

YOU (shoulders slumping) When did you plan to tell me of Sukuna's return?

SATORU He concerns you not.

YOU Concerns me not? Satoru, 'tis because of me you face this lawsuit. Sukuna's shadow looms over you because of me. And your solace in those pills, I know, is tied to my very being. How can you claim I am untouched by this?

SATORU (turning his back to you, pacing) 'Tis complicated, you know this well.

YOU Then speak, I implore you. Let me share your burden.

SATORU (stopping, facing you) This is my battle, my burden alone. I shall face it as I see fit.

YOU (desperate) Your way? By drowning in oblivion, feigning a peace that exists not? Silence breeds not tranquility, Satoru, but a tempest within. You wage war against yourself, and these pills offer no salvation.

SATORU (pacing) I know what I do.

YOU And so do I.

[BEAT]

YOU You cannot continue thus, Satoru. How can we speak of love, of a shared future, when you build these walls, shutting me out at every turn? This endless dance of closeness and distance, it tears at my very being.

Satoru averts his gaze, his eyes seek the floor, Each glance denied, a wound that burns and sores.

[BEAT]

Though wisdom whispers, "Push him not, beware," Your love, a stubborn flame, refuses to despair. Did Sukuna's curse unleash this beast within? This monster that destroys, that revels in sin? Trapped within this flesh, you cannot flee, from the darkness that consumes, that will not set you free. Its fangs bite deep, its poison spreads its blight, how can you escape this never-ending night?

YOU (frustrated) Gods above, you test my patience, you try my very soul!

SATORU (whirling around) And you test mine! Your relentless pushing, your ceaseless questions...leave me be! I shall handle this alone.

YOU (stepping closer) Alone? You isolate yourself, Satoru, and call it strength. But it is weakness—

SATORU (shouting) Silence, woman!

[BEAT]

Silence descends, a tomb upon his cruel decree. Your breath, a stolen gasp, a wounded symphony. In his eyes, a mirrored fear, chilling and unkind. His words, heavy with pain, a desperate shield for his mind.

Oh, this dance of despair, this endless, tortured play, One step towards solace, then cruelly snatched away. Two souls adrift, on a sea of crimson hue, Yearning to meet, yet poisoned, their love askew.

Storms rage within, a tempestuous, bloody fight, Armor clings tight, obscuring love's gentle light. Bound by fear's cruel chains, they stand apart, Poised to strike, to rend each other's heart.

If only understanding could pierce the gloom, If only love could blossom, banish fear's cold tomb. But fear, the monster, devours all it sees, A love born in beauty, now twisted by disease.

This battlefield of hearts, forever stained crimson, Unspoken truths, wounds that refuse to glisten. So the waves crash on, their fury unrestrained, A love unspoken, forever pained.

Act III: The Killing Blow

YOU (voice trembling) Is it comfort? This self-destruction, that none may reach you? That I may not?

SATORU (hollowly) Perhaps.

[BEAT]

Your heart, a wounded bird, beats in its cage, But Sukuna's words, a creeping, insidious rage. His lies take root, a darkness you can't deny, And hope's faint ember flickers, threatens to die.

You fight to resist, to break free from its hold, But doubt's cold grip, your spirit grows old. His words, a poison, seep into your veins, And the will to fight, it slowly wanes.

YOU (quiet) Do I bring you sickness?

SATORU I know not. The line between you and my sanity grows thin, fading fast, I fear.

[BEAT]

His words, a poisoned dart, strike true. You know their source, the scars he hides from view. You strain to remember joy's embrace, but pain's dark shroud obscures its face. How long, oh heart, can you endure, this torment, this love that's no longer pure? You turn away, a heart filled with lead, from pain too deep, words left unsaid.

YOU (voice thick with sorrow) 'Tis an ugly thing, to be truly seen.

[FADE OUT]

[BLACKOUT]

VOICEOVER (detached, critical) The playwright weeps, the actors take their bows. But empty seats, no cheers, the silence grows. A cruel hush descends, the play is done. Was the bloodletting to your liking, everyone?

[SCENE END]

─── ·✧· ───

"Suguru?"

You approached him cautiously, hesitant to intrude on his concentration. He sat across the lab, his tall frame hunched over a workbench, bathed in the dim glow of a lamp beside him. He manipulated a pipette, transferring liquids between vials with a steady hand.

"Hey," he said, his gaze still fixed on his task. "Didn't expect you here today. Sorry, the fun part's already over."

He completed the transfer, then turned to face you. Even in the dim light of the lab, the aftermath of the fight was etched on your face, impossible to hide — the tear tracks, the trembling jaw, the desperate attempt at composure that crumbled with each passing second.

Suguru studied you for a long moment. He didn't need to ask. He knew you well enough to know what was going on. Yeah, how ugly it is to be truly seen.

"What happened?" He asked.

You stood beside his workbench, chewing on your lip, your arms crossed over your chest, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Can we work on something?" you said. "Please."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You shook your head. "No. I can't. I need work...I need to focus on something, anything, or I think I'll fall apart."

The words spilled out. There was no point in pretending, not with him. His gaze had already seen through your facade. But it felt wrong. It felt so wrong to ask him for help, to use his feelings for you.

You knew he wouldn't deny you, not when you were unraveling before his eyes. The guilt of relying on him like this was a heavy weight in your chest. But you needed him right now.

Who else could you turn to? You couldn't tell your friends. Your mother was in her own world of grief. Your father was dead. You were alone. Utterly and completely alone.

"Please, Suguru. Can we just work?"

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment before he finally nodded and peeled off his gloves. He leaned forward, his hand gently undoing the tight knot of your crossed arms. He took your hand in his, tracing shooting lines across the back of your hand.

"What do you want to work on?" he asked.

"The nanoparticles," you said, your voice still trembling. "We still need to narrow down the potential materials and targeting ligands, right?"

"Sure," he said with a strained smile. "Anything you want."

─── ·✧· ───

Days had turned into a blur since then.

Satoru tried to reach you — missed calls, unanswered texts, a voicemail you'd deleted without listening. It was only a matter of time before he showed up at your door, you thought. But nothing. He stopped. Perhaps you should be worried.

But you needed some distance, needed a little breather.

Suguru said he was okay.

You'd sneak into the lab late at night, working until exhaustion dragged you under, then slipping away before daylight could expose you to the world, to your friends — to him.

You'd lied to your friends, a simple "I've got the flu" a convenient excuse to ward off their concern.

But somehow, your apartment felt so empty tonight. Empty takeout containers littered the floor, appetite long lost.

The last rays of sunlight struggled through the blinds, casting long shadows that glided across the walls, reminding you of the passage of time, of the life you were slowly losing control of.

You twisted and turned in your bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your head throbbed with thoughts you didn't want to have — uninvited, lingering, persistent, intrusive, haunting, gnawing, relentless, agonizing, piercing, suffocating, venomous, tormenting, cruel, accusatory, self-recriminating, maddening — devouring your skull.

Each thought was a fresh wound. His anger. His fear. His desperation. How could you move on? How could you ever mend this?

You'd already compromised so much, given up so much, to turn yourself into someone he could love without tearing himself to pieces. But how much more could you sacrifice before there was nothing left of you, before you became a stranger, before it became some kind of murder?

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You were in an uneasy sleep when a sharp, acrid smell assaulted you, jolting you awake with a violent gasp. Your eyes flew open, blinking rapidly in the dark. Suddenly, your eyes began to water. Your throat burned.

You coughed, your body convulsing as you struggled to breathe. But the air was thick, almost suffocating you with every breath. Through your sleepy haze, it hit you like a lightning bolt.

Smoke.

Thick, dark smoke filled your apartment, obscuring everything in a suffocating nightmare. Adrenaline surged through your veins. You sat upright in bed, your hand flying to cover your mouth and nose with your shirt.

Squinting through the dense fumes, you tried to figure out what was going on, but the haze made it impossible to see anything clearly.

Fuck.

What the hell happened?

A second later, the fire alarm screamed to life, its shrill, ear-splitting wail instantly snapping you out of any remaining sleep.

You needed to get out. Now.

You leapt out of bed, your bare feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your hand shot out, grasping for the oversized sweater that lay forgotten at the end of the bed. You yanked it over your head, the fabric covering your thin top.

Stumbling towards the door, you coughed on the smoke that grew thicker, its tendrils clawing at your throat and lungs. You flung open the door, only to be met by a wall of dense, black smoke billowing up the stairwell.

Mrs. Tanaka.

Your elderly neighbor.

The smoke was coming from her apartment, and the realization sent a cold fear straight through your heart.

Covering your mouth and nose with your sleeve, you raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The smoke grew thicker with each step, stinging your eyes and making it nearly impossible to breathe.

By the time you reached Mrs. Tanaka's door, you were wheezing and lightheaded, your lungs screaming for clean air.

"Mrs. Tanaka!" you shouted, your voice raw and desperate as you pounded on her door with all the strength you could muster. "Mrs. Tanaka, are you in there? There's a fire!"

Silence. No response.

With your heart pounding, you were about to try the door handle when a voice from below cut through the chaos.

"Is anyone still up there?" a neighbor from the floor below shouted up the stairwell.

"Yes!" you yelled back. "Mrs. Tanaka is still inside! Call the firefighters!"

You didn't wait for a response. You turned back to the door, your hand closing around the scorching metal handle. To your surprise, it turned easily, and the door swung open to reveal a wall of darkness.

Without thinking, you plunged into the apartment, the thick smoke wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket. The heat was intense, searing your skin and making it almost impossible to breathe. Squinting through the haze, you tried to get your bearings, your hand groping along the wall for guidance.

The smoke seemed to be coming from the kitchen, the acrid stench of burning wood and melting plastic stinging your senses. You stumbled forward, making your way deeper into the apartment.

"Mrs. Tanaka!" you called out. "Mrs. Tanaka, are you here?"

But there was no response, just the ominous crackling of the fire and the groaning of the building's structure under the onslaught of the flames.

With each step, the smoke grew thicker, the darkness more absolute. Your lungs burned, every breath a struggle as the toxic fumes filled your airways. Your head began to swim.

You needed to get out.

You tried to find your way back, but your body was failing you. Your lungs screamed for air, the searing pain tearing through your chest like a thousand razor blades. Your vision blurred, the edges of the room fading into a hazy, indistinct mess.

Somehow, you managed to stumble your way back to the door, your hand groping blindly for the doorknob. With a desperate twist, you flung the door open and staggered out into the hallway, gulping in the marginally cleaner air.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out beneath you. You crashed to the floor, your knees slamming against the hard surface. The impact knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and disoriented.

You hastily covered your mouth and nose again, but it was futile. Too much smoke. There was already too much smoke in your lungs.

You felt your consciousness slipping away, no matter how hard you pressed your hand against your face. Your other hand clawed at the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to keep yourself upright. But it was a losing battle.

Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why did you go in here? What the hell were you thinking?

Desperation clawed at your very being as you looked up and down the hallway, your vision growing dimmer by the second. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut — you might not make it out of this building alive.

Fuck.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Why were you so stupid? Why couldn't you think straight anymore?

Through the haze of your fading consciousness, you thought you heard the distant wail of sirens, the shouts of firefighters. But they seemed so far away.

As the darkness closed in, you coughed violently, your body trying to expel the noxious fumes. Your head hung low as you struggled to draw even the tiniest breath. But there was no oxygen left.

Then, the blackness claimed you, and you knew no more.

─── ·✧· ───

"Breathe in and out for me, please."

The young doctor instructed, his voice wavering slightly. Even through the dull ache of your headache and the fog of medication, you could feel his fingertips trembling against the bare skin of your back.

You did as instructed, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it.

The doctor moved the stethoscope, the cool metal pressing against a different spot on your back. You couldn't help but notice that he seemed to be placing it a bit off. But you were too weary to care.

"And again, please."

You inhaled, the air burning in your lungs. Before you could exhale, a familiar voice roared down the corridor, slicing through the quiet of the hospital. For a brief moment, you wondered if it might have been better to have died in the flames.

"I don't care about your damn protocols!" Satoru's enraged voice tore through the hospital, undoubtedly terrorizing some poor soul. "You have to fucking call me immediately when something like this happens, you understand?!"

Moments later, Satoru burst into the room, a frazzled-looking nurse trailing behind him. The look on her face mirrored your own desire to simply vanish into thin air.

"We had to wait until—" she tried to explain, but Satoru's attention was already on you, the nurse's presence instantly forgotten. He froze, the color draining from his face as he took in the sight of you sitting in the hospital bed, battered and weak.

"I think we're done here. Thank you," you said cautiously to the doctor beside you, bracing yourself for the inevitable scene Satoru was about to make. You pulled away from the young doctor, who remained silent, seemingly paralyzed by Satoru's sudden appearance.

In a heartbeat, Satoru was at your side, nearly pushing the doctor out of his way in his desperation to reach you. He cradled your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. The sudden movement sent another wave of pain through your head.

"Easy," you winced.

"Sorry." His hands frantically traced the contours of your face, as if to convince himself you were real. "How are you? Are you okay?"

You managed a weak smile. "I'm fine, Satoru. No need to worry."

A small, relieved smile tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of you, alive and breathing. His expression softened before he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. "Don't scare me like that."

The young doctor, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally found his voice. "Excuse me, sir, but who are you? I'm going to have to ask you to step back and let me continue—"

Wrong move.

For someone so hesitant during the examination, he certainly had guts.

Satoru's head snapped towards the doctor, his eyes blazing with a fury that made the poor man visibly shudder. Before he could unleash his wrath, the nurse jumped in, perhaps sensing the impending disaster.

"He's her husband," she stated matter-of-factly.

Ha?

Husband?

The word cut through your pain and nausea like a blade. "We're not married," you quickly clarified.

"But, what?" the nurse stepped forward. "Sir, you can't be in here then. Hospital policy—"

"I am her husband," Satoru insisted.

"Since when?" you demanded.

Satoru's grip on your face tightened ever so slightly. He looked like he wanted to kill you right after he was done with the other two poor souls in the room.

With a harsh exhale, he snatched the clipboard from the now ghostly pale doctor standing beside him. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents quickly. His jaw clenched with each passing second.

"There's no record of inspecting her throat for signs of soot," he stated.

"I am, uh—" the doctor stammered. "I'm not finished with—"

Satoru turned to him, his eyes narrowing. "Did you not check?"

"Oh, I—" the doctor stuttered, looking like he wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Poor guy.

"It's the first thing you check, goddamn it. Did you win your fucking medical degree in a lottery?"

"Satoru—," you began, trying to intervene, but he cut you off.

"Leave us alone," he commanded, his attention snapping back to the nurse and the doctor, who stood frozen in place, their faces sheet-white.

"We can't let you be here if you're not related—" the nurse tried to argue, her voice shaking, but Satoru silenced her with a look that could have frozen hell itself.

"I swear to god, I'll buy this goddamn second-rate hospital and have you all fired if you don't leave us alone. Now."

The nurse and the doctor exchanged a terrified glance. You turned to the young doctor, who looked like he was about to faint, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, my husband can be a bit harsh sometimes. It's okay, you can go."

Your words seemed to break the spell, and they practically tripped over each other in their haste to escape, the door slamming shut behind them with a loud bang. You couldn't blame them.

Satoru could turn really ugly. But then again, so could you.

"You know, you should try being a little nicer to people," you began. "He's just a young resident."

He scoffed. "You say that like you're not a med student yourself."

He turned to you then, his eyes softening just a fraction as they met yours. But the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface. You looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he'd burst into the room.

He was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled, slightly oversized white Oxford shirt that was buttoned wrong, as if he'd thrown it on in a hurry. His hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Then you spotted a faint crimson stain blossoming beneath the fabric of his shirt on his upper arm. Your stomach twisted with the familiar dread. He'd been scratching again.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly.

He blinked at you. "Am I okay? You're the one lying in a hospital bed after running into a burning apartment, and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

"That's not an answer."

He moved to your bedside, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat down next to you. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the fury that had consumed him mere seconds ago. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really," you said, leaving out the burns. "Besides, I checked myself over."

He arched an eyebrow. "You checked your own airways?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. I should've known," he mused, a weak smile ghosting across his lips. "But seriously, what happened?"

"How did you even know I was here in the first place?"

"I have an alert on you. In every hospital in this country," he said without hesitation, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You—what? You're joking, right?"

"Dead serious." His gaze hardened. "Now, tell me what happened."

"Whoa, hold up, we're not done with this," you interjected. "You have an alert on me? What does that even mean? Is that why the nurse thought you were my husband?"

"It's only for relatives." He shrugged. "Had to tweak your medical records a bit. Technically, we're married now, at least as far as your health insurance is concerned."

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"What? Is the idea of marrying me still such a strange concept to you?"

"Satoru, there are boundaries, you know?"

"Boundaries? With you? I didn't think we ever had those." He leaned in, his face mere inches from yours. "Besides, if we were actually married, I wouldn't need to do that, would I?"

"You're delusional."

"Always for you."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, his shoulders slumping. His hand fell away from your face, leaving your skin cold and bereft. "Anyway, now tell me what happened."

You stared at him for a moment longer. Then, with a heavy sigh, you recounted the events that had led you here.

How you had noticed the smoke and how you rushed into the apartment, how the firefighters had gotten you out of there, or at least that's what they told you, as you had no memory of that. How, thankfully, Mrs. Tanaka was not in her apartment and was doing fine.

She was with her granddaughter and had forgotten the food she had left in the oven. Talk about dementia, huh?

When you finished, you waited for the anger, for the lecture on how stupid it was to run into a burning apartment, how reckless and irresponsible you'd been. But it never came. Instead, Satoru remained silent, so uncharacteristically silent that it almost scared you.

"Don't ever scare me like that again, okay?" he finally whispered, his voice so soft, so broken, so desperate that it nearly shattered your heart. "I can't lose you. Not you."

Don't.

Don't say that.

Don't say you need me.

You wanted to be angry, to scream at him for loving you, for letting you be the reason for his pain, the source of that crimson stain that now seeped across his sleeve, drenching the entire shirt until it was nothing but a bloody red.

But how could you be angry when he stood before you, so vulnerable and broken? How could you deny the executioner the willing blood, the scars he carved into his own flesh with the blade that is your love?

You bleed together after all, beautifully, tragically.

"I'm sorry," you breathed.

He leaned in, his lips a fleeting caress against your forehead, the touch so gentle, so reverent, that you drew in a shuddering breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I was so terrified." He shook his head slightly, still resting against you, his eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the memory. "So fucking terrified."

"I'm sorry, Satoru." Your hand came to rest on his chest, finding purchase in his shirt, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, willing it to slow down. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You're so stupid sometimes, you know that?"

"Always for you," you echoed.

He laughed, the sound weak and watery, but still so achingly familiar, so uniquely Satoru. He leaned in closer still. His lips ghosted over yours, the touch so light, so fleeting, that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. But then you felt it again, the barest brush of skin against skin.

His hand wound around your waist, pulling you close to him, your bodies molded together like two halves of a whole. You inhaled sharply, fighting against the pain, your mouth open and hovering before his.

You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he held himself rigid and still, as if it took every ounce of self-control not to close the distance between you, to claim your lips with his own.

And god, how you wanted him to give in.

How you longed for the feel of his mouth on yours, for the taste of him on your tongue, for the heat of his touch branding your skin until it melted away, exposing the raw bones that ached for him beneath.

But then, he pulled away. "You feel good enough to leave?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly constricted. "Yes."

"Then let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

You stood in the doorway of your apartment, your hand frozen on the knob, your eyes unblinking as you took in the scene before you.

Black.

So much black.

Nothingless.

Ashes.

Your space was now a charred, smoky ruin, the walls blackened with soot, the furniture reduced to piles of ash and twisted metal. Yes, you hadn't fully unpacked, even months after moving here.

But still.

It was your place. Small and cozy and messy. Just yours.

Satoru stood beside you, waiting. "Are you okay?"

You didn't answer, couldn't answer, your throat tight, your tongue useless. Instead, you took a step forward, then another, your feet moving of their own.

The living room was a wasteland, the couch a blackened, smoking husk, the bookshelves reduced to piles of charred kindling. The kitchen was even worse, the appliances melted and twisted, the cabinets nothing more than gaping, empty holes in the wall.

You moved through the space like a ghost, your fingers trailing over the ruined surfaces, your eyes taking in every detail, every bit of damage, every lost and destroyed possession.

Satoru followed close behind. He didn't speak. He simply stayed by your side, his eyes never straying from you. "You shouldn't be in here for too long. Your lungs are still strained."

"I know." Your gaze remained fixed on the wreckage before you. "I didn't even fully unpack, you know." You turned to him, your lips twisting into a wry smile. "Can you believe that?"

He didn't say anything, his jaw tightening, his eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite name. He probably knew, deep down, that he was partly responsible for this, that his presence in your life, his constant pushing and pulling, had kept you from truly settling, from making this place your own.

Ironic, isn't it?

Somehow all seemed to be stuck until it went up in flames. As if the grand scheme of things had something against you.

How should you really feel about this? Bitter? Sad? Neither emotion seemed fitting at that moment. It's not like there's a manual on how to react when your apartment burns down, right?

You should be crying. You should be mourning every burned photograph, every cherished book turned to ash. But there was nothing. Just this strange detachment. As if your brain decided it was too much and simply flipped a switch and shut down.

You'd almost laugh at how strangely indifferent you felt to your life going up in flames, if it wasn't so terrifying. As if his mere existence in your life overrode everything else.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What? Your apartment burning down?" he asked. "No. Not really."

You turned to him. "Wow, someone's killing the mood." You turned away, your eyes sweeping over the ruined apartment once more. "But it's ironic."

"What?"

"This," you gestured around you, "this whole fucking mess, the back and forth, the never fully in, never fully out. And now, here we are, standing in the ashes of everything I've ever owned, and all I can think about is... is you. Why are you taking sedatives again? Why didn't you tell me?" You let out a hollow laugh. "It's messed up, isn't it? I don't think this is how it's supposed to be."

Satoru didn't say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. And to be fair, you couldn't blame him for not having the words. What could anyone say in a situation like this, when everything felt so absurd?

"Sorry," you said. "It's the painkillers."

Walking away from him, your gaze settled on the charred remains of your bed. You crouched down and reached underneath, your fingers searching for something hidden, something precious.

"Can you help me out for a sec?" you asked, your voice strained with the effort of reaching into the ashy depths.

"What are you—"

"Move it to the side."

He didn't hesitate, his strong hands gripping the scorched headboard and effortlessly shoving it away. You reached further, coughing as the ashes swirled up around you. And there, tucked away in the darkness, your fingers finally brushed against something solid, something familiar.

You pulled out the steely box and flipped open the lid. A heavy breath left your lips. Untouched by the flames, thank god. Turning to Satoru, you held up the box. He loomed over you, one hand braced against the headboard, his brow furrowed.

"Kafka," you said with a smile, and he looked at you like you might have lost your mind.

"You should come stay with me," he said. "At least for now."

"No," you said, your voice flat and final as you stood up, your eyes already scanning the room for anything else that might have survived the fire. You clutched the book to your chest, afraid that if you let it go for even a second, it too would crumble to ashes.

"No?" he asked.

"We both know why this won't work."

"Where else are you planning to go then?"

"I don't know." You shrugged. "Maki's, Yuta's. A hotel. I'll figure something out."

"Don't be stupid," Satoru said, his patience wearing thin. "You know it's only—"

"Rational?" you cut him off, turning around to face him. "Don't you dare lecture me on rationality, Professor. Not you. There's nothing rational about this. About us."

He closed the distance between you in two quick strides. "Listen, we can either stand here and argue about this, or you can just come with me. Either way, you know I'm not going to back down."

"It's funny, isn't it? You never back down, but the second I do the same, you shut me out. Like you're the only one allowed to care. Pretty hypocritical, don't you think?"

Satoru's eyes flashed with anger. "You think this is easy for me?"

"Easy to hurt me? Apparently."

"That's not what this is. That's not what I'm trying to do."

"Isn't it though? Because that's exactly how it feels."

"I know you're hurting," he pleaded, his voice softening. "But please, don't be so stubborn."

"I'm sorry that I'm so difficult. Maybe you should just tell me to shut up again? Maybe if you say it often enough, it'll finally sink in. I'll keep quiet, pretend like everything's fine. And I'll just sit back and wait until I find you overdosed again, but this time I'm too late, and I have to watch you die. Is that what you want? I think you should take more Xanax then, speed up the process."

You held your breath, a shard of ice lodged in your throat. You turned away, unable to face the hurt you knew you'd see in his eyes. How ugly one can become when stripped bare.

Maybe you were not good for him after all. Because your words were weapons, sharpened to a deadly point, and you wielded them with precision if you wanted to.

But there was no escape from this hell. No running away, no hiding from the truth that lay between you, spilled out like guts on the floor. It couldn't be stopped, couldn't be contained. It drew you in deeper, pulling you under, until you were both drowning.

Your father always said that a gentle soul was one who experienced pain but spared others from feeling it. But he never told you how fucking hard that would be.

"Can we just... Can we stop this, just for a second?" Satoru asked quietly.

And in that moment, amidst the wreckage of your apartment, surrounded by the ashes of your old life, you realized you couldn't do this anymore. The altar was soaked. The execution was done. But the blood was on your hands.

"Okay," you said. "Let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

Satoru's living room was painfully familiar.

But also horrifying.

You'd been here before, after you'd been drugged by your own carelessness—headless after you'd found out about his addiction. And you've been here before, when you fought with him to get clean—been here to find him half-dead after nearly overdosing.

Lifeless and barely breathing.

And now you were here again.

Satoru had fallen back into addiction, and you? Somehow, you felt like you didn't know who you were anymore, your identity bleeding from open wounds onto the already soaked carpet below.

Horrifying, indeed.

But it was your new home from now on. But it didn't feel like a home. Not after what had happened.

You made your way to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass, you filled it with water. At least the move had been quick. No packing required when all your belongings had gone up in flames.

Small mercies, you supposed.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone so soon." Satoru's voice. His footsteps behind you made you turn, and you saw him emerging from the bedroom. "I can't skip this lecture, but I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

You nodded, watching as he adjusted his watch on his wrist. He was dressed in his signature professorial attire — a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks, paired with a slightly askew tie.

He looked up then. "Will you be okay here on your own?"

You managed a weak smile, setting your glass down on the counter. "I'm fine, Satoru. You don't have to ask me that every five minutes."

"But how can I not?" he said softly.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the memory of his hurt gaze stinging. Taking a deep breath, you walked over to him. "Really, I'm fine." You reached up to straighten his tie, your fingers lingering on the smooth silk. "You really suck at this, you know."

His hands found their way to your hips, his thumbs tracing circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Good thing you're here now, right? Making sure I look presentable."

"At least one thing I'm good at," you said, a bitter edge creeping into your voice.

His fingers twitched against your hips, and you instantly regretted letting your resentment slip out yet again. It wasn't him you were angry with, you desperately needed to remind yourself of that.

But the frustration, the fear, the sheer exhaustion of holding it all together was building to a breaking point. Each fight felt like another chip off an already fragile foundation, and you were terrified of what would happen when there was nothing left.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, gazing up at him. You forced a smile, hoping to ease the worry etched on his face. "You need to get to the university."

"I know." His arms tightened around you, drawing you impossibly closer, as if he could mend everything standing between you if only he held you tightly enough. "Just a moment longer, love," he pleaded, his voice a ragged whisper against your hair. "I... I thought I lost you."

"Okay," you breathed, melting into his embrace and resting your head against his heart. He held you close, the pressure against your burns sending a sharp sting through your body.

Time seemed to still as you stood there, entwined in each other's arms, the rest of the world fading away until there was nothing but this—this quiet, fleeting moment suspended between the next battle, a calm before yet another storm, of that you were sure.

Reluctantly, Satoru pulled back, reaching for his wallet. He retrieved a sleek black credit card and held it out to you. "The pin is 2947," he said. "The daily limit is one thousand, but I can increase it if you need more. I don't have much food in the house right now, you may need to order some."

You stared at the card, then back at him. "Satoru, I have my own money. You don't have to—"

"I know," he interrupted. "But please, do me the favor. Besides, I'll be eating the food too, right? So really, it's for both of us."

Something in his eyes silenced your objection. "Okay," you said, your fingers closing around the card.

"Oh, and here." He fished out his keys, holding them out to you. "I can get another set made later—"

"No, I—," you said, "I still have your keys." You met his gaze. "You said I should keep them. So I kept them."

A faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Now go, before you'll be really late," you added.

He reached out then, threading his fingers through your hair and gently pulling you close once more. He placed a tender kiss on top of your head before stepping back. You watched as he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.

And just like that, he was gone.

The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the suddenly too-quiet, too-spacious, and too-unfamiliar apartment.

Running a hand through your hair, your fingers caught on a few stray strands still holding traces of ash from the fire. You desperately needed a shower.

You made your way to the bathroom. As you pushed open the door, a wave of nausea slammed into you, doubling you over. Vivid and unmerciful memories clawed their way to the surface — Satoru on the cold tile floor, his face ashen, his body still as death.

Staggering back, you gripped the doorframe for support, fighting the bile that scorched your throat. The image was seared into your brain, a permanent scar that refused to fade. You closed the door, shutting out the painful memory.

You took a deep breath.

Yeah, taking a shower would definitely be a challenge.

─── ·✧· ───

You couldn't.

You tried but you simply couldn't.

How pathetic is that?

You were not even able to take a shower.

In the end, you settled for somehow washing yourself with a damp cloth in the kitchen and bandaging your burns. It was the best you could manage.

You knew you needed to eat something, but hunger was nowhere to be found, so you figured if you'd order a lot of different things maybe something will wander into your stomach, or so you thought.

When the takeaway finally arrived, you sat at the table and eyed the various containers and dishes. One leg up on the chair, knee drawn to your chest.

No hunger.

Nothing.

Satoru would be home soon anyway, he sure was hungry. Strange how you knew that, even now. How strangely, intimately familiar you were with his schedule.

The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. And all you could do was sit and wait until you felt like yourself again. But somehow, you couldn't get your mind out of that bathroom. His lifeless form, the cold tile beneath him. It was seared into your brain.

You couldn't shake the sickening feeling of helplessness that had engulfed you in that moment, the realization that no matter how desperately you wanted to, you were powerless to save him.

It was a feeling you knew all too well, an awful feeling that had taken root in your chest the day your father died. You had been just a child then, too young to understand the finality of death, too small to do anything.

For years, you had clung to the belief that if only you had been older, if only you had been stronger, you could have saved him.

But maybe that was not the truth.

Maybe it wasn't about being a child at all. Maybe there was something inherently wrong with you. Maybe Sukuna was right.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm light through the apartment windows, you heard the familiar sound of keys clicking in the lock before shortly Satoru stepped through the door.

He paused, his eyes widening as he took in the array of takeaway containers scattered across the table. A playful grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he turned to you, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Is that all for me, or did you invite some friends over?"

You returned his smile. "I figured you'd be hungry."

Satoru chuckled, his laughter a welcome break from the unbearable silence that had filled the apartment in his absence. "Someone sure was hungry." He placed his briefcase and keys on the side table, the familiar routine bringing a sense of normalcy to the otherwise surreal situation. "How are you feeling?"

He crossed the room to where you sat, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of your head. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment before he made his way to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening reached your ears, followed by the crackle of a water bottle being unsealed.

"I'm fine." You turned your head to watch him, your eyes following the line of his throat as he took a long swig. "How was your day?"

He suddenly stopped, nearly choking on his water. "Did you just ask me how my day was?"

"Is that so strange?"

"No, I—" he blinked, a smile tugging at his lips. "I like that."

"Domestic, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he mused, his gaze softening. "I could get used to that."

You remained silent for a second longer, before Satoru broke the spell, gesturing towards the table with a tilt of his head. "You really went all out, didn't you?"

You shrugged. "I guess I got a bit carried away. I couldn't decide what I wanted, so I just ordered a little bit of everything."

Satoru returned to the table, settling into the chair opposite you, his eyes roaming over the vast array of dishes you'd ordered. Reaching for a container, Satoru popped it open and inhaled deeply. "Well, you certainly made good use of that credit card."

"Maybe you should consider upping the limit, after all."

Satoru grinned. "That's no problem, love. Anything for you."

He broke apart a pair of wooden chopsticks and started to eat, but halted just a second later, his gaze falling on the perfectly arranged food before him. "You didn't eat anything."

"I did," you said.

"Don't lie to me."

You paused. "It's not like I didn't try."

He exhaled heavily, then set the chopsticks down and leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving your face.

"That shouldn't stop you from eating. You must be hungry," you added.

"It's okay. I ate at the university."

His gaze held you captive, those impossibly blue eyes now soft and unguarded, filled with a yearning that made your heart ache. It was a look that had become so familiar, a look that filled your heart as much as it fueled your fear.

But you weren't sure you could bear it anymore.

The constant worry, the sleepless nights, the fear of finding him lifeless on the bathroom floor—it was all too much. Every moment spent with him was a delicate dance on the edge of a knife, never knowing when the blade might slip and cut you both to the bone.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered.

"Like what?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Say it."

"Because it makes it easier?"

"It hurts better coming from your lips."

"And you need that?"

"Anything you give me, yes."

You tore your gaze away from his, unable to bear the blue of his eyes any longer. "I can't do this, Satoru." You stood up and started pacing the room, turning away from him.

"Then tell me," he started, his voice laced with desperation, "what do you want me to do? You want me sober, fine, I'm trying, even when it feels like it's killing me. You want me to keep my distance, okay, I'll try, even if it rips me apart. I'm yours, so just tell me what you want, and I'll do it. I'm at your mercy!"

You shook your head, refusing to look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You don't understand."

He stood up, his hands slamming down on the table. "Then make me understand!"

"I live in constant fear, Satoru." You spun around to face him, your eyes burning. "And I don't think I can do this anymore. This fear, it's turning me into someone I don't even recognize anymore." The words poured out of you, a flood of pain and frustration you couldn't hold back any longer. "I try so hard not to be anxious all the time, but I can't trust you, Satoru. Not your actions, not your words. I can't even trust that you'll tell me the important things. I can't trust you when you say you love me, and I definitely can't trust you when you say you've got it under control, while you're taking more and more pills like it's nothing. How can I trust that you won't take it too far? That I won't have to plan my speech for your fucking funeral?"

Not again.

Not again you would ever want to see his body so still.

You took a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper. "And I can't shake this feeling... that it's all my fault."

"What?" His gaze softened, confusion etched on his face. "Why would you think that?"

"You said it yourself. I'm pushing you."

"That's not—I didn't—" he started, but stopped, realizing he had indeed said those words. "Is that why you won't let me help you?"

"There's comfort in self-destruction, isn't there?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Because I would have to be an addict first, to know?" you said, the question a knife, twisting, cutting, drawing blood.

He was silent.

And you were done. Empty. A shell of the person you once were. It was unfair, and you hated yourself for it, for letting the venom spill from your lips, for hurting the one person who didn't deserve it.

But you were at your limit.

The love you had for him, the love he had for you, it was a malignant growth, metastasizing, consuming, destroying everything in its wake. It was a sickness with no cure. No treatment. No hope for remission.

Symptom and cause, all at once.

And in that moment, standing there, your heart splintering with each passing second, one truth burned with cruel clarity. His sobriety, his chance at a future, was eating him from the inside out.

But the other truth, the one that clawed at your insides, was that you might not be strong enough to survive it either. If he couldn't break free, if he couldn't stop — you'd be the one left to bury him.

It was a fear that gnawed at you, a constant, aching presence that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to imagine a future where you both made it out alive.

You loved him with a fierce, irrational intensity, but could you be strong enough to stay by his side and watch him slowly kill himself? To be his executioner or his mourner?

"What did Sukuna say to you, love?" he asked suddenly, so softly.

"Nothing." You averted your gaze, the lie heavy on your tongue. "I didn't talk to him."

"Don't lie to me. Something's wrong. What is it?"

You met his gaze. "What's the reason you're back on the sedatives?"

Satoru's shoulders slumped, the weight of the question pressing down on him. He sank onto the chair, elbows digging into the table as he scrubbed his hands over his face, then raked them through his hair.

A tense silence hung in the air. Finally, he raised his head, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts.

He couldn't tell you. Didn't trust you enough.

You turned away, unable to bear the weight of his silence. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you gripped the edge until your knuckles turned white. As you shifted, the button-down shirt you'd borrowed from him rode up, exposing the red marks on your thighs.

Satoru's reaction was immediate. His chair clattered to the floor as he surged to his feet, crossing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his fingers hovering over the burns. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing." You braced your hands against the counter behind you, trying to create some distance.

"This isn't nothing." His voice was strained, his hands trembling as he pushed the fabric higher, revealing more of the patchwork of pain that crawled up your leg. Before he could uncover more, your hand closed around his wrist.

"It's okay. I took care of it," you said.

His eyes locked onto yours, their intensity silencing your protests. You let go of his hand. Gently, he pushed your shirt higher, his touch feather-light as he traced the red burns on your thighs.

His brows furrowed with each new discovery, the marks growing angrier, deeper, until he reached the hastily applied bandage at your waist. You could practically feel the question in his touch.

"Satoru, stop. It's—"

But it was too late. He quickly undid the bandages, ignoring your protests. The bandage fell away, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

"You have second-degree burns on your waist," he said.

"First degree," you tried to play it down. "Don't be dramatic."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"It doesn't matter." You looked away. "They'll heal."

Satoru's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He stumbled back a step, turned away from you, and raked his hands through his hair, yanking at the strands with a guttural growl of frustration.

The tension in the room was unbearable, you knew he was only one stupid word away from snapping. He started pacing the length of the kitchen like a caged animal. You watched him, your heart strangely calm.

He slammed his fists against the counter opposite you, his head bowed. "You infuriating woman!" The words were barely out before his fist connected with the wood again, the impact sending a tremor through the room, leaving a visible dent.

You didn't flinch. You knew his anger wasn't directed at you, but at the situation, at the unfairness of it all, at the helplessness that threatened to consume you both. You knew that. You felt it too.

He slumped over the counter once more, his head buried in his hands, his fingers tearing at his hair. You were sure he was pulling out strands, his shoulders heaving with each ragged breath.

When he finally turned back to you, his eyes were carefully blank, a mask over the storm raging within.

He crossed the room, his body crowding yours against the counter. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath your eye.

"It matters to me," he whispered. His other hand settled on your hip, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, which you had also borrowed, to trace the edge of the bandage. "You matter to me."

His touch was feather-light, despite the tension that still shimmered through every line of his body. "I'll change that bandage." It wasn't a question, but a statement of intent. You nodded.

You perched on the kitchen counter, holding your shirt up to your chest. Satoru stepped between your legs. You shivered as his fingers brushed against your skin, carefully peeling away the old bandage, the fabric sticking to the raw flesh beneath.

He didn't say anything as the full extent of the damage was revealed, but you could feel his silent fury.

You knew it wasn't directed at you, but at your stubborn refusal to let him in, to share your pain. You hadn't wanted to trouble him, to add another burden to his already heavy shoulders.

You watched him silently through lowered lashes as he cleaned the wound, his fingers ghosting over the damaged skin like a whisper. You flinched at the contact, a hiss of pain escaping your lips.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay."

As he began to remove the dead skin around the burn, a searing pain shot through your body. Your head snapped to the side, your teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle the scream that clawed at your throat.

Satoru paused, his eyes searching yours. "Can you hold on a bit longer for me, love?"

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. You knew he was being as gentle as possible, but the pain was nearly unbearable. Your hand found his shoulder, gripping it tightly, the other one still clutching your shirt. Your fingers dug into his skin, but he didn't flinch, his focus solely on you.

You leaned into him, suddenly boneless with exhaustion and pain, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He wrapped a fresh bandage around your waist, his touch both firm and gentle.

When he was finished, he didn't step away. Instead, he let his hands rest on your hips. He nuzzled his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Don't ever lie to me again when you're hurt," he said, his voice muffled but resolute. "Promise me."

You lifted your head from his shoulder, your nose brushing against his jaw. He turned his face towards you, his lips a hair's breadth away, so close you could almost taste him on your tongue.

"I promise," you breathed.

A beat of silence passed. Then, his voice softened, almost hesitant. "You didn't call your mother back."

"Huh?"

"She called me. She's worried about you. You haven't answered her calls in weeks."

"I... I can't right now," you whispered, the admission sticking in your throat, the shame of it too heavy to bear. Not another fight. There were already too many, too many wounds that hadn't healed, too many scars that would never fade.

"We can visit her together again. If that would make it easier for you."

"Okay," you whispered, your voice unsteady.

A truce settled between you, a silent agreement to avoid the painful truths for now. He wouldn't push you about Sukuna, and you wouldn't push him about the pills. You both knew this dance, this careful avoidance of the real issues that festered beneath the surface.

But for now, in this moment, you could pretend. Pretend that love was enough. But was it really? Was love alone enough to keep you both alive?

Deep down, you knew there was no happy ending, no miraculous recovery, no fairy tale love that could conquer all. There was only the harsh, ugly reality of addiction and the cold, hard truth of a love that had become a prison, a death sentence disguised as devotion.

"I love you," Satoru whispered, breaking the silence.

His lips hovered over yours, a feather-light touch that once set your soul on fire, but now left you cold and empty.

You slid off the counter, your body brushing against his as you stood. You turned away, unable to face him, unable to face the love that had become a disease, a cancer ate away at your very being.

With a trembling hand, you wiped away the single tear that escaped your eye. "Maybe you should stop that."

"Not even in death," he said to you.

"I'm going to bed," you said to him.

You walked away.

He didn't follow.

Perhaps this was your curse — to forever dance on the knife's edge of love and hate, never able to fully commit to either. Or maybe it was simply human nature, the constant struggle between attraction and repulsion that defined so many relationships.

─── ·✧· ───

You awoke with a start.

For a moment, you lay there, disoriented, confused, your mind struggling to make sense of your sudden alarm. You sat up, your body heavy. And then, you heard it, a sound that cut through the silence of the night.

You knew what it was. Heard it once before.

Satoru.

You were on your feet before you could think, your body moving of its own accord, carrying you over to his bedroom, nearly slipping on the suddenly so slick floor. You pushed open the door, your heart in your throat.

And there he was, thrashing on the bed, his body drenched in sweat, his face contorted in agony.

"Satoru," you said as you moved over. "Wake up."

But you knew this. Had been here before.

Without waiting a second, you climbed onto the bed, your body pressing against his, as you straddled his hips. You cupped his face, your fingers threading through his hair. "Satoru! Please, wake up, it's just a dream, it's not real!"

Still, he remained trapped.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. "Satoru," you said, your breath fanning over his face. "I'm here, I'm right here, please, come back to me."

And then, his eyes flew open, wide and haunted.

He sat up abruptly, pushing you back in doing so, until you sat on his lap, your hands sliding down to rest against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath your fingertips.

He looked at you, his gaze unfocused, his mind still seemingly trapped, as if he couldn't quite believe that you were real, that you were here with him.

"It's okay." You reached up, your thumbs brushing away the single tear that streamed down his cheeks. "You're safe, I'm here, it was just a dream."

He blinked, his eyes clearing, his mind slowly returning to the present, to the reality of your presence, your touch. "You're here," he whispered, his voice raw, broken, barely audible. "You're not hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm here," you whispered, your arms wrapping around him, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his arms coming up your spine to wrap around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I'm so sorry."

You held him, your hands wrapped around his neck, your fingers in his hair. "It's okay, I'm here."

"Please." His grip tightened around your waist, pulling you close with a searing pain that echoed through the burns on your skin. You bit back a gasp, refusing to let him see how much it hurt. "Please don't leave me."

Your heart nearly shattered at his sudden admission, your grip tightening on him in response. "Stupid," you said. "How could I ever leave you. I'm tethered to you, after all."

─── ·✧· ───

"It's not always the same."

Satoru's voice was hoarse, barely rising above a whisper.

"It's fractured, parts and pieces that I can't really explain. And then I'm alone in this hole, like at the bottom of a well, surrounded by nothing and everything at the same time, and it's crushing me," he paused. "I don't know, it doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it's not supposed to make sense."

"But dreams mean something, don't they?"

"Dreams are just dreams," you said softly. "Thoughts are just thoughts. It's what we do with them that matters. How we choose to act."

Cool, crisp air of the early morning enveloped you both as you walked along the pier, the weathered wooden planks creaking beneath your feet. The sky above was a deep indigo, slowly yielding to the soft hues of dawn painting the horizon.

Around you, the city around you was slowly coming to life, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional cry of a seagull punctuating the quiet dawn.

You glanced out at the water, watching as the first few fishing boats began their journey out to sea, their lights flickering like fireflies in the night. Satoru walked beside you, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.

Suddenly, he stopped. You halted too, turning to face him.

"Sometimes," he said, "sometimes I see you in my dreams."

"And what do I do?"

"Nothing. You're just there." He hesitated, as if the memory itself was too painful to relive. "But I see your hands, covered in blood. It won't wash away. And I can't wake up, can't look away."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. But I know that whatever it is, whatever happened—it's my fault."

"Why would you think that?"

Satoru met your gaze, his eyes haunted. "Because that's what I do, isn't it? I'm an addict. I hurt people. You said it yourself."

You swallowed, hating yourself for how ugly and hurtful your words could be, even to the people you loved most. "No. You're not."

His frown deepened.

"No, you're not," you repeated, stepping closer. "Not to me. That's a label you've given yourself." You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. "Satoru, if I could give you one thing, it would be the ability to see yourself through my eyes. To me, you're just Satoru. That's all I want, all I've ever wanted. And I..." You paused, your voice catching. "I hate you, without knowing how, or when, or why. I simply do. And I'm sorry that I've been failing to show you that lately, but I'm trying."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips then, a soft, gentle curve that seemed almost foreign on his face, as if he'd forgotten how to truly smile. "You confused 'love' with 'hate'," he teased.

"Don't get ahead of yourse—," you began but he suddenly reached out, his hand closing around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He cupped your chin with his other hand, tilting your face up.

He studied your face, his eyes tracing every curve and contour. But then his expression hardened, like a mask slipping into place. His fingers brushed through your hair. "You still have ashes on you."

Your chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. "You know, It's hard taking a shower in the same bathroom where you nearly died," you said, hating how your voice was close to breaking.

His eyes widened. It was as if the pieces of a puzzle were falling into place, a painful clarity that shattered him from within. His lips parted, as if to speak, but the words were stuck.

"I never meant to hurt you. Not you," he whispered.

"But you did, Satoru. And you'll do it again," you said. "But I'm yours to break. So it's okay."

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours. "Don't say something like that." His gaze was fixed on your lips, as if he could taste the pain in your words, as if he wanted to consume it, to take it into himself and bear it for you.

"Then be careful with me, Satoru. Tell me what's going on."

Satoru was silent for a long moment, the only sounds the distant cry of seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Finally, he spoke. "It's not because of you. The sedatives, I mean."

"Is it about Sukuna?

"No... I mean, yes, but not mostly," he admitted, his brow furrowed. "It's my parents."

"We don't have to go to them, Satoru. You don't have to go there."

"You know why we have to, why I have to."

"Then let's confront this lawsuit head-on. Take the fight straight to Naoya."

His jaw tightened. "No. I won't let that happen. I won't let you get dragged into this."

"Why not? It's my choice, Satoru."

"No. We won't do that. End of discussion."

Without a word, he released you, his fingers slipping from your waist. He stepped back, his footsteps echoing against the weathered planks of the pier as he made his way to the railing to lean against it.

You followed him, the salty air whipping around you, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the faint traces of seaweed and fish. Satoru was silent, his gaze fixed on the vast ocean. You followed his gaze.

Around you, the pier was coming to life, the low murmur of voices and the clanking of equipment drifting on the breeze. Fishing boats bobbed gently on the water, their white hulls gleaming in the sun, their crews moving about on deck, preparing for the day ahead.

"I think my problem is that I don't know how to talk about it, how to make you understand things I cannot understand myself," Satoru began. "There's just this chaos inside my head, and I don't know how to sort it out."

"Then don't. Just let it out."

"Huh?"

"You don't have to sort it out. Just speak and I'll listen."

He took a deep breath. "Growing up I never had anyone to look up to. Just people I swore I'd never become. My parents... they were always pushing, always demanding. How do they say it? Wanting the best for me and all that. Top surgeons for generations. It's in my blood." He paused, staring out at the horizon. "But they never asked if I wanted that. Never cared to give me a chance to just... breathe, and think."

He let out a bitter laugh. "And the worst part? I was good at it. A natural. But that only made it worse, made me hate it even more."

You shifted closer, your hand finding the railing beside his.

"I tried talking to them," he continued, "thought if I could just find the right words, I could make them understand what they were doing to me. Get them to change. But no matter how much I screamed, how raw my throat got, they never listened. I could never make them listen."

His fingers twitched at his side, and you saw his nails digging into his palms.

"So I just... stopped trying. Stopped speaking. Went through the motions. It was easier to do what they wanted, to get their attention and approval by being the perfect surgeon they expected. And ironically, it was so damn easy. Maybe that's what got me into addiction so easily."

Satoru glanced down at his hands, his fingers clenched tight. "I still love surgery," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, as if confessing a shameful secret. "Even after everything they put me through, I love it. How screwed up is that?"

"Do your parents know? About the addiction?" you asked.

"No. I don't think they ever cared enough to notice. Or maybe they just turned a blind eye. I don't know." He looked down at his hands, realizing he'd drawn blood, and quickly unclenched his fists. "I keep telling myself I should forgive them, that holding onto this anger and resentment is pointless. I mean, I'm in my thirties, I should be able to let it go, right? But I just... I don't know if I can."

"What makes you think you have to forgive them?"

He shrugged, avoiding your eyes. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Be the bigger person, rise above it all? Parents are only human, right?"

"No." You stepped closer, tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze. "Satoru, listen to me. You don't have to feel forgiveness or sympathy for your parents, and you don't have to wait for those feelings to appear. You don't owe them your forgiveness. Neither are you defined by their inability to love. You can't force someone to care or to see what they don't want to see."

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. You reached out, your fingers intertwining with his, his blood warm against your skin. "Come with me," you said softly.

You walked down the pier towards the harbor, where the fishermen were already bustling about, preparing for the day's catch. Hands still intertwined with Satoru's, you weaved your way through the activity. He followed half a step behind you, letting you lead.

"When my father died, I wanted to quit," you said, salty air filling your lungs. "Just... walk away from it all. Never see the inside of a hospital again, never open another stupid neurology textbook. I hated that antiseptic smell, how it seemed to cling to everything, even to myself. And I was so angry. Angry at the world, at fate, at everything. And I was alone with this, because my mom just shut herself off. Couldn't face it."

You paused, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. "I felt so torn. Between this anger and my love for medicine. Loving it and hating it in equal measure. I threw myself into work, anything to distract myself from the fact that I couldn't possibly love something that only brought me so much pain. So I chose to hate it, believing anger was what kept me walk."

As you spoke, an old beagle, its brown and white fur speckled with gray, ambled onto the pier. Its long ears dangled as it sniffed its way between a few stalls, its tail wagging gently. It made its way towards you, stopping beside you and sniffing at your leg.

Crouching down, you held out your hand, letting the dog sniff. It hesitated for a moment, its nose twitching as it took in your scent. Then, as if making a decision, it nuzzled into your palm, its tail wagging happily. You couldn't help but smile as you ran your fingers through its soft fur.

"But you don't hate it anymore," Satoru observed quietly. "What changed?"

"It's not linked, you know. It's only in your head." The beagle nuzzled your hand, its tail thumping contentedly against the pier. "You can love something without the circumstances that made you hate it. You can love surgery without the grief, love it without the abuse," you paused, your voice softening, "love the man without the addiction."

Just then, an old fisherman approached, his face etched with deep lines and his skin tanned from years under the sun. "Ah, that old rascal again," he said, shaking his head. "Always getting into mischief."

You looked up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. "Is he yours?"

"Nah," the fisherman replied, "he's a bit of a stray, this one. Lives around the pier here. We all try to catch him sometimes, but he's a slippery fella."

Just as he said that, the beagle perked up its ears, gave one last nuzzle to your hand, and trotted off down the pier.

The fisherman grimaced. "See? Always one step ahead. At least he didn't manage to steal my fish today."

You stood up, brushing off your knees. "He's a smart one," you agreed, watching the dog disappear into the crowd.

The fisherman, with a final nod and a wave, turned back to his stall, resuming his preparations for the day. The rhythmic clinking of metal and the smell of fresh fish filled the air once again.

You turned back to Satoru, your eyes locking with his. "Sometimes," you picked up where you'd left off, "we cling to the pain because we're afraid that if we let it go, we'll lose the last connection we have to what we've lost. But anger and pain aren't the only way to stay connected."

You reached for his hand again and pulled him along as you made your way down the pier, the bustle of the fishmongers surrounding you. Their voices rose in a chorus of shouts and laughter, and in the distance you could hear the gentle rhythm of the waves.

The day's catch was displayed on beds of glistening ice, from sleek silver mackerel to plump pink shrimp, their scales catching the light like tiny prisms as you waved through the activity.

At the very end of the pier, you stopped, both of you drawn to the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before you, a shimmering carpet of blue and gold.

The breeze picked up, tugging at your hair and clothes, the salty tang of the sea filling your lungs with each breath. You pulled Satoru's borrowed jacket closer around your shoulders.

"I know there's stability in self-destruction, in prolonging sadness," you said, "but maybe this sadness and anger is just the grief of not having the parents you needed."

"You know what I hate about you?" Satoru asked.

"What, that I look better in your jacket than you do?"

"No, although that's definitely a close second."

"What is it then?" you asked, both of you gazing out to the lazy dance of the waves.

"I hate how easily I got addicted to you," he confessed. "In ways I can't even begin to put into words. How quickly you became a part of me, like you were always meant to be there. Every day, every moment, you're in my head, under my skin. I can't even sleep at night without thinking about you, without wanting to hear your voice, to touch you. Because with you, breathing never felt like a burden. And I think that's something I'm not used to."

He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours. "I care about you, more than I ever thought I could care about anyone. And that terrifies me. It terrifies me to be with you. And I have a lot of regrets about that, about how I've handled things. But I'm trying, I really am. And I'm sorry I haven't been doing a good job lately. I'm trying to be more easy to love."

"You were never hard to love, Satoru, not for me."

Satoru's lips curved into a smile. He took a sharp inhale, his hand coming up to tilt your chin upwards, his gaze on your lips. But before he could lean in, a sudden bark shattered the silence, startling you both.

The stray beagle from before trotted back over, his paws tapping softly against the weathered wood of the pier. His tail wagged as he made his way over, stopping at your feet and sitting down, looking up at you.

"He must really like you," Satoru said against your lips.

You looked down, smiling as the beagle leaned against your leg. "Seems like it." You crouched down again, the beagle leaning into your touch, his soft fur brushing against your fingers. "Guess I just have a thing for old, broken things that no one else wants," you quipped, scratching behind the dog's ears.

Satoru's smile twitched. "Ouch."

He watched you for a second as the sun, slowly rising, painted the sky in hues of pale pink and gold, casting long shadows across the weathered wood planks and reflecting off the calm waters of the harbor.

"Will you tell me what Sukuna said to you?" he asked.

You stopped petting the dog, your smile fading. "He said I was no good for you. That you'd be better off without me."

"And you believe that?"

"I don't know." You resumed petting the dog, your fingers tracing absentmindedly through its fur. "Maybe I am. Maybe I make things harder than they need to be."

Satoru crouched down beside you, the dog curiously peeking up at him as he reached out to gently cup your cheek. "I want you to make my life harder," he said. "Because you make me want to be better, to do better. And even when it's hard, even when I mess up, I'd rather face it all with you than have an easy life without you."

"What if I push you too far? What if I lose myself again? Say those awful things again?"

"It doesn't matter," he said firmly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I want your awful. I want all of you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm not letting you go, no matter how hard it gets."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you whispered.

Satoru's gaze softened. "Nothing you say can hurt me."

The beagle, sensing the change in the atmosphere, nudged his head under your hand again, comforting you. You looked down at him, a small smile on your lips.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that Sukuna is back," Satoru said after a moment. "I was scared."

"It's okay," you said, looking up at him. "I'm scared too."

He let out a shaky breath. "Stupid what fear makes you do, huh?"

"What would you do if you weren't scared?" you asked.

Satoru blinked, taken aback by the question. He slowly rose to his feet, turning towards the vast ocean. You followed him, the dog settling at your feet. Satoru leaned back against the railing of the pier, his gaze fixed on his feet. "Without fear?"

"Without any fear."

He huffed. "I would quit my job. Sell all that property that ties me to my parents, and buy us a little house, somewhere far away from here, somewhere that feels like home. I'd get us an old, grumpy dog, just like him." He glanced down at the beagle at your feet.

Then he looked up, meeting your gaze. "And I'd marry you, in a heartbeat, without a second thought. I'd spend every day of the rest of my life making sure you never doubted, even for a moment, just how much you mean to me."

He paused and looked out at the ocean again. "I'd try rehab again, as many times as it takes, until I get it right, until I can be the man I want to be for you."

You moved closer, closing the distance between you. "Then do it scared, Satoru," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "You don't have to wait until your past is undone, until you feel forgiveness for your parents, or until this mess with Sukuna is over. You are not paralyzed by it. So do it scared."

Your hand reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb gently tracing the stubble on his jaw. "I'm scared too. Scared of how much I feel for you, of how deeply you've burrowed into my heart. But I'm willing to do it scared, if you are. Together. Because I can't stand this silence between us."

Satoru leaned in, his hands finding your hips. You tilted your head back, your heart pounding as his lips hovered just a breath away.

"So is this a yes?"

"To what?"

"Marrying me?"

"No."

"No?"

"Ask me again when we're both in a better place. And you'll get the answer you want."

His lips curved into a sly smile, his dimples deepening. "Can I kiss you?"

"Since when do you ask permission?"

"Since we're... like this."

"Like what?"

"Separated," he said, "or something like that."

"We're never really separated, are we?"

"I don't know," he breathed, his lips so close now that you could feel his warmth against your skin. "All I know is that I want you. I've only ever wanted you—"

And with those words, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his. His arms wrapped around you, carefully avoiding your burns, pulling you flush against him.

In one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You could taste the salt on his skin, feel the roughness of his stubble against your cheek, the gentle caress of the wind in your hair. In the distance, waves crashed against the shore.

In that stolen moment, the currents met again, their crimson stains matching perfectly and the pain of the past seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you, hearts beating as one, souls intertwined in a way that defied logic.

Finally, he gently set you back down, his forehead resting against yours. "What's your favorite color?" he asked.

"What?"

"Your favorite color, what is it?"

"I don't know, blue?"

Back home, you lay together in his bed, the guest room long forgotten. He pulled you close, his strong arms wrapped around you. And for the first time in a long time, Satoru slept soundly, the nightmares that had haunted him finally silenced.

─── ·✧· ───

The next morning, you were rudely awakened by the obnoxious ringing of the doorbell. Seriously, couldn't you just have a normal wake-up call for once in this chapter? Is that too much to ask, author?

Anyway.

With a groan, you rolled over, your hand reaching out for Satoru, wanting to shove him out of bed to answer the door. But your fingers met only cold, empty sheets. Your eyes blinked open.

He wasn't there.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you glanced around the room, your gaze falling on a small note on the bedside table. You reached for it.

"Had to leave early for a faculty meeting. Breakfast is in the fridge. Construction workers coming at 10, let them in, they know what to do. I love you." It was written in Satoru's distinctive, slanted handwriting.

You stared at the note, not sure whether the unexpected construction workers or the casual "I love you" at the end was more unsettling. Satoru hadn't said anything about construction work, and a little warning would have been nice.

But he made breakfast. Husband points for that.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, you felt your heart skip a beat. 10:15. The construction workers were already here, and you were still in bed, wearing nothing but one of Satoru's t-shirts and a pair of his boxers you'd borrowed last night. Lovely.

Cursing under your breath, you scrambled out of bed, grabbed some sweatpants from the dresser, and pulled them on, almost tripping in your rush to get to the door. The doorbell rang again, the sound even more insistent than before, as you hurried down the hallway.

Then you skidded to a halt. There, sprawled across the living room sofa, was the beagle from yesterday. He blinked sleepily, his head tilting as if he were as annoyed as you were about the doorbell.

What? How did he get in here? Did Satoru bring him?

The doorbell's relentless chime pulled you back to reality. You shook your head, you'll deal with this later. With a final glance at the unexpected houseguest, you unlocked the door and swung it open, your eyes widening at the sight that greeted you.

There, standing on the threshold, were three burly men in hard hats and work boots, their arms crossed over their broad chests as they stared down at you with impatient expressions. If you didn't know better, you'd think they were here to kill you.

Husband minus points for that. At least do it yourself, coward.

"Ms. Gojo?" the one in front asked, ripping you out of your trance as you seemed to be frozen, his voice gruff. "We're here for the bathroom renovation. Mr. Gojo said to start at 10."

If you weren't so sleepy, you might have corrected him about the "Ms. Gojo" part, but you were too confused to bother. You blinked. "I... yes, of course." You stepped aside. "Please, come in."

The men filed past you, their heavy boots thudding against the floor as they made their way into the apartment. You silently cursed them for not taking off their shoes, knowing you'd have to clean up after them. You closed the door and tried to figure out what to do next.

"Um, the bathroom is just down the hall, on the left." You gestured vaguely in the direction. "I... I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you. Mr. Gojo didn't mention anything about a renovation."

The leader of the group, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard, turned to look at you, his expression softening a bit. "No worries, miss," he said, his voice a little kinder than before. "We've got all the instructions we need. You just go about your day, and we'll take care of everything."

"Thank you." You managed a small smile. "I appreciate it."

The man nodded, then turned to his crew, giving them orders as they headed down the hallway towards the bathroom. You stood there for a moment, watching them go, and then your eyes fixed on the two buckets they were carrying.

Wall paint.

Blue.

You felt your heart clench suddenly, or maybe you were about to have a heart attack, or a stroke, or both. After everything that had happened recently, you shouldn't even be surprised anymore. Shaking your head, you tried to focus again.

You needed coffee. You needed food. And most of all, you needed a damn shower.

You grabbed some of Satoru's spare clothes, the breakfast he had left for you in the fridge, and then crouched down beside the dog, cupping his soft face in your hands. "Hey, Dog. Wanna go to the city with me?" He blinked up at you, tail thumping against the sofa. "Alright then, let's go see what kind of trouble we can get into with daddy's credit card."

With Dog trotting at your heels, you headed out into the city to buy a leash, find a public bath and then go to the university.

You needed to see Maki.

─── ·✧· ───

"We need to go to Naoya's party."

Maki nearly choked on her coffee, spluttering and coughing as she tried to catch her breath. "What?" She frantically wiped the coffee that was dripping down her chin. Her outburst drew the attention of a nearby table of students, who looked over with raised eyebrows. "I thought the party was canceled because of Dr. Handsome."

You shook your head, leaning forward and lowering your voice even further in the crowded cafeteria. "No, we need to go there because of Dr. Handsome. We have to find a way to cancel that lawsuit against him."

Maki's eyes widened, her mouth falling open. "Cancel the lawsuit? Why now?" A group of students walked by, their laughter momentarily interrupting your conversation. As they passed, Maki's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Wait a minute... isn't that Dr. Handsome's shirt you're wearing?"

You looked down at the shirt, which was clearly a men's shirt and of the brand Satoru always wore. "Oh yeah, about that... I live with him now."

"What? Hold up!" Maki stuttered, almost dying on her coffee again, causing several heads to turn in your direction. She quickly lowered her voice and leaned in closer. "You live with him? Are you serious? When did that happen and why am I just hearing about it now?"

"Well, my apartment kind of went up in flames, so..." you trailed off, shrugging.

Maki's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Your apartment what now? Flames? What? Are you okay?"

You waved your hand dismissively. "That's not important right now. The thing is," you said, trying to get back on track, "Satoru would need more money to cover the lawsuit, and he would have to go to his parents and—," you saw the growing confusion in Maki's eyes and cut it short. "Bottom line, we have to cancel that lawsuit somehow."

Maki sat back in her chair, looking more confused by the second. "Okay," she said slowly, "but how do you plan on doing that? It's not like Naoya is just going to admit what he did and drop the charges."

"That's why we have to go to that party," you said. "We need to get into Naoya's house and find something, anything, that we can use against him. Proof that he tried to drug me, or that he's done it to other girls before. Something that will make him back off and drop the charges. But we can't tell Satoru. We have to go alone."

Maki stared at you for a long moment. "You're crazy, you know that, right?"

"So, are you in?"

"You know, when I said to have a little more fun, I didn't exactly mean it like this." Then a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "But hell yeah, I'm in. Let's wreck that asshole's place. But first, you've got to spill the tea on how you ended up living with the one and only Dr. Satoru Gojo." Then her eyes landed on Dog. "And then you have to tell me why you have a dog with you?"

You leaned down to scoop the sleepy beagle onto your lap, holding him up by the paws. "This is Dog. Isn't he cute?" You gently moved his paw, creating a half-hearted wave. "Say hi to Maki."

Maki raised an eyebrow. "You named him 'Dog'?"

"He doesn't have a name yet." You shrugged, then held up Satoru's black credit card. "Wanna go shopping while I fill you in? I need some clothes. And dog food."

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author's note: the biggest thank you goes out to @/nanamis-baker for helping me with this chapter, i was so unsure about everything going on and still am but she helped me tremendously to sort it all out on how i want to proceed with the story. again, thank you so much. you can read her work here <3

i know this chapter was pretty heavy again, but next chapter will be lighter and fun. also, we might need to add a sukuna slap list, because i lost count of how many times he gets slapped in this story (but deservedly) lol.

moreover, the story is now reaching its last third, can you believe that? it feels like forever since i started this series, so thanks to everyone for still keeping up and patiently waiting for updates :)

a few have wondered where his relapse happened (chapter 11), and i think most thought in his office at the university, but it was actually his place. i kinda forgot to explicitly state it, my bad (and never corrected it, i'm lazy). so… but now we all know it was actually in his apartment, and the reader came home to him after the whole ethics committee thing to check on him, and like found him there.

but anyway, thanks for reading, take care everyone :) and if you haven't checked out the spin-off with suguru yet, you can do so here <3

pls consider subscribing to the story on AO3, if you'd like to stay updated on future chapters. also, please note that i'll be kicking inactive readers off the taglist so that i can tag more people who genuinely interact with the story.

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