⌗ ₍ ˆ｡ꞈ｡̂₎ฅ 💬 :: 𝗵𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝗲𝗿𝖾!! ✧ Look Some Toge

Happy anniversary to these guys or whatever y'know

# NORAGAMI LAYOUTS !!

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they left their umbrella :(

base on original art from here https://x.com/diz_korall_DB/status/1643655164119613449

"if it's with you"

Pairing: todoroki x fem!reader Genre: fluff, very light hurt/comfort if you squint Summary: as pro-heroes, downtime is especially hard to come by. when you and your boyfriend todoroki finally get the weekend off after a few particularly hellish weeks on the job, you’re determined to make the most of it. the universe, however, seems to have other plans— and a twist you never would’ve expected.WC: 9,889 Warnings: pro-hero!au where both todoroki and reader are pros, like one suggestive line buried somewhere, mentions of divorce and past bad relationships, reader has some trust issues and has also been through A Lot but she’s working on it, todoroki being the best bf ever A/N: my first mha fic! and before anyone asks, no i haven’t read the ending 😅 i’ll read it one day but until then, it’s none of my business <3 -Dawn

Your suffering begins, as it so often does, with the best of intentions.

You wake in the comfort of your boyfriend Todoroki’s arms, the two of you tangled together in the sheets of his bed, your back pressed comfortably against his front. The morning’s first rays of sunlight peek in through the gaps in the curtains, casting the entire bedroom in a warm, golden glow.

You smile to yourself, despite the early hour, contented by the simple fact that there will be no alarms going off this morning, no patrols to attend or mission reports to file. For once, there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be except right here, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Today is a special day, after all, the first one both you and Todoroki have had off in ages as a result of your demanding and often impossible schedules as pro-heroes. Unsurprisingly, you planned to spend it and the rest of the upcoming weekend together, determined to make up for all the time you’ve had to spend apart lately.

You shift in his arms, just enough so that you can admire him properly, and find yourself struck —though not for the first time— by how unfairly handsome he is, all mussed up hair and perfect features as he rests peacefully beside you. He’s always been devastatingly attractive, beautiful in a way that leaves people starstruck and enamored, that makes them wonder if he’s even real, and this is just as true of him when he’s asleep as it is when he’s awake.

Even now, you can’t help but stare at him, taking in the pretty curve of his lips, the strong slope of his jaw. He always looks so peaceful when he sleeps; softer, too, and it fills you with both gratitude and satisfaction, knowing you’re the only one who gets to see him like this, all serene and unguarded. It’s a testament to how deeply he trusts you, how much the two of you have grown together since you officially started dating a little over four months ago.

You’re tempted to curl further into him and fall right back asleep, letting yourself share in the warmth and comfort of his embrace in the way you so rarely get to do. That temptation only grows when he makes a sleepy little humming sound and nuzzles his face further into your neck, his lips brushing against your throat, right along your pulse point.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort not to fall back into him after that, but somehow, you’re able to steel yourself against it, knowing that what you’ve planned for today involves you having to leave bed sooner rather than later.

You know better than anyone that Todoroki’s had a pretty rough few weeks, even by pro-hero standards, enduring multiple overnight shifts, extra patrols, and mountains of paperwork he’s gone through great lengths to avoid.

The metaphoric cherry on top of it all was a fight with the escaped villain Mayhem that left him with a dislocated shoulder and you with a concussion that you know he still blames himself for, even though you’re the one who jumped in without thinking, as you are often prone to do.

It’s why you promised yourself, as you packed your bag for his apartment the night before, that you would do everything in your power to make this weekend together the best one yet, spoiling him with the kind of care and affection he so rarely affords himself. And the first step in your best weekend ever plan is to surprise him with breakfast, which is what leads you to slip out of his grasp and into the kitchen as stealthily as you can manage.

It’s far from an easy feat. Todoroki’s a bit of a serial cuddler, especially in the mornings, with an iron grip that latches around your waist and all but crushes you to him. But with a little bit of patience and a lot of maneuvering —plus a small boost from your wind-based quirk— you manage to escape and start on breakfast without waking him, leaving him behind with a fond look and a light kiss on his forehead.

And, to your utter delight, everything turns out pretty well. Amazingly well, in fact— or at least it starts off that way.

You locate almost all of the ingredients and materials you need for breakfast with relative ease, humming a little tune to yourself as you get to work. Soon there are strips of bacon sizzling in the skillet, the griddle you set on the stovetop heating up in preparation for the pancakes you plan to make. The mix itself sits in an All Might-themed bowl on the counter, sweetened with fresh fruit and just a pinch of cinnamon.

All that’s left for you to do is find a separate pan for the eggs, which you quickly spot on the top shelf in the cabinet, just out of your reach. Still, you refuse to let that deter you, climbing up on one of the nearby stools to grab it.

Why, of course, you willingly choose to get up on a stool when you’re a certified pro-hero with an entire wind quirk at your disposal —one that quite literally lets you breeze through your problems— will remain a mystery to you. Looking back, you’d like to think it’s a consequence of you working too hard, but really, the more you think about it, the more convinced you become that it’s really just a consequence of you being an idiot.

You’ve just latched onto the handle of the pan and are starting to bring it down when your foot slips. Immediately, you begin to panic, and it’s like every bit of pro-hero training you’ve received over the years vanishes instantly from your brain, leaving you almost comically off-balance and flailing. All of the instincts you thought you’d honed to perfection fail you at once, and just like that, you’re tumbling off the stool before you can stop yourself.

You land on your ass on the kitchen floor with a distressed and undignified yelp, your foot twisting painfully as you go. The rest of the pots and pans on the shelf follow you down, clattering onto the floor around you in a way you’re certain the entire apartment complex is able to hear.

You lift your hands automatically, shielding yourself with an invisible wall of air that protects you from getting smacked around with a frying pan like you’re some sort of cartoon character. It isn’t much, but it’s the best you can do for now, the rest of your senses distracted by the sudden throbbing in your ankle and the sheer bafflement —not to mention complete mortification— you feel for being in this situation in the first place.

Todoroki is next to you before you’re even able to form a coherent thought, having woken up and rushed into the kitchen after you the moment he heard all the commotion, which, admittedly, was probably loud as hell.

His mismatched eyes are wide with worry as he examines you, the trail of ice you see behind him letting you know that he must’ve used his quirk to get to you as quickly as he could. You think you’d be more touched by it if the majority of your energy wasn’t currently being focused on trying not to die of embarrassment.

“Are you all right, love?” Todoroki asks, voice filled with concern as he helps you sit up into a more comfortable position. “Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head before he even finishes the question, plastering a smile to your face. Your ego may be bruised beyond belief, your pride all but ready to shrivel up into a ball and disappear, but you'll be damned if you let this put a damper on your weekend, especially when it’s barely even begun.

“No, no, everything’s okay. I’m good, really, let me just—”

What’s left of your sentence quickly transforms into a wince, pain flaring in your ankle and shooting up your leg the second you try to stand up and put pressure on it. Todoroki is quick to reach out and steady you, lowering you back to the floor carefully.

“What happened?” He’s both curious and concerned as he lifts your injured foot and sets it gently onto his lap. He places his right hand on your ankle, fingers cool and careful with the iciness of his quirk, providing you with instant relief that has you sighing and squeezing his other hand gratefully. “Don’t tell me you were training on your day off.”

“I wish,” you huff, letting out a humorless laugh. At least then, you’d feel less annoyed about it, having already accepted such injuries as part of the reality of your work as a pro-hero, but nope, no such luck.

Instead, the injury you’re currently suffering is one that was both completely avoidable and partially self-inflicted. Leave it to a common kitchen stool to humble the shit out of you; and so early in the morning, too.

“I was trying to make breakfast before you woke up.” You can’t help pouting over it, heaving a disappointed sigh as your gaze falls to your lap. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, it worked.” Todoroki places a hand beneath your chin to make you look at him, the smile he offers as loving as it is teasing. “Consider me thoroughly surprised.”

You purse your lips, shooting him a flat look that makes him laugh. You can’t stop yourself from softening at the sound, especially when he leans in close and presses a soothing kiss to your forehead, smoothing away the furrow of your brow.

When he pulls away, you’re all but putty in his hands, the pain in your ankle reduced to a mere afterthought in the wake of how gentle he’s being with you now, how attentive he always is to every single one of your needs. You’ve always known he’d make an incredible partner, even before you started dating, and the fact that you’re the one who gets to witness it now never fails to make your heart stutter with glee.

“Come on,” he says, entirely unaware of the effect he has on you, his voice steady and reassuring. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable.”

His words snap you back to reality, returning your attention to the situation at hand. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he means to carry you, and while normally you’d jump at any chance to have his hands on you, the fact that it’s only happening as a result of your own clumsiness has you feeling a special kind of pathetic that you’re not entirely comfortable with.

It’s why you’re so quick to try to talk him out of it, placing a hand on his chest to stop him— or, at the very least, slow him down.

“I’m fine, Shouto, really,” you insist, waving your free hand back and forth in some vague gesture of reassurance. “You don’t have to—”

Todoroki cuts you off by scooping you into his arms, ignoring your protests about the food you still have cooking and the kitchen being a mess in favor of starting on a path back to his bedroom. Once you’re there, he deposits you safely on his bed with an effortlessness that would normally have you swooning, if only you weren’t so annoyed with yourself right now.

He takes the time to make sure you’re comfortable, fluffing up the pillows behind you and handing you your phone, like he can tell you’re just itching to complain about your misfortune in the group chat. It doesn’t make you feel like any less of a bumbling idiot, but it does temper your irritation for the time being, so much so that you don’t even protest when he excuses himself from the room in search of supplies.

He isn’t gone long, returning only a moment later with a handful of items from his hero duffle. You’re still pouting when he does, glaring at your swollen ankle as if that’ll be enough to make it go back to normal. You sit up when you see him approach, taking note of the first aid kit and the ice pack in his hands.

He takes a seat on the bed beside you and lifts your swollen ankle into his lap. You watch as he turns it back and forth to assess the damage, careful not to injure you any further.

In no time at all, you find yourself utterly transfixed by his movements. Your phone is still in your hand, the screen lit up with a half-typed text to your friends, but right now he’s all you’re interested in looking at, mesmerized by the gentle press of his hands against your skin and the delicate, almost reverent way he handles you.

You’re no stranger to the process of patching up your wounds, having experienced countless injuries over the course of your pro hero career, but what is new for you is letting someone else be responsible for it. You’ve never been good at asking for help, much less allowing yourself to be taken care of, convinced by an ugly voice in the back of your mind that doing so would reveal a weakness you might never recover from.

You like to think you’ve gotten better at it over the years, but old habits die hard. Your hyper-independence has always been a point of contention in your relationships, made worse by partners whose reactions to your vulnerability only served to remind you why you kept it hidden in the first place.

With Todoroki, though, it’s different. Years of friendship before you started dating have ensured that he’s seen you at your worst, probably more times than you would’ve liked. He’s been there for all your bad decisions and all your stupid mistakes, through shitty breakups and even shittier fights with villains— and not once has he ever faltered in his support of you, nor has he let any of it change his opinion of you.

Even now, he’s still taking care of you, and you’re actually letting him, knowing he’s someone you can trust to do so without any fear of appearing weak or less than. You know you’ve been kind of a brat this morning, huffing and puffing as he tends to your injury with all the petulance of a pouting child, but he’s taken it all in stride, soothing away your frustration with gentle hands and even gentler kisses against your wrists and forehead.

You’ve never been one to open your heart so easily, never saw any reason to, but you take one look at Todoroki and you know— you’ve never loved anyone the way you love him.

Not that you’ve ever told him that, of course. You know all too well about the trauma of your boyfriend’s upbringing, just like you know how hard he’s worked to put himself in the headspace of actually pursuing a romantic relationship. It’s why you refuse to be someone who pressures him into exchanging any sort of I love you’s unless you’re sure that’s a step he’s ready to take with you.

And while you’ve certainly done your own fair share of healing and growth when it comes to being vulnerable in your relationships, there’s a part of you that’s still hesitant to say those three words out loud, terrified that everything will go wrong once you do. That he’ll hear them and change his mind, and then he’ll leave, just like your dad did with your mom. Just like everyone does eventually.

It’s an irrational fear, you know, especially with someone like Todoroki, who’s proven time and time again how much he cares for you, how deep his devotion to you truly runs. Unlike your previous partners, he’s given you no reason to doubt him, but try as you might to convince yourself otherwise, the truth of the matter is that you’re not ready to say I love you either. Like you said before, old habits die hard.

Across from you, Todoroki opens the first aid kit and unfurls a set of bandages, distracting you from your thoughts. He uses one hand to lift your foot beneath your calf and the other to wind the bandages around your ankle, each one of his movements careful and practiced.

“It’s not broken,” he tells you, finishing off the wrapping and setting your foot on his thigh, “but it’s definitely sprained. You’ll have to rest and stay off of it until you’re ready to try putting pressure on it again.”

“Well, there go our dinner plans.” You can’t help the disappointed sigh that leaves your lips, meeting his gaze to send him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to trying that new soba place downtown.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He stacks a few pillows by your foot, his voice easy and reassuring as he rests your ankle on the highest one, elevating it. “The restaurant can wait. I’m more concerned about you.”

“You’re choosing me over cold soba?” You pretend to be shocked by it, eyes wide as you place a hand over your heart, though the teasing smile on your face betrays your satisfaction. “Yikes. You must really like me, then, huh?”

“More than you know,” he answers, steady and sincere, without any sort of regard for the effect his words have on you.

He says it calmly, doubtlessly, with the kind of sureness you’ve always admired in him. It’s a habit of his, you’ve learned, to say such romantic things without any sort of hesitation, to speak of his affection for you so bluntly and unapologetically. As if he doesn’t even have to think about it, as if the feelings he has for you are just another fact of life, a truth as natural and easy to him as breathing.

“Besides,” he adds a moment later, as if he isn’t the one responsible for the current fluttering of your heart inside your chest, “there’s always takeout.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, despite the situation. Todoroki returns the gesture with a smile of his own, reaching for the ice pack next and placing it on top of your ankle.

“How’s that feel?”

“My ankle’s definitely sore, but it’s not so bad. My pride, on the other hand, is hanging by a thread. At this point, I’m not sure it’ll ever recover.” You heave a dramatic sigh, slumping against the pillows behind you in defeat. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything that could help with that, would you?”

He pauses to consider it, tilting his head in a way that only serves to make him more adorable. Then he starts to smile to himself, sliding one hand up your leg and using the other to brace himself over your body.

He shifts on the mattress and leans in close, his lips hovering just a few inches away from your own. “I have one idea…”

You wrap your arms around his neck, more than happy to indulge him, your lips meeting in a soft, sweet kiss. He deepens it just for you, tilting his head and moving a hand to cradle your jaw.

You’re both smiling when you break apart for air, all tender and warm as your eyes meet his once more. He cups your face with both hands, and you lean into his touch, his thumb grazing your bottom lip.

“Feeling better now?”

“Much,” you answer, turning your face to kiss his palm. “But we’ll probably need to try that again. You know, just to make sure it’s actually working. Nothing serious, either, just two, three, maybe twenty more times—”

Todoroki laughs, a light, quiet sound you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing. He presses one kiss to your mouth and another to your forehead, and then he’s standing up, lightly pinching your cheek as he goes.

“I’ll go get us something to eat,” he says, squeezing the hand you lift to swat at him. “Try not to fall off any more stools while I’m gone.”

“Hey!”

You gasp and make an affronted sound, reaching for one of the pillows you’re not already using and launching it directly at his head. He dodges it, of course —figures his hero reflexes are working just fine, unlike yours— and smirks to himself on his way out, while you stick your tongue out at him.

Thankfully, your boyfriend’s wise enough to know better than to test your temper by coming back empty-handed. He appears in the doorway of his bedroom a few minutes later carrying a tray with two plates stacked with pancakes, an iced coffee for you, and a cup of tea for himself.

You perk up immediately, both at the sight of him and the amazing smell coming from the food, though you can’t help the guilt that settles in your chest when you remember that you were the one who wanted to bring him breakfast instead. You’re happy that the two of you are spending time together now, especially after the week you’ve both had, but it’s definitely not the way you imagined it would be.

Not that Todoroki seems to mind it, his lips curled into that fond little smile he only ever gets around you as he walks across the room to join you on the bed. He takes a seat beside you and sets the tray that’s holding everything down on the mattress between you, careful not to spill anything as he makes himself comfortable at your side.

“The bacon was beyond saving,” he announces solemnly, pausing as if he’s giving you time to mourn, “but the pancakes were surprisingly resilient.”

You can’t help but snort at his words. “They weren’t even cooking yet, Sho. It’d be a miracle if they hadn’t made it.”

“The real miracle is that they aren’t on fire. You know my culinary skills are abysmal at best.”

“Oh, come on. They can’t still be that bad. Isn’t Fuyumi teaching you a few recipes?”

“She’s certainly tried to. I’m afraid we never made it past our first lesson. Apparently the way I sauté vegetables is both frightening and destructive.” That makes you laugh, and Todoroki smiles, pleased at the sound, before handing you a fork and knife from the tray. “Thankfully, the pancakes were a lot more forgiving. I was able to get them out of there alive, and I even had time to add your favorite syrup.”

“My hero,” you coo, cutting off a piece of the pancakes from your plate and taking a bite. And though they’re certainly delicious, they do little to distract you from your earlier embarrassment, or from the disappointment you feel at being the reason why your weekend plans have gone down the drain. “I’m glad at least one of us lives up to our job description. After my epic failure in coordination this morning, I should probably suspend my own license.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Todoroki says, nudging your calf with his foot. “It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone, and it definitely doesn’t make you any less of a pro. You have nothing to be embarrassed about, especially not around me.”

“I know that, Sho, but it’s not—” You cut yourself off with a sigh, your gaze falling to the plate that rests in your lap. “It’s not just that.”

Being embarrassed is definitely part of it, you know, a feeling you’re sure won’t be going away anytime soon, but right now, more than anything, you feel guilty. When you woke up this morning, you were determined to help him relax and spoil him the way he’s always doing for you, but all you’ve done so far is give him more work. And though you know in your heart that Todoroki is far too kind and understanding to hold such a thing against you, that doesn’t make you feel any less awful about it.

You still aren’t looking at him, but you can hear the concern in his voice when he speaks, patient and considerate as ever. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Sho, it’s just— even though we work together, we barely see each other. And when we do, you’re always taking care of me, you know? This weekend was supposed to be my chance to return the favor, especially with how crazy things have been at the agency lately— but here you are, taking care of me again, all because I went and busted my ankle in the stupidest and most unheroic way ever.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?” You look up at him just in time to catch the way his eyebrows furrow, his head tilting in confusion as he abandons his breakfast in favor of reaching for your hand. “I like taking care of you. I always have, especially because I know how hard it is for you to let me in the first place.”

“I know you do, baby. And I’m trying to get better at letting you, really, I am, I just—” Another sigh, tinged with both guilt and disappointment, falls from your lips, but you don’t hesitate to let your hand rest in his, winding your fingers together. “I wish I could take care of you even half as well as you’re always taking care of me.”

“Love, you remember all the mission reports I forget to file, you bring me soup whenever I’m sick, and you quite literally save my life on a daily basis,” he says, voice gentle but firm, reassuring in all the ways you didn’t even realize you needed until now. “You take care of me plenty.”

He brings your hand to his lips, and you watch, smitten and starry-eyed, as he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. And just like that, all your doubts and guilt fade away, lost somewhere between the graze of his lips on your skin and the sincerity in his mismatched eyes as they meet yours.

“So forget about returning the favor,” Todoroki continues, squeezing your hand lightly, “because you already have. And I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to keep being the one who gets to take care of you.”

And well, after hearing that, it’s hard to do anything besides kiss him, so you do. You kiss him, gentle and sweet, sweet the way he always is with you, and you hope he can feel the gratitude in it, the affection that’s burrowed its way so deeply inside your chest, it’s a wonder your heart hasn’t burst from it.

“I know,” you murmur against his lips when the two of you pull away for air, “and I—”

Love you, your heart supplies, meaning it. I really, really love you, you want to say, but can’t, the words honest and heavy on the tip of your tongue, held back by memories of past bad relationships and an irrational fear of what will happen if you let yourself be that vulnerable.

“...I want to do the same,” is what you end up telling him instead, safer and not as frightening, but still every bit as true. You place your hand against his cheek and smile at him, even as the voice inside of your heart curses yourself for backing out at the last second. “Always.”

“Always,” Todoroki agrees, returning your smile with one of his own, smooth voice echoing with promise.

The rest of your breakfast is a quiet, peaceful affair. You and Todoroki enjoy both the food and each other’s company as you exchange stories from earlier in the week, content to finally get to talk about something other than work. He tells you about his and Fuyumi’s growing suspicions that Natsuo has a new girlfriend, and you tell him about the gaggle of freakishly large geese you’re pretty sure tried to kill you the last time you flew over the city.

When your plates are empty and your stomachs are full, the two of you spend some time cuddling together in his bed. You pull up your calendar on your phone, wistfully rearranging your itinerary for the weekend now that you only have one good ankle left to work with, while your boyfriend watches from behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder and his arm draped around your waist.

The reservations you made at the spa are the hardest for you to part with, a woeful sound leaving your lips as you swipe to confirm your cancellation. Thankfully, Todoroki is there to distract you, murmuring a suggestive promise into your ear about giving you a massage that has you sighing for a different reason entirely, his hands gliding along your body and making you feel warm all over.

When you’re comfortable and sated, he excuses himself to clear the dishes and take care of the much-needed cleanup in the kitchen. You try to convince him to stay, insisting that you should be the one cleaning up your own mess, but he refuses to be swayed, slipping away after distracting you with a perfectly timed kiss that’s as romantic as it is conniving.

It isn’t long after he’s left that you find yourself completely bored out of your mind. Scrolling through your phone can only be so entertaining before 8AM, and staring at the ceiling while you wait for Todoroki to come back to you isn’t helping much either.

You FaceTime Bakugou to distract yourself, which is your first mistake. Or maybe your second, if you count the whole spraining your ankle whilst making breakfast thing. But he’s an early riser and also responsible for covering your morning patrol shift, so you take your chances, figuring he’s the most likely of your friends to be awake.

You catch him just as he’s leaving his apartment for the day. He answers the call with a gruff “the hell d’you want?” that you imagine would’ve been more threatening if he hadn’t also picked up on the first ring, betraying his fondness.

You let him pretend to be annoyed with you anyway, thanking him for covering your shift in the most sickeningly sweet voice you can muster and laughing when all he does is roll his eyes and flip you off in response. Then you launch into the story of your own morning, eager to complain about your misfortunate to a set of fresh ears.

When you tell Bakugou what happened with your ankle, he offers no sympathy. Instead, he cackles so hard he drops his phone, and you hang up on him, vowing to yourself that the first thing you’re going to do when you see him is summon a tornado to knock him clean off his ass, childhood friendship be damned.

You FaceTime Midoriya next. He’s entering his apartment when he answers your call, having just finished up the tail end of his overnight patrol shift.

He yawns halfway through his greeting, his hair messy and his cape rumpled, but he doesn’t hang up, nor does he let you end the call once you notice how sleepy he looks. Exhausted as he is, he’s also a really great friend. Your best friend, in fact, one who’s far too kind and caring to ignore you, even if it’s for something silly.

He’s definitely amused when you tell him about your sprained ankle and failed breakfast adventure, but unlike Bakugou the gremlin, he doesn’t laugh at you. Instead, he offers you his sympathy, knowing how much you were looking forward to your weekend off. Still, he urges you to stay positive, convinced you’ll recover sooner than you think.

He lets you vent, too, listening to you with his undivided attention as you complain about finding shoes that’ll fit an ankle brace and having to rearrange your plans, and by the time you’re done, you feel a lot better.

“See, I knew I should’ve called you first. All Katsuki’s annoying ass did was laugh at me for being uncoordinated. ‘Some pro you are, Tempest.’” You do your best impression of Bakugou’s voice, complete with a matching sneer, making Midoriya laugh. “I swear, as soon as my ankle gets better, the first thing I’m going to do is kick his ass.”

“Kacchan means well,” he says. His camera is pointed at the ceiling while he changes out of his hero suit, so you can’t tell if he actually sees you rolling your eyes or not, but you imagine he doesn’t need to, having played the peacemaker between you and Bakugou for most of your life. “I’m sure he was worried about you in his own way.”

“Is that what he calls it? Because I’m pretty sure if we called him right now, he’d still be laughing at me. Jerk.” You shake your head, flashing a hopeful look at the camera as Midoriya, now clad in his pajamas, reappears on your screen. “Promise you’ll super glue his locker shut for me the next time you’re at the agency?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he chuckles, walking into his room with his phone in hand and settling into his bed. His green eyes are cloudy with sleep, but the concern they hold is clear as day he meets your gaze with his own. “You’ve been taking care of your ankle, right?”

“I’ve got an ice pack on it as we speak,” you answer, reassuring him with a playful salute. “I’m elevating it, too. Shouto made sure of it. He’s been taking really good care of me.”

“I figured he would. Speaking of which, has he asked you yet?”

“Asked me what?”

Midoriya’s hand freezes in place where he’s running it through his hair. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other through your phone screens, neither one of you moving. His eyes are wide, and he has that look on his face you’ve only seen a handful of times before, the one he only makes whenever he realizes he’s really screwed up.

None of it is making you feel better, especially not when he drops his hand and blinks like he’s trying to reboot himself.

“Uh...nothing?”

“Nothing, my ass! You can’t just say something like that and not tell me what it is,” you insist, narrowing your eyes at him as threateningly as you can manage over FaceTime. “What do you know? What is he going to ask me?”

“Nothing! R-Really, I— I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Izuku, I swear to god—”

He hangs up on you.

You’re left to stare at your lock screen with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. You scramble to call him back, infuriated that he would even dare to hang up after dropping a bomb like that on you with no explanation whatsoever.

Predictably, he doesn’t respond. Your calls go unanswered, which means he’s either ignoring you, or he’s dead. And if he’s not dead, then he will be soon, because next time you see him, you’re going to strangle him, Symbol of Peace status be damned.

Your fury lasts only momentarily before transforming into panic when his words really hit you.

Todoroki is going to ask you something? Holy shit, is he going to ask you to marry him? What the fuck? The two of you have never talked about marriage before. You didn’t even think that was something he’d want, and honestly, before him, it wasn’t something you’d ever considered yourself to want, either. Not after your parents’ divorce, and definitely not after your own tragic romantic history.

The two of you have only been dating four months, for crying out loud. Granted, you’ve known each other since high school, but still. He can’t actually want to marry you already.

You know Todoroki’s always been a little slow on the uptake when it comes to social cues and expectations, but this is pushing it, even for him. He literally just witnessed you wiping out in the middle of his kitchen while doing something as mundane and uncomplicated as making breakfast. What part of that horrific performance would make him think you’re marriage material?

Why would he even think you would say yes? You —avoidant, allergic to vulnerability you— ready for something as serious and life-changing as marriage? Yeah, right. And to spring it on you without any sort of discussion first? Without even hearing you say you love him? How could that possibly make any sense to him?

But what else can it be? What else is significant enough of a question that it made Midoriya abandon you like he revealed a horrible secret, like you don’t know where he lives and won’t show up to strangle him for leaving you in the dark like this?

This is too much for you, too early in the morning. Your ankle still hurts and now your head does, too, plus you’re panicking and sitting on the bed of the man who may or may not be on his way back to propose to you right now.

Part of you is tempted to run from it, to avoid any and all attempts at discussing your relationship and pretend that what Midoriya told you doesn’t exist. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time if you did. It’s your go-to strategy in relationships, after all: ignoring the problem until it eventually goes away, if it ever does.

And maybe it’s a testament to how much being with Todoroki has changed you and pushed you to grow, but you don’t actually want to do any of that this time. As stressed as thinking about this has made you, the truth is you don’t want to run from him. You love him, after all, even if your trust issues have made it practically impossible for you to tell him.

The one thing you know for certain is that you have to talk to him about it. You have no idea how you’re going to bring it up, much less how you’re going to navigate the conversation once you do, but sitting here overthinking it is only making your anxiety worse. If you and Todoroki are ever going to have a chance at getting past this, then you’re going to have to stop running and start being honest with him, even if the idea of doing so kind of makes you want to hurl.

Still, you think, if anyone’s worth making yourself vulnerable for, it’s him. It’s always been him.

It’s with that thought in mind that you push yourself to stand, rising from the bed on your one good foot. You take about three steps away from the mattress before deciding that hopping around on one leg makes you feel more ridiculous than serious, which is what you’re trying to be right now. You end up activating your quirk instead, using it to hover above the floor without having to put any pressure on your bad ankle.

It’s at that exact moment that Todoroki decides to return to you, the two of you running into each other just before you can reach the doorway. He sighs when he sees you’re out of bed, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze that lets you know he isn’t at all surprised to find you like this, floating above the ground in the middle of his bedroom.

“And where are you going?” He raises an eyebrow at you, leaning against the doorframe with his hands crossed over his chest. “Off to take your revenge on my poor kitchen stool?”

For the second time today, your words fail you. The whole reason you got up in the first place was to talk to him about everything, but now that he’s here in front of you, you find that you have no idea what to say.

All you can do is give a shaky laugh, fidgeting with your hands before wrapping them around yourself protectively, as if somehow that’ll give you the strength to say what’s on your mind. “Something like that, yeah.”

“I had a feeling you’d get bored and want to start walking again instead of resting,” Todoroki says. “It’s why I went back into my hero duffle and brought you these.” He uncrosses his arms, and that’s when you notice the pair of ankle braces he has tucked away into the crook of his elbow. “I figured at least one of them might fit you.” “Oh,” you mutter, “uh, thanks.”

It’s awkward and unsure, the complete opposite of all your playful and easy banter earlier this morning. If Todoroki notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

He makes his way towards you, and your eyes widen when he reaches for your waist. He wraps his free arm around you and leads you over to the bed, helping you sit back down. You deactivate your quirk and watch as he lifts your injured ankle, carefully propping it back up onto the pillow so you’re comfortable.

It’s sweet, the way he takes care of you, how gentle he always handles you. He’s sweet, and devoted, and protective. He’s taken such good care of you this morning, as he always has, and you know, somehow, that he always will.

And you realize, right then and there, that if there’s anyone you want to be married to, it’s him. Because he’s kind, and he’s gentle, and he’s brave. And more than anything, he’s good. He’s really, truly good, good in the way you never imagined you could deserve, good in a way that makes you think about forever.

And thinking that is just— it’s insane to you, really. Borderline impossible, because you never thought it would happen. After everything you’ve seen, all the shitty breakups you’ve been through —both in your home life and your personal one— you never imagined you’d feel comfortable or safe enough in a relationship to want more, but here you are.

Here you are, tentative but open and growing. Willing to try, with Todoroki.

And what a wonderful place that is to be.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts you don’t notice that he’s taken a seat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He holds an ankle brace in each hand, offering them for you to take.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like more, so I brought both—”

“What are you planning to ask me?” you blurt without warning, unable to stop yourself.

Todoroki blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting your outburst. You weren’t expecting it either, honestly —when you decided to have this conversation with him, you really were hoping you’d be able to bring it up a lot more smoothly— but it’s too late to take it back now. And as rushed and awkward as your delivery is, you need to know before you pass out from all the stress.

It takes a few moments for him to understand what you’re talking about, but you see the realization dawning on him slowly, his eyes widening a fraction.

“How did you…” His voice trails off, and then he sighs. “Uraraka told you.”

“Izuku, actually,” you correct sheepishly, biting your lip. “Though, in his defense, he was coming off a night shift and half-asleep when I called him. Not that I should be defending him, anyway, since the bastard hung up on me without telling me what it was. Coward.”

You clear your throat, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Anyway, that’s why I’m asking you now. Whatever it is, I’d like to hear it from you, if you’re still comfortable sharing it.”

He’s silent for a few moments, like he’s considering whether or not he wants to move forward with this. But Todoroki has never been anything but honest with you, so it isn’t long before he lets go of the braces, getting to his feet and moving closer so he can face you properly.

He kneels in front of you by the edge of the bed, and the voice inside your head starts to scream, either in excitement, fear, or some strange combination of both.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he says softly, reaching to take one of your hands in his own. “It was supposed to happen tonight over dinner, when it was just the two of us.”

You don’t say anything, not trusting yourself to speak. He’s definitely not doing much to make you think this is anything besides a marriage proposal.

One of his hands moves to open the drawer in his nightstand, and you nearly have a heart attack right then and there. You swear your whole body jolts, your free hand shooting out and latching onto his shirt to stop him so fast you almost fall off the bed.

He stops reaching for the drawer, his hands going up to your arms to steady you instead.

“Are you all right?” he asks, frowning in concern. “You’re not feeling light-headed, are you? Because if you are, you should lie down—”

“I’m not light-headed, Shouto, I’m in love with you.”

The confession falls from your lips, as most of your words do, before you can stop it. It’s hurried and breathless but also true and sincere, the culmination of four months of rooftop lunch dates and Facetimes between patrols, of comforting touches and lingering glances and all the wanting and affection you’d harbored in the years before that.

It seems to stun him into silence, which is quite honestly your worst nightmare, but you don’t let that deter you. Despite the doubt and irrational fear your past relationships have burdened you with, you know what kind of man Todoroki is. He was your friend long before anything romantic happened between the two of you, and you trust him completely, not just with your life, as you have for years now, but with your heart.

It’s with that thought in mind that you push yourself to continue, taking his hands into your own and intertwining your fingers together while he watches you, wide-eyed and hanging on to every word.

“I think I have been for a while. I just didn’t know how to say it, or if I even wanted to, because honestly, I was afraid to. Not because of you or anything you’ve done, but because of everything else. Because of what happened with my parents and all my shitty exes— and god, I’ve had some really, really shitty exes—”

You shake your head, stopping yourself before that train of thought goes any further, because it’s not the point. The point is that you love him, that you’ve been in love with him this whole time, and you need him to know that before anything else happens.

“What I’m trying to say is that I was scared. I thought that if I told you the truth about how I felt, then things would change, and the thought of putting myself out there only to lose you in the end just— well, it terrified me. But I’m not afraid anymore, because I know you, and I trust you, and I just— I love you, Shouto. I really, really love you. And I don’t expect you to say it back unless you’re ready, but I just—”

Todoroki doesn’t let you finish the rest of your sentence, cutting you off with a kiss that quite literally takes your breath away. He moves his lips against yours with purpose, breathing you in and cradling your face in his hands like you’re something precious, like close will never be close enough, and it’s all you can do to kiss him back, sighing into his mouth and tangling your fingers into his hair.

It’s not the first kiss the two of you have shared, nor will it be the last, but somehow it feels like the most important, the one where you finally stop being afraid and start being honest. The one where you both do.

It feels like too soon when he pulls away, but even then, he doesn’t get very far, drawing back just enough to stare into your eyes. Todoroki looks at you like you hung the moon, like you’re the one thing he’ll never get tired of seeing. He looks at you like he—

“I love you,” he says surely, doubtlessly, without the slightest waver to his voice, and now you’re the one who gets to stare, wide-eyed and hanging on to every word. “I’ve always loved you, even before I knew what that meant. And I understand everything you said about being afraid, because I was, too. All of this is still so new to me, sometimes I’m not sure what to say or what to do, but when it comes to you…”

He lets his voice trail off, moving his hands from your face down to your wrists, and then taking your hands into his own. Your heart soars when he leans down to press a kiss across your knuckles, rising and stuttering with affection where it rests inside your chest.

“You are the one thing I’ve never been unsure about,” he says, and you can tell by the look in his eyes how much he means it.

It’s the kind of confession that steadies you, one that makes all the doubt and uncertainty you felt earlier disappear, until all that’s left behind is the love you have for him, the love you know is returned.

Your eyes are watery, your bottom lip trembling with relief and affection, but still you find it in yourself to make a joke, winding your fingers through his. “Even when I do something ridiculous, like twist my ankle in the lamest way ever?”

Todoroki laughs and squeezes your hand. “Even then,” he promises. “In fact, I happen to love you the most when you’re doing something ridiculous, whether it’s falling off a stool, or jumping into the middle of a fight without a plan, or even telling off one of the biggest reporters in the country despite what it could do to your career.”

“When did I…” It takes you a few seconds to think about it, but eventually you understand what he’s talking about. You blink as the memory resurfaces, images of yourself in a pretty gown, him in a well-fitted suit, and about a million cameras flashing around you replaying in the back of your mind. “You’re talking about the charity gala for the children’s hospital, with that reporter who wouldn’t leave you alone while we were on the red carpet.”

“She kept asking me all those questions about my father and what our relationship was like. I didn’t think it’d ever end.” He strokes the backs of your hands with his thumbs, lips curling into a small, fond smile, as if the memory somehow pleases him. “Then you showed up and chewed her out for being, and I quote, ‘an invasive, insensitive parasite who was more concerned about being on the front page than she was about sick children.’ I thought your manager was going to have an aneurysm when she heard you.”

“She almost did,” you admit with a laugh, recalling the sight of your usually poised manager Misaki staring at you in horror on the other side of the velvet ropes, red-faced and furiously shaking her head in an attempt to get you to stop talking, which of course hadn’t worked. “I had to commit to a month of good behavior and PR deals just to get on her good side again.”

The incident had been all over the news, the reporter you’d offended labeling you an ill-tempered, bad-mannered brat who had no respect for the art of journalism or even her own country. And that, of course, was nothing compared to the field day the rest of the press had with your reaction, speculating on what your actual relationship with Todoroki was, despite the fact that back then, the two of you were still just friends.

Your boyfriend at the time hadn’t appreciated it at all. In fact, he’d hated every second of it, to the point he’d broken up with you as a result, but you never regretted it. You still don’t.

You tell Todoroki as much, brushing a few strands of hair away from his eyes and smiling at him. “It was worth it, you know. You were worth it. And I’ve never regretted it.”

“I know,” he says, returning your smile with one of his own. “And that’s when I realized how important you are to me. I’ve been in love with you ever since.”

“Wait, what?” The confession leaves you floored, eyes widening as you all but gape at him. “Sho, that gala was almost three years ago. You’re telling me you’ve loved me since then? And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure how to,” he admits. “Besides, you were already seeing someone else. And while I certainly didn’t care for him, I didn’t want to get in the way of your happiness. But I know now that I want to be the person who makes you happy. I want to be the one who’s there for you and who takes care of you. Always.”

You can’t help the joy that floods your heart at his words, your lips curving into a goofy smile. “Really?”

“Really. That’s why I want to ask you to move in with me.”

It sounds like a metaphorical record scratch. You have to take a moment to make sure you heard him correctly, and even then it still feels like you’ve just been thrown off a cliff.

“Wait, what?”

Todoroki releases your hands to open the drawer of his nightstand. This time, you don’t stop him, letting him reach inside to retrieve what he was looking for earlier.

You hear the jingle of keys before you see them, and sure enough, when he opens his hand, there’s a copy of the keys to his apartment resting in his palm, complete with the matching downstairs alarm and all. And you feel like—

Well, you feel like an idiot, mostly. An irrational, unbelievable idiot who jumps to conclusions and makes stupid assumptions but who is also really, really excited at the idea of getting to wake up with the love of your life every day.

“You were right earlier when you said we haven’t seen each other as much as we should,” Todoroki says, oblivious to both your earlier panic and how hard you’re trying not to laugh at yourself right now. “Our schedules and careers are mostly responsible for that, but having to go back and forth between apartments isn’t helping, either. That’s why I wanted to ask you to move in with me tonight. I even made a whole list of reasons to convince you.”

“Is that so?” You raise an eyebrow at him curiously, taking the keys out of his hand and twirling them around your finger. “Let’s hear them, then.”

“Our agency is closer to here than it is to your place,” he begins, rising from the floor and taking a seat next to you on his bed. “Midoriya and Bakugou are only ten minutes away. There’s a cat cafe on the corner, a plant shop across the street, and you’ve already tried all the local restaurants, so you know what you like and dislike.”

“All very practical reasons.” You move a little closer, and he lifts his arm and wraps it around your shoulders, allowing you to lean against his side. “Go on.”

“You spend more nights here than you do at your apartment. You already have a toothbrush, a place for your clothes, and a cabinet dedicated to just the foods you enjoy. And…”

“And…?”

Todoroki smiles softly at you, resting a hand against your cheek as he meets your gaze before he speaks again. “And I very much like the idea of getting to come home to you.”

“I like the idea of that, too,” you tell him, barely able to contain your own excitement as you smile and lean in for his lips.

The kiss you share now is slow and sweet, soft with the devotion you have for each other, the love you finally get to share. You feel him smile against your lips, gentle and content, and then he’s pulling back to meet your eyes, his fingers brushing the hair out of your face.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a definite yes. I’d love to move in with you, Sho.”

And when you see the way he smiles at you, warm and fond and so, so in love with you, you know you’ve made the right choice.

You snuggle into his side, making yourself comfortable with your head on his chest, while he welcomes you eagerly, tightening his arm around you and letting his cheek rest on the top of your head. When you remember your earlier distress, so different from the calm and comfort you’ve settled into now, you can’t help but laugh, pressing the keys that you were so sure were going to be a ring into your palm.

Beside you, Todoroki hums and faces you with a questioning look. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just— for a second there, when Izuku told me you wanted to ask me something, I panicked. I thought you were going to ask me to marry you.”

A beat of silence follows. You expect him to laugh with you, but instead he grows quiet. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, but then he reaches for your hand and slides his fingers through yours, shifting so he can face you properly, mismatched eyes curious and searching.

“Is that something you’d want?” he asks, more quietly than he needs to, like he’s afraid he might scare you off. “With me?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” you answer, voice as quiet as his. “In fact, I’ve actually tried really hard not to think about it. I didn’t think it was an option for me before.”

“Same here,” he says, and for some reason, hearing him be so honest and knowing that he thought the same fills you with relief, the steadiness of his voice comforting you the way it always has. “But if it’s with you…”

“If it’s with you…” You lift your head to look at him and press your palm flat against his chest, right above his heart. “I think we could make it work.”

He kisses you, then, slow and soft just like before, with his heart beating against your palm, strong and steady, unwavering when it comes to you, the way it’s always been. There’s a promise in it, too, one you hope he feels is reflected in the way you kiss him back, one that feels like forever.

You’re both smiling at each other when you pull away. Todoroki looks at you like he’s always looked at you, like you’re all he wants to see. Like you’re home, and for the first time in your life, you know you are.

And he doesn’t need to say anything else, doesn’t need to prove himself any more than he already has, but he says it anyway.

“Yeah. I think we could, too.”

And the best part is, he means it.

Written by: Dawn Taglist link

PLAY HOUSE? DON’T BE JOKING : TOJI FUSHIGURO

he wasn’t going to calm down, his world fell apart in his own hands, and yet. . . he can’t do anything. he doesn’t know how to stay tender with so much blood in his hands.

warning. angst no comfort, fem! reader, breaking up, little megs, infertile reader.

the warmth of his tiny body pressed against yours was both comforting and heartbreaking. megumi clung to you, his small frame curled into your chest as if you were the only anchor keeping him safe. even in his half-asleep state, he refused to let go, his fragile grip on your shirt tightening now and then, as though the thought of losing you haunted his dreams. you held him close, your arms wrapped protectively around him, but the ache in your heart was undeniable.

you lay on his small bed, the mattress far too short for your grown frame, your legs awkwardly bent to fit. his blanket, soft but barely large enough, draped over the two of you. it was a poor attempt to shield you both from the chill in the room, but you didn’t care about your own discomfort. your focus was entirely on him—megumi fushiguro, a child who bore no resemblance to you yet had somehow burrowed his way into your heart. his fever-flushed cheeks glowed faintly in the dim light, his long, dark lashes brushing against the delicate skin as his eyes fluttered between wakefulness and sleep.

he looked so much like his father, toji—his sharp features softened only by the hints of his mother. his mother, you reminded yourself bitterly. not you. you had no claim to him, no blood tie that made him yours, yet here you were, cradling him as if he were your own. the thought tore at you, a sharp pang of longing and sadness intertwining with the love you felt for him.

a faint whimper escaped him as he shifted closer, seeking comfort in your warmth. his little hand clutched at your shirt, desperate and fragile, and your breath hitched. you wanted to be everything for him—his shelter, his solace—but no matter how much you loved him, you weren’t his mother. that truth weighed on you like a stone, each beat of your heart a cruel reminder of the line you couldn’t cross.

you brushed a hand gently through his dark, messy hair, soothing him even as your chest ached. he didn’t understand why he felt the way he did, why he clung to you with such desperation. but you understood. you were a stand-in for someone who wasn’t here, someone who should’ve been here. and as much as you cherished being his safe place, it hurt to know you’d never truly be enough.

megumi’s breathing slowed, his tiny body relaxing slightly as sleep began to claim him. yet, even in slumber, his grip on you remained firm. you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry, not to let your sadness seep into this tender moment. it wasn’t his fault. none of it was. he was just a child—one who needed love, stability, and someone to hold onto when the world felt too big and frightening.

you pressed a soft kiss to his feverish forehead, whispering words he wouldn’t hear. “i’m here, baby. i won’t leave you.” and though the promise felt hollow, you meant it with every fiber of your being. even if he wasn’t yours, you’d stay as long as he needed you.

the night stretched on, inching closer to exhaustion, yet sleep refused to claim you. the hours seemed to drag, each one heavier than the last, and the weight of your heart grew unbearable. you sat in the dimly lit room, every creak of the house and every rustle of the wind outside pulling your attention, hoping—praying—that the next sound would be him.

toji had been gone for days now, and the silence of his absence gnawed at you. you didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. was he safe? was he hurt? the questions circled endlessly in your mind, each one darker than the last, until they became an oppressive cloud you couldn’t escape. your imagination ran wild, conjuring scenarios of danger, of injuries he wouldn’t admit to, of him lying somewhere, unable to return to you, or maybe he wouldn’t, just yet..

you tried to tell yourself this was normal. toji was a man who came and went as he pleased, his life one of constant unpredictability. he rarely shared the details of where he was going or what his plans entailed. yet, no matter how often this happened, the uncertainty never got easier to bear. each absence left you restless, each unanswered question a weight that settled deep in your chest.

the clock ticked steadily in the background, its monotonous rhythm a cruel reminder of how slowly time was passing. you wrapped your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in the empty room, but it was a poor substitute for his presence. the house felt too quiet, too still, without him there to fill the void.

you glanced at the door for what felt like the hundredth time, half expecting it to swing open and reveal his familiar figure, but it remained closed. the anticipation was unbearable, every second a tug-of-war between hope and dread. you wanted to be angry, to scold him for leaving without telling you anything. yet, beneath that frustration was an ache you couldn’t ignore—a longing for him to walk through that door, safe and whole, so you could finally breathe again.

with a sigh, you leaned back, your eyes drifting to the ceiling as your thoughts spiraled further. “where are you, toji?” you whispered into the emptiness. the question lingered in the air, unanswered, as the night wore on.

he was an assassin— a fact that was never unfamiliar to you, even from the beginning. his work, his lifestyle, the danger that followed him like a shadow, none of it was a secret. but familiarity didn’t make it any easier to accept, and it certainly didn’t stop it from being the source of so many arguments between you.

you often pleaded with him to find a real job, something stable, something safe. you wanted him to have work that didn’t demand he risk his life, something that wouldn’t force him to disappear for days at a time, leaving you and megumi behind with no word, no reassurance, nothing but the empty ache of waiting. “find something better,” you’d tell him, desperation slipping into your voice. “something that doesn’t put you in danger, toji. something that doesn’t leave us alone like this.”

but those conversations always spiraled into fights. they never ended well, always exploding into shouting matches filled with anger and frustration on both sides. toji would accuse you of not understanding, and you would accuse him of not caring enough about what his absences did to you or to megumi. and then he would leave—storming out the door without another word, disappearing for days, sometimes even weeks. when he eventually returned, it was always the same. no apologies, no explanations. he would act like nothing had happened, like the wounds from the argument weren’t still raw, as if you were supposed to just move on without question. maybe you isn’t enough for him to stay’ sometimes, you think.

it was exhausting. the cycle of fights, his departures, the waiting, and the uncertainty—it all wore you down more than you ever let him see. but what hurt the most wasn’t your own pain; it was the quiet toll it took on megumi. he was so little, too young to say anything, too young to ask for what he needed. but you could see it in the way his eyes lingered on the door when toji was gone. he never asked about his father, never said anything out loud, but you knew he missed him, and wondering.

he missed him in the way he clung to you at night, seeking comfort in your embrace because his father wasn’t there to give it. he missed him in the silence, in the unspoken ache that filled the room when the two of you sat together. and it broke your heart because no matter how much love you gave him, no matter how hard you tried to make up for toji’s absence, you couldn’t fill that void. he needed his father, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

and yet, toji’s job always came first. it always pulled him away, always left you wondering if this time would be the last time he walked out the door. you hated the job, hated the danger, hated the man you saw in him when he chose it over his family. but more than anything, you hated how much you still loved him despite it all. you hated how much it hurt to see megumi wait for someone who might never truly be there for him. and still, you stayed, clinging to the hope that one day, something might change.

it’s two in the morning, and you’ve just managed to put megumi to sleep. finally, his tiny body is at rest, though his fever is still alarmingly high. you stayed by his side for hours, wiping his sweat-soaked forehead, whispering soft reassurances, and hoping that somehow, your presence alone could ease his discomfort. but through it all, he never cried, never fussed, not even a whimper.

it made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t describe. he was only two years old—too young to understand the burden of resilience, yet somehow, he carried it like someone far older. he should’ve been crying, clinging to you, seeking comfort in the way most children would. but megumi wasn’t like most children. his quiet maturity only deepened your guilt, a sharp reminder of the life he was born into—a life he didn’t deserve.

now, you sit at the small dining table under the dim, flickering light of the kitchen. a half-empty bottle of cheap alcohol rests in your hand, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as you let your thoughts spiral. the silence in the apartment is suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. you feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at you, but sleep is the last thing on your mind.

the faint click of the door jolts you from your thoughts. you sit up slightly, straining to listen as heavy, familiar footsteps make their way through the apartment. your heart tightens, and you know exactly who it is before he even steps into the kitchen.

toji.

he pauses in the doorway, his broad figure cast in shadows from the dim light. his sharp eyes sweep over you, taking in the sight of you sitting alone with a drink in your hand, your shoulders slumped with exhaustion. for a moment, neither of you speaks. the air feels heavy, the unspoken tension between you hanging thick.

his deep voice breaks the silence, low and rumbling as he asks, “why aren’t you asleep?” the question is straightforward, but there’s a softness to his tone, an edge of concern that he rarely lets show.

before you can answer, he crosses the room, his footsteps slow but deliberate. he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead—a gesture so brief yet so tender it takes you by surprise. your eyes flutter shut for a moment, a quiet sigh escaping your lips as his warmth lingers against your skin. then, just as quickly, he pulls away, making his way to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

you watch him in silence before he disappears behind you, chest tight with a mix of emotions you can’t quite untangle. there’s relief in seeing him safe, frustration at his absence, and a lingering sadness you don’t have the strength to confront. he doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. instead, you sit there, staring at the cheap bottle in your hand, wishing the gap between you wasn’t so wide. wishing you didn’t feel so alone, even with him standing just a few feet away.

toji leaned against the counter, the cold granite biting into his skin, a sharp reminder of the divide that stretched between you. the glass of water in his hand felt heavier than it should, yet he took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on you. you sat hunched in the corner, half-shrouded in shadows, your silhouette a fragile, aching thing. even in the dim light, he could see the exhaustion etched into your every movement—the slump of your shoulders, the quiet defeat in the curve of your spine. it wasn’t just weariness; it was something deeper, something that made his chest tighten and his throat dry.

his gaze dropped briefly to the half-empty bottle in your hand, the liquid inside catching the faint light. it wasn’t the first one tonight—he could tell—and the sight of it twisted his gut with worry and something heavier, something he couldn’t name. he took another sip of his water, but it didn’t help. nothing did. the silence between you pressed in like a weight, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say.

the soft clink of his bottle meeting the counter broke the stillness as he set it down, his movements slow, deliberate. he pushed away from the counter, his steps hesitant as he approached you, each one feeling like a gamble. you looked so small, so distant, even though you were right there. he studied your face, searching for something—anger, resentment, anything—but all he found was exhaustion. it was a quiet kind of pain, one that sat in your eyes and clung to your posture, and it left him feeling utterly helpless.

he pulled out the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud and jarring in the stillness. he lowered himself into it, his broad frame suddenly feeling out of place, too big, too heavy in the fragile space between you. for a long moment, he simply sat there, his eyes tracing the shadows under your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the hollow sadness that seemed to hang around you like a cloud. you looked like you were carrying the weight of the world, and he hated himself for being part of what had put it there.

he wanted to reach out. god, he wanted to reach out. to close the distance, to take your hands in his and pull you into him, to hold you against his chest and remind you that you weren’t alone, that he was still here. he wanted to feel your heartbeat against his, to reassure himself that you hadn’t slipped away entirely, even if it felt like you had.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t.

he sat frozen, his fists clenched tightly in his lap, the frustration and self-loathing building inside him. he knew the cracks in your relationship were his doing—his silences, his failures, the way he never seemed to say or do the right thing. every unspoken word, every withheld apology, weighed on him like chains, and now, sitting here beside you, they felt insurmountable.

he could feel the distance between you like a chasm, vast and unbridgeable, even though you were close enough for him to hear your soft, uneven breaths. he clenched his jaw, the words he wanted to say choking him, stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat. apologies felt useless, explanations even more so. how could they compare to the pain in your eyes, the quiet devastation that he knew he’d put there?

so, he stayed silent, his presence heavy and uncertain, his gaze locked on you like a man staring at something slipping through his fingers. the ache in his chest deepened as the moments stretched on, and all he could do was sit there, knowing that even his closeness wasn’t enough to bridge the distance that had grown between you.

your reaction was hesitant, almost fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. for a long moment, you stayed still, staring down at the bottle in your hand as if it held the answers to questions you were too tired to ask. the room felt suffocating, the silence pressing in on your chest, making it harder to breathe. you didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see the worry in his eyes or the guilt etched into his features. it would only remind you of how far apart you’d drifted, how the gap between you felt insurmountable, even now.

but something in the way he sat there—so close yet so tentative—drew your gaze to his. your eyes met his green irises, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to really see him. the sharpness that once defined him was gone, replaced by a dullness that mirrored your own. he looked tired, almost as tired as you felt, and the sight made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with anger. it was sadness, heavy and unrelenting, wrapping around you like a shroud.

his hand reached out slowly, gently, as if he were afraid you might pull away. he took the bottle from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. the touch was warm, grounding, and you felt the tiniest flicker of something you thought you’d lost—a fragile, fleeting hope. he set the bottle on the table with care, the soft clink of glass breaking the oppressive quiet.

your body moved before your mind caught up, driven by an instinct you couldn’t suppress. your arms found their way around his neck, and you buried yourself in him, seeking solace in the steady, unyielding strength of his presence. your body folded into his lap, trembling as you clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that felt like it was crumbling beneath you.

you didn’t cry. the tears that should have come remained locked inside, caught somewhere deep in the hollow ache that had taken root in your chest. instead, you held him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for the warmth he offered. your head rested against his shoulder, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the strong, warm arms that wrapped around you in return.

the moment you moved into his lap, his arms went around you on instinct, pulling you tighter against him— it was as though the weight you carried began to crack and crumble, piece by piece. . the familiar feel of your body in his arms, the scent of you, somehow still so sweet and faintly floral despite the weariness that stained your skin—it hit him like a punch to the stomach. the realization of how desperately he’d missed this, how deeply he’d longed for this closeness but had done nothing to repair what had been broken, hit him like a freight train.

he held you there, one hand running slowly up and down your spine in a soothing rhythm, the other buried in your hair as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. he steady, grounding pressure of his palm gliding along your spine, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he was anchoring himself to you—it was almost too much. his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, sent a shiver through you, and you closed your eyes, trying to steady the storm that swirled inside you.

there were words he wanted to say, words that clawed at the back of his throat— “i’m sorry,” “i missed you,” “don’t leave” —but they all felt wrong, too small and insufficient. he pressed his lips to the pulse point on your neck, feeling the rapid thrum of your heart against his mouth.

you feel it— no, you missed it— the gently kiss against the hollow of your neck, soft and tentative, like he was afraid you might vanish if he held on too tight. that simple touch, so full of longing, sent a ripple through your chest, a sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. it wasn’t relief, not fully, but it was something close—like a door opening just wide enough to let the smallest ray of light in. your hand moved without thought, trailing down to his chest, where you could feel the strength of him beneath your palm—the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. but even now, even with all that strength, he felt fragile. weak. like a man caught in the wreckage of something he couldn’t fix.

you pulled back slowly, reluctant but needing to see him, to look into the green eyes that had once felt like home. your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. the faint stubble on his cheek prickled beneath your fingertips as you cupped his face, your thumb moving in slow, deliberate strokes over his skin. it felt rough, unkempt, like the rest of him—a man unraveling, his edges frayed and worn.

you studied him in the dim light, your gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. this close, you could see it all—the regrets he carried, the guilt that weighed him down, the cracks in the armor he tried so hard to wear. and you hated how much it mirrored your own reflection, how you could feel the pull of him drawing you in even as the words in your chest begged to push him away.

your voice came softly, trembling but resolute, breaking the silence that had stretched too far for too long. “i will leave.”

the words hung between you, sharp and heavy, slicing through the air with a finality you didn’t know you were capable of. his breath hitched against yours, his hands tightening on your waist as though he could hold you in place, as though sheer willpower could keep you tethered to him. but you didn’t say anything more, didn’t elaborate or soften the blow. instead, you let the weight of those words settle over both of you, the truth undeniable.

your mind spun with the possibilities, the what-ifs and could-bes that clawed at the edges of your resolve. what would it look like, a life without him? would you be freer, lighter, or would the absence of him feel like a gaping wound that would never fully heal? and what about megumi? the boy who had grown to look at you like a constant, like something steady and safe in a world that had taken so much from him already? how would he understand the choice you were on the brink of making?

your chest tightened with the weight of it all, the enormity of what leaving meant. but the thought of staying, of continuing this cycle of hurt and silence, felt just as unbearable. so you stayed like that, forehead pressed to his, your fingers trembling as they traced the curve of his jaw, memorizing every detail of him as if this moment might be your last.

“you’re a mess,” you whispered finally, your voice breaking on the words. there was no malice in them, only a deep, aching sadness. “we both are.”

he didn’t respond, couldn’t seem to find the words, but his eyes—those tired, dulled green eyes—bore into yours with a desperation that threatened to undo you entirely. you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm, a frantic rhythm that echoed the chaos in your own chest. it was as if he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words, begging you to stay, to give him one more chance, even as he seemed to know that the cracks between you might already be too wide to bridge.

for a moment, you considered it—letting yourself fall into him, letting his arms hold you together even as you both came undone. but the pain of the past lingered too close, a reminder of all the times you’d tried and failed, of the nights spent wondering if love was supposed to hurt this much.

so instead, you stayed silent, too, letting the closeness of him fill the void between you for just a little while longer, knowing it might be the last time.

toji’s body was tensed beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath he took. he didn’t say a word, didn’t move, but he was a coiled wire, taut and ready to snap at any moment. the air between you felt charged, thick with the weight of words unspoken, of questions asked yet left unanswered, of apologies and pleas that remained stuck in both of your throats.

the silence felt suffocating, a crushing weight that pressed in on your lungs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. but still, neither of you spoke. his silence felt deafening, a stark contrast to the maelstrom of his thoughts. he wanted to reach out, to pull you to him, to fix whatever was broken between you. but he was frozen.

he couldn’t tell you what stopped him, the memories of past arguments, the fear of causing more hurt, the knowledge that words alone couldn’t stitch together the torn edges of what was left of your relationship. the only thing he could do was sit there, his body taut against you, his heart hammering in his chest.

his eyes were fixed on your face, studying every feature, as if he was trying to memorize them. he could see the way your brow was furrowed, the way your lips were pressed together, the way your fingers continued to trace over his skin. and he wondered if you could feel the way his pulse was racing, the way his heart was lurching in his chest.

“please,” he finally managed, his voice raspy and unsteady, almost like a man drowning. the words hung in the air, pleading yet resigned, a last-ditch effort to keep you from slipping though his fingers.

he reached up, his fingers trailing along your collarbone, the touch so light it was almost reverent. his eyes flickered over your face, tracing the lines he’d come to know so well, the curves and planes of you as familiar as his own reflection. “don’t leave. not yet.”

not yet.

your breath hitched at his words, the rawness in his voice cutting through the walls you’d built around yourself. please. it was a small word, but the weight of it was staggering, heavy with a kind of desperation that made your chest ache. his fingers brushed against your collarbone, featherlight, almost trembling, as though he was afraid that even the slightest pressure might shatter what was left between you. his gaze burned into yours, searching, pleading, memorizing every inch of you as if he was afraid you’d vanish before his eyes, just like his late wife.

your lips curved into a smile, soft and bittersweet, a fragile thing that seemed to carry the weight of your exhaustion. it wasn’t happiness—not even close. it was the kind of smile you wore when you knew something was over, when the pain was too deep to cry anymore. your hands lifted to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over the roughness of his stubble, the sharp angles of his jaw. his skin felt warm beneath your touch, grounding, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself forget the inevitability of it all.

“yeah,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “i will.” the words felt like a betrayal even as they left your lips. you saw the way they landed, how they rippled through him like a physical blow, and you hated yourself for it. but this was the truth, the only truth you could offer, and you hoped that somehow, deep down, he understood.

you leaned in slowly, your movements deliberate, as if you were giving him time to pull away—but he didn’t. he stayed rooted in place, his breath shallow and uneven as you closed the distance between you. your lips brushed against the scar on his mouth, a touch so soft it felt like it might break you both. you lingered there, your breath mingling with his, the intimacy of it so fragile, so fleeting.

when you finally pulled back, your eyes fluttered open to meet his, and you saw the pain there, raw and unguarded. it mirrored your own.

he didn’t pull away. instead, his hands moved to your waist, gripping you with a desperation that made it hard to breathe, like he was trying to etch the feel of you into his memory. his grip on you tightened, desperate, trembling with the need to hold on, to keep you there just a moment longer. his fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, clutching at you as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

then, without giving yourself time to second-guess, you kissed him fully. your lips pressed to his in a way that was soft but resolute, like a thread unraveling one final time. it wasn’t passionate or hurried; it wasn’t a plea to stay or to change. it was gentle, quiet, and achingly painful—a goodbye masquerading as a kiss.

his breath came in shallow, broken gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to find words. but they eluded him, caught in the raw agony swelling in his throat. every thought, every feeling, twisted into a silent scream he couldn’t release. his lips found yours— kissing you back. and he kissed you with everything he had left—despair, love, a futile plea that tasted of salt and sorrow. it was a kiss laced with the echoes of goodbye, with all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. but there was a hesitance to it, a kind of fear that came from knowing this wasn’t the beginning of something—it was the end.

when you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the stillness of the room. your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though you were trying to hold onto him for just a moment longer. but even as you stayed close, you could feel the distance growing, the inevitability of your choice settling in like a storm on the horizon.

your voice broke as you whispered, “i’ll always love you, toji.”

for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. your words, soft yet heavy with finality, lingered in the air like the toll of a mournful bell, resonating deep within him. your hands clung to his shirt, your foreheads pressed together still, as if you could will time to stop, as if your closeness could delay the inevitable.

the ache in your voice cut deep, sharper than the words themselves. it was the resignation, the quiet certainty that this was the end—the end he had always feared but never prepared for—that shattered him. it was not just the loss but the cruel, unyielding finality of it that left him hollow.

“please,” he whispered, his voice breaking, barely more than a breath. a single word, fragile and aching, hung in the space between you, a final plea to stop the inevitable. but even as it passed his lips, he knew it was hopeless. your decision had been made, and your resolve, as much as it pained you, would not falter.

he opened his eyes, searching yours with a desperation that burned. and there you were, looking back at him with a strength that seemed unbearable, a strength that masked your own heartache. he saw the exhaustion in your features, the brittleness in your stance, like glass held together by sheer will. yet your gaze was unwavering, unyielding. you were a mountain, immovable in your choice, and he was the storm, battering against you in futility.

his chest tightened as a wave of helplessness surged over him, dragging him under. he wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, to rage against the cruel twist of fate that had brought him here, to demand that you stay. but the fight within him ebbed, replaced by a hollow acceptance that settled like ash in his soul. anger would change nothing; it could not rewrite the truth.

he took a trembling breath, his heart a cacophony of pain, and looked at you like a drowning man gazes at the surface—longing, desperate, and full of grief. the threads that had bound you together unraveled with every second, slipping from his grasp like water, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. and in that moment, he understood that love was not always enough to keep someone by your side. sometimes, love meant letting go, even when it broke you beyond repair.

your forehead rested against the side of his head, your hand cradling the back of his neck with a tenderness that felt cruel in its finality. his hair, dark and slightly unruly, brushed against your fingertips, and for a moment, you let yourself stay there, suspended in a fleeting fragment of closeness. your breath hitched, your lips slightly parted, and the tremble in your chest betrayed the storm inside you.

your voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. fragile. raw. “you know i can’t stay. it’s unfair to me.”

the words quivered in the air between you, heavy and sharp like broken glass, and you felt him tense beneath your touch. his breathing faltered, the steady rhythm you once found solace in now uneven, jagged. your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall, even as your chest heaved with the weight of it all. you’ve cried enough, you told yourself, but your body betrayed you, trembling as you inhaled a shuddering breath.

“toji, baby,” you murmured, his name breaking on your lips like a prayer turned curse. “i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep waiting… hoping… starving for something you never give. god, i was starving,” your voice cracked, the pain pouring out despite your efforts to keep it contained. “you come and go like the tide, leaving me behind to wither while you do whatever you want. you disappear for days, weeks… and i sit here, waiting, aching, drowning in this emptiness you leave behind. it’s killing me.”

the confession spilled from you, unfiltered and raw, as if the dam you’d so carefully built had finally shattered. the words tumbled out, each one slicing through the air, heavy with the pain you’d carried in silence for far too long.

you closed your eyes, pressing your forehead more firmly against his temple, as though the proximity could ease the ache. it couldn’t. nothing could. your hand tightened against the back of his neck, your fingers digging into his skin, desperate to hold onto something tangible even as everything else unraveled.

“i love you,” you admitted, your voice barely audible now, a quiet confession meant only for the space between you. “i love you so much it hurts. but i can’t keep sacrificing pieces of myself for a love that leaves me empty. i deserve more than this, toji. more than the crumbs you give me when you decide to come back.”

your tears, unbidden and unwanted, finally escaped, trailing hot and fast down your cheeks. you tilted your head, pulling back just enough to look at him, your gaze meeting his. the pain in his eyes mirrored your own, but you couldn’t let it sway you. you couldn’t let his sorrow chain you to a love that had become your prison.

“i can’t keep breaking myself apart to keep us whole,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the finality of your words settled over both of you. “i need to let go… before there’s nothing left of me.” your words were a dagger, each one finding its mark with painful precision. the air felt thick, heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid, all that he knew you had been holding inside all this time.

he didn’t say anything at first, his mind reeling, trying to process the torrent of everything. his eyes never left yours, taking in every flicker of emotion that played across your face. the tears, the pain, the acceptance, all of it hit him like a gut punch. he reached up, his hand closing over yours on the back of his neck. his grip was firm, holding your wrist with a quiet strength, preventing you from pulling away just yet. he needed to look at you, to hold onto this moment, even as it burned through his heart.

“i…” he began, but the words got stuck in his throat, lodged there like a lump he couldn’t swallow around. he tried again, his voice hoarse and shaky.

“i’m sorry,” he finally managed, his eyes not leaving yours. and he meant it. he was sorry, sorry for everything. sorry for the pain he’d caused you, sorry that he was too broken to be who you needed he closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around your wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your skin. each beat felt like a countdown, a reminder that you were leaving, that this was the end.

your gaze softened, though the ache in your chest only deepened as you watched the cracks in him grow wider, his remorse spilling out like water from a shattered vessel. his fingers, firm yet trembling around your wrist, felt heavier than they should, like they were tethering you to a moment you could no longer stay in.

“i’m sorry i couldn’t give you what you need,” he continued, opening his eyes to look at you again. “i’m sorry i’m such a colossal screw-up.” each word felt like a confession, an admittance of failing you, of failing both of you. it was a hard truth, one he’d avoided for too long. a soft hum escaped you, unsteady and fragile, like the faintest echo of comfort in the middle of a storm. it was a sound that carried all the weight of your sorrow, an acknowledgment of his pain even as your own threatened to drown you.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, though your voice was brittle and uneven, the words trembling as they fell from your lips. but they weren’t okay, not really—not for either of you. and yet, you said them anyway, because what else was there to say?

“it’s not okay,” he shot back, the words a harsh whisper. his eyes searched yours, desperate for some flicker of understanding, some hint that you weren’t just going through the motions of saying goodbye.

“it’s not okay ‘cause you’re leaving,” he added, his voice cracking. “i… i don’t want you to leave.” his grip on your wrist tightened, the tremors running through his muscles mirroring the tremors in his voice. he swallowed, his throat feeling too tight for words, but he pushed through, needing to get it all out while he still could.

“i know i’m a mess, okay?” he rasped out, his eyes fixed on yours. “i know i’m not husband or boyfriend of the year material. i know i’m not the kinda guy you take home to meet your parents or anything. i know all of that.” he paused, his breath coming in unsteady gasps, like he was fighting for control, for one last moment of vulnerability before the walls slammed back up again.

“but i love you,” he said, the words so quiet they almost got lost in the air between you. “i love you so goddamn much. that’s gotta count for something, right?”

you shifted slightly in his lap, creating just enough space to tilt your head back and meet his gaze. his words hung between you like fragile glass, their weight pressing down on your chest, threatening to shatter the last remnants of resolve you clung to. your hands found their way to his cheeks once more, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a moment that felt far too fleeting.

your hum was soft, barely audible, a sound that trembled with hesitation and sorrow. “maybe,” you whispered, your voice as delicate as a thread unraveling in the quiet air. the word carried the faintest flicker of possibility, though even you knew it wasn’t real. it was a fleeting comfort, an acknowledgment of his love that couldn’t undo the damage done.

your thumb traced the sharp angles of his face, the faint stubble that tickled your fingertips, as though memorizing the contours of him for the last time. “but,” you added, your voice breaking slightly, “the count wasn’t enough.”

his hands, suddenly desperate, shot up to cover yours, trapping them against his cheeks as if he could keep you there indefinitely if he just held on tight enough. “not enough,” he echoed, his voice a strangled whisper. “it’s not enough…”

his eyes searched yours, searching for something, anything. a hint that he could change your mind, a promise that this wasn’t really it. his fingers curled around yours, pressing your palms against his skin like he was trying to tattoo the feel of your touch into his flesh. “then what is enough?” he asked, the words a broken plea. “what do you need from me?”

he leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against yours for once more, the proximity forcing your breaths to mingle. his body trembled, the tremors running through him like an earthquake. “i’ll give it to you,” he promised. “whatever it is. just tell me what you need.”

your fingers slipped into the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, idly curling and uncurling them as if the motion could steady the tremor in your chest. his desperation weighed on you, heavier than his arms around your waist or the intensity of his gaze, pinning you in place. you looked at him for a moment, long and silent, as though memorizing every detail—the lines etched by pain and time, the shadows in his eyes that never seemed to leave, the scar that tugged at his lip even as it trembled.

you didn’t speak right away, the quiet stretching between you like a string pulled taut, ready to snap. your hand drifted upward, brushing the edge of his jaw, then falling away again as though even that small contact might tether you too tightly to him. when you finally whispered, it was soft and breathless, like the words hurt to say, but you needed to let them out before they suffocated you.

“marry me.”

the air seemed to leave the room, sucked into a silence that felt deafening. his eyes widened, and for a moment, his breath hitched. you felt the tremor in his body still as though the words had struck him frozen, their weight sinking in too deep to ignore.

you didn’t elaborate. you didn’t plead or justify or explain. because you knew.

you knew what you were asking wasn’t fair, that it was a wound you shouldn’t press on, a ghost you shouldn’t summon. you knew the memories of his wife still haunted the spaces between you, that her absence shaped him more than her presence ever had. and you knew, deep down, that no matter how much he loved you, he didn’t have the courage to give you what you needed.

but still, you had to ask. because if this was the end, you needed to hear the answer you already knew, needed him to face the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud.

his mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came out. his grip on your hands faltered, loosening just enough for you to pull away, though you didn’t. his forehead pressed against yours again, his eyes shutting tight as though he could will the moment away, as though he could keep your words from echoing in his head.

you waited, your heart pounding in your chest, even though you already knew the answer. his silence was louder than anything he could have said, a confirmation of the doubts you’d been holding all this time. he was silent, his mind reeling. he’d been ready to promise anything, to say he’d change, to do better, to be better, but this... this he wasn’t prepared for.

he’d buried the possibility of a future together under the wreckage of his past, and here you were, exhuming it, offering it to him like a fragile thing. he swallowed, his throat bobbing with the effort, but words still didn’t come. he was lost in the storm of his thoughts, his heart and mind at war.

marriage, with all its complexities and risks, was a chasm he’d avoided for years. it was an admission of permanence, the final nail in the coffin of his lost love. and yet, hearing the word from your lips, the weight of it hung in the air, undeniable. he loved you, god, he did. but the thought of being married again, standing at the altar and promising forever, felt like staring down the barrel of a gun.

“i...” he started, his voice catching in his throat. “i can’t....” he couldn’t finish, the words refusing to form. he could see the hurt flicker across your face, the disappointment in your eyes. he hated it, hated disappointing you, but he couldn’t give you what you wanted. he could give you anything else, everything else, but that one thing, that one thing he couldn’t stomach.

he drew in a shuddering breath, his hands grasping yours more tightly, as though begging you to understand. “please,” he whispered, the word a ragged plea. “please, don’t ask me for that.” your smile was small, fragile, like glass held together by trembling hands, threatening to shatter at any moment. the corners of your lips wavered as you let out a shaky hum, the sound catching in your throat. you nodded, slowly, over and over, as though convincing yourself more than him.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the lie. “it’s okay.”

the words came again, softer, more broken, tumbling out like a mantra you needed to believe. “it’s okay, it’s okay…”

but it wasn’t okay. not really.

your hands slipped out of his grasp, his warmth lingering on your skin even as you pulled away. you felt the tears brimming, threatening to spill, but you held them back with sheer willpower, your chest heaving with the effort. you couldn’t cry—not now, not in front of him.

you glanced at him, your gaze meeting his for a fleeting second, and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. he was desperate, broken, his pain as raw as your own. you knew he wasn’t choosing this to hurt you. he just… couldn’t.

he watched as you pulled away, the loss of your touch feeling like a wound in his chest. he wanted to reach out, to pull you back, to hold you tight against him and never let go. but he couldn’t. it felt like there was an invisible wall between them, one he didn’t know how to scale. the silence that settled felt heavy, filled with all the things they weren’t saying.

he watched as you kept nodding, your words a soft, hollow reassurance. he hated it, hated the resignation in your voice, the acceptance that he couldn’t seem to offer. his eyes never left yours, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every tremble of your lips. he saw the struggle, the fight within you, and it tore at his heart. his fingers flexed at his side, as if they ached to reach out for you.

he wanted to be what you needed. he tried hard, he did. but he’d built his life around what he couldn’t do, not what he could. marriage, that sacred promise of forever, was not something he was capable of giving. it had been stolen along with his wife.

your movements were slow, deliberate, as though the weight of your decision had settled into your very bones. you pushed yourself off his lap, your hands lingering for a second longer than they should have, your touch burning into his skin as you stood before him. “i’m going to pack my things,” you said quietly, the words steady but hollow, as though you had rehearsed them in your mind countless times. your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unable to meet his. if you looked at him now—at the way his hands were clenching into fists, the way his lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line—you knew you wouldn’t be able to follow through.

the bedroom was cloaked in a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional, uneven breath that escaped from your lips. the air was heavy, dense with the weight of unspoken words and lingering regrets.

toji sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. his hands dangled uselessly between his legs, fingers twitching every so often like they wanted to reach for something—for you—but didn’t know how. his gaze was fixed on the floor, on a stray thread of the rug, as if it could provide him the answers he didn’t have.

you sat on the floor in front of the wardrobe, knees bent and body folded in on itself, your fingers trembling as they carefully, methodically folded your clothes. each piece felt like a small goodbye, a memory slipping through your hands as you placed it into the open suitcase. the suitcase itself looked like a wound, wide open and gaping, the contents spilling out like the remnants of a life shared and now divided.

the tears had long since dried on your cheeks, leaving behind a raw, burning ache. your eyes stung from crying, your head throbbed from the hours of grief. but nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, the way your heart seemed to squeeze with every breath you took. you moved slowly, painfully, each motion deliberate as though the act of packing was draining the last bits of strength you had. a sweater slipped from your grasp and landed limply on the floor. you stared at it for a moment, your fingers frozen mid-air, before picking it up again and folding it with trembling hands.

toji’s head tilted slightly, his dark eyes flickering to you, but he said nothing. he didn’t know what to say. the sight of you on the floor, hunched and fragile, sent a sharp pain through his chest. he wanted to call out to you, to tell you to stop, to tell you to stay. but his throat felt tight, his voice trapped beneath the weight of his guilt.

the night stretched on, cold and endless. the walls seemed to close in, the room once filled with warmth now unbearably hollow. the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale shadows across the floor. the glow touched your hair, your face, and he thought you looked like something fleeting, like something he’d already lost.

“you don’t have to do this,” he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, the words rough and uneven, as if dragged from the depths of his chest. your hands stilled, gripping a shirt tightly, but you didn’t turn to face him. instead, you closed your eyes, took a shaky breath, and let the silence answer for you.

he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. “please,” he tried again, his voice cracking, “just… just stay. we can figure this out.” his words hung in the air, fragile and desperate, but you didn’t move. instead, you placed the shirt in the suitcase, smoothing it down as though you hadn’t heard him.

toji felt the weight of his failures pressing down on him, suffocating him. his hands clenched into fists as he looked at you, his chest burning with the helplessness of it all. he wanted to get on his knees, to beg you not to go. but he knew—he’d always known—that this moment was inevitable.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, the words so soft they almost didn’t reach you. but they did, and you paused again, your hands trembling as you gripped the edge of the suitcase. you didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, but your voice, quiet and tired, finally broke the silence. “sorry doesn’t change anything, baby.”

his chest tightened with every word you spoke, each one cutting through him like a blade. they mirrored the ache already festering in his soul, a deep, unrelenting hurt he could no longer ignore. he knew you were right—sorry was just a word, a feeble attempt to patch the gaping wound he had inflicted.

he wanted to fight it, to protest, to swear on everything he had that he’d do better, that he’d fix what was broken. but the promises felt hollow, brittle things that couldn’t bear the weight of the pain between you. his guilt loomed over him like a thundercloud, heavy and oppressive, choking the words in his throat before they could form.

he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost unbearable. the silence that followed your words was suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides, stealing the air from his lungs. it was the kind of silence that left no room for hope—just a void where something beautiful used to be.

“where will you go?” he rasped at last, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and frayed from holding back the storm inside him. the question lingered in the air, fragile and trembling, like a ghost of all the things he wished he could say. he knew you had thought this through, planned every step with a careful precision that broke his heart all over again. but he wasn’t ready to hear it, to have the finality of it spoken aloud.

his gaze never left you, drinking in every detail like it was the last time he’d see you. the way your shoulders sagged under the weight of it all, the faint tremor in your hands as you folded your clothes with a quiet, mechanical detachment—it was unbearable. each movement of yours felt like another step away, another piece of you slipping from his grasp.

he ached to reach for you, to close the distance and feel your warmth beneath his fingertips, to remind himself that you were still here. but he couldn’t. the chasm between you was too wide, carved out by every mistake he’d made, every unspoken word, every moment of silence when you needed him most.

he sat there, paralyzed, watching as you drifted further away, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stop you from leaving. he couldn’t undo what had been done, couldn’t bridge the unrelenting void between your hearts. and it shattered him.

the weight of his question hung in the air, suffocating and unanswered. you didn’t look at him, couldn’t. your hands moved on autopilot, folding clothes and tucking them away into the suitcase, but your mind was far from the task. his voice had cracked when he asked, and the sound of it had carved another wound into your chest.

you didn’t respond. not because you hadn’t thought about where you’d go—god knows you had. you’d spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of everything and nothing all at once. but now, with his question hanging in the stillness, the answer felt like a tether, something that might pull him toward you when you couldn’t afford to let him get close.

maybe it was because you didn’t trust yourself. if he showed up, if he found you, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to stay away. you didn’t think you could withstand the gravity of him, the pull of his broken promises and desperate pleas. you weren’t sure you could stop yourself from falling into his arms all over again.

so instead, you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, “one day... one day, i’ll take megumi with me.” the words felt like a fragile thread, unraveling between the two of you. they weren’t meant to hurt him, but you knew they would. and they did.

toji flinched like you’d struck him, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs. his head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, wide with something between shock and desperation. “you’d take him?” he asked, his voice barely audible, trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.

you hummed softly, the sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the heavy silence in the room. it wasn’t meant to be cruel, but the truth of it hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. your hands stilled for a moment, clutching a folded shirt before you placed it carefully into the suitcase, as if the act could ground you.

“megumi deserves a better life,” you murmured, your voice steady but hollow, like the words were coming from somewhere deep, unreachable. you kept your gaze on the suitcase, unwilling to meet his eyes and see the anguish you knew would be there. “better everything… better than this.”

the last word caught in your throat, but you pushed forward, the weight of what you had to say pressing down on you. “better dad.”

the words left your lips like a whisper, soft and deliberate, but they landed with the force of a sledgehammer. you didn’t mean it to be an attack, but you couldn’t hold back the truth any longer. it wasn’t just about you—it was about megumi, about the kind of man and father he needed.

his heart fractured under the weight of your words, splintering into countless shards that cut him from the inside out. his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came, only the quiet gasp of a man brought to his knees by the truth. his eyes stayed fixed on yours, pain swirling in their depths like a storm he couldn’t escape.

your words stung, sharp and unyielding, wounding his pride and stripping bare the fragile veneer of his ego. but beneath the sting, he couldn’t deny the truth they carried. he had failed—not just as a father, but as someone you could rely on. he had failed both of you.

his jaw tightened, muscles clenching until his teeth ached, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “how dare you,” he muttered, his voice rough, scraping against the silence. anger ignited in his chest, quick and consuming, burning like dry kindling caught in a blaze. It was easier to give in to that anger, to use it as a shield, than to confront the overwhelming weight of his guilt. He wanted to refute you, to insist he was trying, that he cared more than you could understand. But the words tangled in his throat, heavy and useless, strangled by his own inadequacy.

with a sharp motion, he stood, the scrape of the chair loud against the floor. his movements were stiff, his body rigid as though holding himself together by sheer will alone. he stepped closer to you, his presence a forceful weight, his dark eyes clouded with emotions too raw to name—hurt, regret, defiance.

“you don’t get to decide what’s best for him,” he growled, his voice low and unsteady, the edges frayed by a desperation he couldn’t hide. the words came out rough, jagged, as if they were torn from him against his will, the only defense he could muster against the truth you’d laid bare. and yet, even as he spoke, the hollowness in his chest deepened, a chasm opening wide as he realized how little power he had left to keep either of you close.

you paused, your hands stilling over the suitcase as his words cut through the air, sharp and heated. slowly, you turned to face him, your gaze calm but piercing, steady even as the storm of his anger loomed over you.

toji stood before you, his tall, imposing frame trembling with tension, fists clenched at his sides. his eyes, dark and wild, bore into yours, but you didn’t flinch. instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was a puzzle you’d long since solved.

“do you even know,” you began, your voice quiet, controlled, “that megumi is sick right now?”

the question hit him like a punch to the gut. his brows furrowed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely lost. “what are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice still rough, but the fire in it flickered, uncertainty creeping in. you let out a soft, humorless laugh, the sound filled with exhaustion rather than mirth. “exactly,” you whispered, the weight of your words pressing down like a heavy stone.

you pushed yourself up from the floor, standing to meet him eye to eye, though his towering figure still loomed over you. “he’s had a fever for two days,” you continued, your voice steady but edged with pain. “he’s been coughing, barely eating, and clinging to me because he doesn’t know where his father is.”

his anger deflated in an instant, replaced by a cold realization that hit him like a freight train. the color drained from his face, eyes widening in a mix of shock and disbelief.

he’d been so wrapped up in his own guilt, his own shortcomings, that he hadn’t even noticed his own son was sick. the reality of it felt like a dagger to the heart. he took a step back, away from you, as if to distance himself from the truth. “i... i didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession.

you let out a bitter laugh, sharp and cutting, the sound bouncing off the walls like a cruel echo. it wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the air with more force than any shout could. shaking your head, you turned back to the suitcase, resuming your task with trembling hands. “you never know, toji,” you said, your voice low but trembling with restrained anger. “never there.”

for what felt like the hundredth time that night, his heart sank, heavy and aching, beneath the weight of your words. they struck with a bluntness that left no room for denial, carving through him with their unrelenting truth. the sting of them burned, sharp and unforgiving, and he felt the urge to fight back, to argue, to plead his case. he wanted to shout that he was trying, that he cared, that he’d been there in the ways he could. but the excuses lodged in his throat, crumbling to ash before they could take shape.

his eyes flickered to your hands, trembling as they folded the fabric in front of you with methodical precision. every movement betrayed the pain you held back, the frustration, the hurt that lingered unspoken. your voice, though steady, carried the weight of all the words you hadn’t said, words that would have gutted him even more.

he stepped back, the distance between you widening with every moment, and raked a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over in jagged waves. “i’m... i’m trying, goddamnit,” he choked out, his voice raw and unsteady, like a desperate man grasping at straws. but even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow, a frail echo of the truth he wished he could give you.

you didn’t look up, didn’t pause, didn’t waver. your hands moved steadily, folding each piece of clothing with a care that belied the storm brewing in your chest. his words—i’m trying—hung in the air, but they felt hollow, an echo of promises that had long since lost their meaning. “let’s not lie to ourselves, toji,” you said quietly, your voice devoid of the anger it held moments before. now it was just tired, resigned, as if you’d given up on expecting more from him. “we both know it’s not true.”

the weight of your words settled in the room like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. you didn’t bother to glance at him, your focus entirely on the task at hand. the suitcase was nearly full now, the sight of it both a relief and a heartache.

“i hope,” you began, your voice soft but firm, “you can keep megumi safe. just for a year or two. take care of him while i’m gone.” you paused, fingers smoothing out a small wrinkle in one of megumi’s shirts. “then i’ll come back for him.” the words cut deeper than anything else you’d said. they weren’t laced with anger or bitterness. they were just the truth, laid bare, unflinching and cold.

toji felt like the air had been knocked out of him. his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he watched you. gone. you were going to leave, to walk away from him, from this. the thought of it was unbearable, but the way you spoke of megumi—calm, certain, like you’d already planned your exit—shattered something inside him, and it anger him.

in your heart, you knew how furious toji was, even if he didn’t show it the way he usually did—with raised voices or slammed doors. this was a quiet, simmering anger, the kind that vibrated in the air between you, heavy and tense. and you understood why. you knew it wasn’t just your words that had stung—it was the truth behind them. megumi was his son, his flesh and blood, his responsibility. not yours. he had every right to be angry, to feel the weight of your accusation. but that didn’t make it any less true.

toji was mad, indeed. you could feel it in the way he stood rigidly by the bed, his broad frame tense, his fists clenched as if trying to physically hold himself together. but you also knew he wasn’t just mad at you.

he was mad at himself.

he was mad because deep down, he knew you were right. he was a deadbeat dad, and it wasn’t something he could argue against, no matter how much he wanted to. the reality of it stung worse than anything you could have said. but maybe that wasn’t the only reason for his anger. maybe it was because megumi was the last thing he had left of her—his late wife, the woman he’d loved so fiercely and lost so tragically. every time he looked at his son, he saw her in the curve of his smile, in the brightness of his eyes.

or maybe it wasn’t even that. maybe it was because, somewhere along the way, he’d started to see megumi in the moments you shared with him—the way you hugged him, laughed with him, cared for him in a way that toji couldn’t.

megumi was a reminder. a painful one. of everything toji had lost, everything he could never get back, and everything he didn’t deserve. and now, here you were, talking about taking him away.

it was too much.

toji’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling with the effort to keep himself from exploding. he turned his face away from you, his dark eyes shadowed with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

his voice broke through the heavy silence, sharp and trembling with anger, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. “how dare you,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous, yet tinged with something deeper—pain, fear, desperation. “how dare you say something like that. take my kid? my kid that isn’t even yours?”

you stopped folding mid-motion, your hands frozen over the fabric as his words hung in the air. they hit you like a slap, stinging and raw, but you didn’t let it show. you stayed still for a moment, your shoulders stiff, before slowly placing the shirt into the suitcase.

your chest burned, your throat tight as you swallowed the lump threatening to rise. you didn’t look at him as you spoke, your voice eerily calm, soft but firm, the way you might talk to someone teetering on the edge of reason.

“yes, he’s your kid,” you said, still focused on the task at hand. “but tell me, toji, where were you when he needed his father? when he was sick and crying for someone to hold him, where were you?”

you finally looked up at him then, your eyes meeting his with a steady, unwavering gaze. the words that followed weren’t meant to be cruel, but they came out with an edge nonetheless. “being a father isn’t just about blood. it’s about showing up. and you? you haven’t been there.”

toji’s anger flickered in his eyes, a sharp contrast to your steady calm. your words hit a nerve he didn’t know he had, but you pushed on, your voice cool and measured, even as your heart ached at the truth behind it. “yeah, i wasn’t there,” he snarled, his voice hoarse with anger and something that almost felt like shame. “i wasn’t there. so what? that doesn’t give you the right to just take him away. you think you can just come in and take him from me?” he finally spat, his voice louder now, rising with the heat of his emotions. “what gives you the right?”

your lips pressed into a thin line, the fire in his voice igniting something deep inside you. you stood, the weight of his accusations forcing you to meet him on equal ground. “i don’t want to take him from you,” you said, your voice rising now, matching his intensity. “but someone has to make sure he’s okay! someone has to love him, to care for him, to actually be there for him. if you can’t do that, then yes, toji, i’ll take him. because he deserves better than this!”

the room seemed to vibrate with the force of your words, the air between you crackling with tension. toji’s chest rose and fell as he stared at you, his dark eyes flickering with a mix of anger, guilt, and something softer—something vulnerable that he tried desperately to hide. toji’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles almost white. your words hit him like a punch, but they also struck a chord deep within him, one he wasn’t willing to admit.

“you think i don’t know that?” he growled, his voice hoarse, a slight waver in it betraying the anger that rolled off him like a wave. “you think i don’t know he deserves better? i’m his father.” he took a step forward, closing the gap between you. he loomed over you, trying to use his size to intimidate you, but you stood your ground, refusing to be cowed. you lifted your chin, your eyes meeting his straight on, refusing to back down.

“then act like it,” you snapped, your voice still steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “don’t just stand there making excuses. do something, toji. be a father.” there was a pause, a moment of silence between you. toji’s jaw clenching, his eyes glittering with a mixture of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place.

when he spoke again, his voice had softened, his words tinged with a hint of defeat. “it’s not that simple.”

you held his gaze, studying him, trying to see past the defensiveness to the heart of him. “then make it simple,” you said, your tone firm yet gentle. “find a way.” toji visibly hesitated, the fight slowly seeping out of him. he looked away, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. the silence stretched between you, filled with the weight of his uncertainty.

toji’s jaw clenched as he stared at you, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his anger in check. the way you said it, like it was so simple—as if he could just wave a hand and fix everything—it grated against every raw nerve he had left. he scoffed, a bitter sound that held no humor, his dark eyes narrowing on you. “you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he spat, his voice low and sharp, dripping with frustration.

“you don’t know anything about being a parent,” he spat, his eyes dark and accusing. “you can’t even have a child.” the moment the words left his mouth, the air in the room changed. it was as if time itself froze, the weight of his statement hanging heavy in the silence. his voice had been sharp, cutting, but it wasn’t just anger that colored his tone—it was desperation, shame, and the bitter need to lash out, to deflect his own failings onto you.

you stared at him, your hands falling still, the fabric slipping through your fingers as if the weight of his words had drained all strength from you. your breath hitched, your chest tightening painfully as his accusation sunk in. he regretted them. but it was too late. they hung in the air between you like a knife, sharp and unforgiving, and toji could see the way they sliced through you. the way your hands stilled, the way your breath caught, your lips parting in a silent gasp.

he hated himself in that moment. hated the way he’d let his anger and pride control him, the way he’d reached for the lowest blow just to protect himself from the shame, the guilt of knowing you were right.

but he couldn’t take it back. and maybe, deep down, some part of him didn’t want to. some bitter, broken part of him had wanted to lash out, to make you feel even a fraction of the pain he carried every day. and now he watched as his words hit you, as they crushed you, and it felt like he’d just taken a knife to his own chest. your face didn’t crumble, didn’t break like he thought it would. no, you just stared at him, your eyes wide and glassy, like you were holding back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to drown you.

toji couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might wake him up from this nightmare he’d created. he wanted to take it back, to say anything else, to tell you he didn’t mean it.

you couldn’t believe it, couldn’t wrap your mind around the cruelty of his words as they echoed in the silence between you. your hands froze mid-motion, the fabric slipping from your grasp like it had lost all meaning. it felt like the air had been sucked from the room, leaving you gasping, suffocating on the weight of his accusation.

you looked at him, disbelief painted across your face, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision. he knew. he knew. your legs felt weak as you slowly pushed yourself to your feet, every motion deliberate, like moving through water. your hand trembled as it found his cheek—not in anger, not in violence, but in an aching, desperate need to ground yourself in the reality of what he had just said.

“how dare you,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the strain of holding yourself together. your chest heaved as you struggled to breathe, as though the pain of his words had physically struck you.

your fist found his shoulder—not with force, but with the raw weight of your anguish, the emotion pouring out of you in waves. tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, hot and relentless, carving paths down your skin like they were trying to etch the pain into your very being.

“how dare you,” you repeated, your voice cracking, the words barely above a whisper but heavy, so heavy. the phrase tumbled from your lips over and over again, each time weaker, more broken, as though the weight of it was too much for you to carry.

you gasped, your breath hitching as your body trembled under the strain of your emotions. you hit him again, and again, tears spilling down your cheeks as you repeated the words like a broken mantra. “how dare you,” you choked, the phrase splintering in your throat as your fist faltered, falling uselessly against him. “how dare you...”

he was there. he knew. he’d been there the day your world collapsed, the day the doctor delivered the words that turned your dreams to ash. he was the one who held you as you screamed into his chest, the one who stroked your hair when you cried yourself to sleep night after night. to hear him—to hear the man who had once wiped your tears, who had once told you it didn’t matter, that you were enough—use it against you... it felt like a blade, twisting slowly, cruelly.

toji stayed still as you hit him, his body taut as a bowstring, the blow of your accusation and your raw, desperate words striking deeper than any blow you could have given him physically. his eyes, dark and hard, watched you, a maelstrom of emotions raging in their depths. he let you hit him, his face stoic, his body unmoving. he wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and hold you tight. but the words he had spoken hung in the air between you like a barrier he couldn't breach.

but as you repeated the words like a litany of pain, something in toji broke— each one spilling from your lips like a prayer for mercy, toji’s insides twisted painfully. it was like you had taken the sharpest blade and twisted it into his chest, the weight of your anguish crushing every ounce of him. he had been the cause of it all, the one who had driven you to this raw, desperate place, and in that realization, something inside him fractured. he couldn’t bear to see you like this, to hear the anguish in your voice, and know that he was the cause. with a sharp intake of breath, he reached for you, his hands closing around your wrists, stopping you from continuing your onslaught.

he couldn’t look at you any longer. he couldn’t stand the hurt in your eyes, the way you were so vulnerable, so broken before him. it wasn’t just the sting of your words that cut deep, it was the way you had so carefully peeled back his walls, exposing everything he had buried. the thought of losing his son, of you taking megumi away, it was like a sickening twist in his gut. and the thought of you leaving him—abandoning him—wrecked something far more delicate inside him. megumi, his reminder of everything that could be lost, hung heavily in his chest, a cruel echo that threatened to drown him.

and yet, even though the pain inside him was unbearable, there was something else—a defense mechanism. a cold, jagged shield that he pulled over himself as he stared at you, his green irises darkening to almost black. the words formed in his throat like acid, burning and bitter, but they didn’t stop. he couldn’t stop them. he clenched his teeth to stave off the flood of guilt threatening to rise within him.

you stood before him, a shattered shell of the person he once knew, and still, all he could think of was the hurt, the betrayal that was eating him alive. so, he said it. his grip tightened on your wrists, his fingers digging into your skin as though that could somehow stop the torrent of pain he was drowning in.

“marry you?” he spat, his voice rough with venom, with the desperation to push you away. “play house and family with you? you’re not even good enough to be a wife. what? a mother? don’t be joking.”

there was no other way to hurt you more. he knew it, and he said it anyway, as though those words could silence the storm raging inside him. they were meant to cut, to break you as much as you had broken him. he saw the way your face fell, the tremble in your hands, the way your breath caught painfully in your throat, and a twisted satisfaction curled in his chest. it was poison—poison that tasted worse with every passing second, but he didn’t stop. he couldn’t stop.

he released your wrists abruptly, as though you had burned him. the sound of his breath came harsh and shallow, his heart pounding like a drumbeat in his ears. without looking back, he turned and stormed out of the bedroom, the door slamming behind him with a force that shook the house to its foundation. the noise echoed down the empty hallways like a warning bell, and toji couldn’t help but feel the weight of it, the finality in the sound.

he didn’t dare turn around. not now. not after what he had said. the shame was too thick, the guilt too suffocating. toji fushiguro had been a coward. he had said the most terrible things to you, knowing how they would land, knowing how they would shatter you. but in the moment, his pride, his fear, his own suffocating pain had all been louder than the love he had for you. and he couldn’t take it back. no, he wouldn’t.

he walked down the hallway, each step heavier than the last, until he reached megumi’s room. the door was slightly ajar, and for a fleeting moment, toji paused, his heart lurching at the thought of his son—his son, who still believed in him, who still loved him despite everything. he could almost feel the weight of the boy’s presence, the innocence of his sleep, and it brought a rush of guilt over him.

he pushed the door open slowly, silently, and found megumi sleeping soundly in his bed, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest a stark contrast to the chaos that churned in toji’s soul. the boy’s small, serene face was untouched by the darkness that had plagued his father for so long. and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, toji thought of how easy it could be to be like him—untouched, unburdened, innocent.

but that thought was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. he was a failure—a coward—a man too broken to protect the things he loved.

without a sound, he sat down on the edge of the bed, watching his son sleep. the room was quiet, but the silence between him and everything that was wrong with his life felt suffocating. toji ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his temples as though trying to erase the weight of the words he had spoken, trying to push them out of his mind. but it was no use. they would stay with him, hanging in the air like smoke, suffocating him from the inside out.

he thought of you. he thought of how he had hurt you, how he had used your deepest wound against you, and how he couldn’t take it back. and he hated himself for it. he hated himself more than he had ever hated anyone or anything before. but that self-loathing was buried beneath a thick layer of pride, of fear, of pain. and so, he sat there, next to his son, hoping for something—anything—that would make it all right again. but there was nothing. there was only silence.

and as the hours passed, toji found that the longer he sat there, the more the guilt became unbearable. but he couldn’t move. he couldn’t leave. he was stuck in the very prison he had built for himself, trapped by his own weakness, and no matter how hard he tried to escape, he could not.

it was winter, and the snow fell gently, dusting the world outside with its soft, white touch. the coldness pressed against the window of the car, the small flakes drifting down like feathers in the quiet of the evening. inside, however, there was warmth—warmth that had little to do with the heater and everything to do with the presence beside you. your eyes wandered out the window, catching the view of an alley you knew too well, a path you had walked through countless times in your life. the alley, though ordinary to most, was a place of memories for you. its cracked pavement, the dim light from the streetlamps that had once seemed so far away—it had seen the darkest parts of your life and now, somehow, it felt different. it was like the alley had softened, just like you had.

despite the cold of the world outside, you felt a strange warmth curling within you, wrapping you in comfort. there was a fullness to your heart now, an unspoken happiness that you had longed for. hunger, both physical and emotional, had faded into something distant, as if the universe itself had conspired to fill the spaces you once thought empty. and as you sat there, in the car, with the soft snowfall outside and the quiet hum of the engine, you realized that you were no longer alone. not in the way you once were. there was someone beside you now, someone whose presence filled every corner of your soul.

a hand, strong yet gentle, brushed against yours, the touch warm against the cold air. the sensation made your chest tighten, but in the best way, like the world had finally decided to be kind to you. his thumb rubbed softly against your skin, an action so tender it almost made you forget to breathe. you flickered your eyes, caught in the unexpected warmth, and then turned to your left. your heart skipped a beat when your gaze met his. there, right beside you, were eyes the color of the sky on the brightest of days, a blue so deep it felt like you were gazing into the soul of the world itself.

his hair, almost as white as the snow outside, framed his face like an ethereal halo. the sight of him made everything around you seem to fade away—time, space, even the cold. his smile, warm and effortless, was a mix of boyish charm and cheeky confidence, like he had always known how to make you smile without even trying. it was a smile that spoke of history, of shared moments, of promises kept and futures built. it was the smile that had saved you countless times, the one that always made you feel like no matter what happened, everything would be alright.

he leaned closer, and the familiar warmth of his presence surrounded you. his hand, large and strong, slid to your hair, brushing it away from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that belied his usual confidence. his touch was gentle, deliberate, as though he was savoring the moment just as much as you were. his eyes never left yours, the sincerity in his gaze a quiet promise, an unspoken truth.

“are you ready?” his voice was soft, but there was something in it, something deeper, like he was asking more than just whether you were ready to step out of the car.

you hum softly, a smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze. there’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes the whole world seem right. you nod, the smile growing a little wider, more genuine. “yeah,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “i’m ready.”

with a slight shift, you feel the warmth of his hand on your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in his presence. his touch is familiar, comforting, like a steady anchor in a world that once felt so uncertain. and as his fingers press gently against your side, you know that this is where you’re meant to be. not just here, but with him—his warmth, his strength, his confidence. it’s all-consuming, filling the emptiness that once clung to your heart. with gojo satoru, you feel full. loved. whole. in a way that toji never could offer you, no matter how many times you tried.

you step out of the car, your shoes crunching softly against the snow as you move beside him. every step feels like a promise, and the weight of it doesn’t scare you—not when he’s right there, guiding you forward, keeping you steady. you don't have to look back. you don’t have to think about toji or the past. because with gojo, there’s only the present. there’s only now, and in that moment, now feels perfect.

when you finally stop in front of the house, the sight of it hits you like a punch to the gut. it’s just as it was before, dull, gray, like a shadow of the life you once had here. the memories, so vivid, crash into you—laughs shared, tears spilled, promises made, and then broken. your hands tighten into fists at your sides, and for a moment, you’re unsure if it’s the cold or something else that makes your chest tighten. you wonder if this place still holds the ghosts of your past, the ones that haunt every corner, every crack in the walls.

you glance up at the house, trying to picture it differently. trying to picture it as the home it was meant to be. but instead, your mind wanders to megumi. how tall is he now? you wonder. has he changed? the little things that once made him him—have they stayed the same? and then, your thoughts shift, dark and unspoken. you wonder if toji has been kind to him. you wonder if he’s been taking good care of his son.

the doubts swirl in your mind, almost suffocating, and for a second, you feel the weight of everything—past mistakes, lost time, the fear of what might have been. but then gojo’s presence pulls you back, steadying you. his hand still rests on your waist, a silent reminder that, no matter what happens, you’re not alone.

with a deep breath, you push the thoughts aside, focusing on the present, on the here and now. it’s time to pick up megumi.

beneath the ancient tree, buried in the soft silence of snow, he watches you. unseen, as he has been for years, he stands in the shadows, a ghost of what he once was, bound by the chains of his own mistakes.

you are radiant, bathed in winter’s light, your laughter spilling into the air like a song he can no longer hear. you’re playing family, your hands cradling a boy he knows is his but feels like yours. your son, your life. the man beside you, your husband, is everything he was too broken to be. he knows this, and still, it cuts deeper than the cold that seeps into his skin.

the snow around you glitters with a brightness that feels cruel. he almost imagines the soft hum of Christmas carols spilling from your home, the jingle of bells echoing faintly in his mind. he can see megumi, eyes wide with wonder, rushing toward the tree, his tiny hands tearing into brightly wrapped presents. toji knows he hasn’t given him even one in years.

and then, for the first time, he notices something unfamiliar, something almost foreign—those faint, delicate wrinkles around megumi’s eyes when he smiles, a smile so pure, so whole, it steals the breath from his chest. he watches as his son gazes up at you, small fingers wrapped tightly around yours, his little eyes filled with love so boundless it feels like a knife twisting in his gut.

he almost doesn’t recognize that smile, and it hits him like a tidal wave—he’s forgotten what it looks like. after you left, there was no more laughter, no light. his home became a hollow shell, filled with nothing but heavy silences and echoes of what could have been. none of the smiles reached their eyes—megumi’s or his.

he swallows hard, but the lump in his throat only grows heavier, bitter like the regret he’s carried for years. the weight of it presses down on him now, unbearable, inescapable. it’s not your fault, nor your husband’s, not even megumi’s. the blame lies squarely with him—his reckless hands, his selfish choices. he ruined it all, crushed his life beneath his own fists like a man desperate to destroy what he didn’t believe he deserved.

and as he stands there, watching you, his son, your family—his family—he feels the ache of it all, sharp and unrelenting. the life he lost unfolds before him like a distant dream, close enough to see but too far to touch. the snow falls heavier now, wrapping the world in white, but no amount of winter’s beauty can hide the hollowness in his chest.

he watches, and he wonders, if somewhere deep in his son’s smile, there is a piece of him left—or if it’s all gone, just like you. and if there is none, he understands.

he sold megumi, after all.

how does it feel? , sukuna ryomen part one

𝄒 ﹙ 𝒔. ﹚ there's only one person to ever have sukuna even consider opening his heart for them and this is how you realize it isn't you.

❝ how does it feel to be all that you are? all that you want to be, is that what you want to be? ❞

𝄒 ﹙ 𝔀. ﹚sukuna x fem!reader , angst , short text story , unrequited love , sukuna's an ass and also oblivious , insensitive jokes , no comfort , swearing , part two if you guys are good to me , ignore timestamps and mistakes bc i saw a couple but can't be bothered to fix them....

❝ and how does it feel to be what you've become, what you said you would never be, is that who you want to be? ❞

part two

lowkeyartist!sukuna who makes videos in his room to post on his instagram. Most of it is just him making new tunes that would most definitely be sampled by an artist sooner or later, while some are covers.

But I think what people mostly know him for is the different lady - or ladies - they see in the background sleeping in his bed. His name on twitter grows hectic whenever they see the girls in the back in some of his videos, slamming and dragging his name. Regardless, he stays radio silent on it.

It’s not until a song that had used one of his vids for a sample went popular and he begrudgingly goes live on instagram for his first Q&A due to popular demand. The questions flood in when his fans realise it’s not bullshit and he actually is there to talk with them.

And, like true Sukuna signature, there’s a mystery lady in his sheets behind him. The live notices immediately when he shifts a little to the edge giving them a glimpse of you, almost like he wants them to see.

“Does it wobble? Don’t make me end this live,” he says sternly, trying to subtly read questions that aren’t about you behind him in the chat. He finds it funny how the whole internet has been in an uproar this past year due to your constant impulse on making your hair look different every other month - different girls, like he’d ever, the thought makes him scoff.

“Why do you bring over so many girls? what do you mean? It’s just one,” he teases, his head turning over his shoulder to peek at you - yep, still sleeping.

His taunts to the questions have everyone on edge, and you’re just peacefully in dreamland. His scowl deepens when he sees many people question his honesty on the last answer, so he finally breaks and he reveals the long awaited truth.

“It’s just one girl because it’s my fiancé, we’ve been together since I started this shit,” he leans back in his chair, relief flowing through his veins now that everyone knows, “why does she look different all the time? My girl’s just impulsive.”

☔️☔️☔️

(Differences in caretaking…)

how it feels to try find a fanfic but all you find is smut

this is love ft. kento nanami

a/n: a few sappy slices of life with my main man :3 enjoy as i dig up motivation to finish kinktober. 18+ mdni!

"honey?" kento's voice is muffled through the door as he calls out to you, "everything okay?" the door rattles as he tries to open it, knob jingling.

"uhm, yeah! everything's fine!" you nervously shout, much too loud, and rush to unplug the iron that had melted your husband's favorite shirt. you panic and yelp when the hot iron scorches the side on your hand, throwing the stupid device to the ground in a clatter.

"why is the door locked—are you okay?" he asks, voice becoming more concerned as he hears the movement inside.

"i'm—i'm fine! promise! just give me a minute!" you're rushing into your shared master bathroom to run cold water over your hand, and kento’s using a screwdriver pulled from thin air to break into your bedroom. tears well in your eyes when you catch the sight of kento seeing his favorite shirt burnt and melted to his own ironing board. "i’m so sorry…"

in reality, he doesn’t care about the shirt—he’s already at your side to inspect your burnt hand. after a few seconds, he speaks.

"did you try to iron my shirt for me?" nanami asks, a small smile on his face, "you didn’t have to do that." he turns off the faucet and takes a small towel to dry your hand off.

"i tried to, i’m sorry—i didn’t know it would do that." you apologize, looking down at the cold tile flooring in defeat.

"oh, honey." he coos, "it’s only a shirt."

"have you seen your father?" you ask your son, yū, who’s sat at the dining table, eating breakfast. he shakes his head no, and when you look at your daughter, mayu, she does the same.

"jeez," you grumble to yourself, bedroom slippers pattering down the hallway as you go to search for your husband. saturday mornings were his time to sleep in, but realistically, he never slept past 9am. and currently, it was nearing 10am.

you check everywhere. he isn’t found in the bedroom, living room, his office, the garage, the patio or in the little garden he kept. upstairs, downstairs, everywhere, he isn’t there. and when you check in your bedroom for the last time, you hear a soft buzzing coming from the bathroom. upon entering, you see your husband bent over the counter, leaning close in the mirror as he shaves his stubble with an electric razor.

"there you are—when did you get that?"

kento had always been a clean shaven kind of man, going to a barber shop once every two weeks for his straight razor shave. it hadn’t even crossed your mind he didn’t go after work yesterday.

but when he looks at you—you burst out laughing. he’d shaven most of his beard off, but a few fuzzy patches remained on his cheeks, along with a mustache grazing his upper lip. peach fuzz and a few knicks litter his chin. this was the first time you’d seen him unable to do anything perfectly. and he looks ridiculous.

"is it really that bad?" he groans, pouting when you wrap your arms around yourself in a giggling fit. you shake your head, although your unforgiving laughs are a testament to the opposite.

"no—no, let me help," you say after calming down.

after gathering a new razor and some shaving cream, you sit atop the counter and your husband stands between your legs. kento is surprised how flawlessly you shave his face, without creating any more marks or cuts. you giggle and kiss him, getting some shaving cream on your face.

"ken?" you shout from the kitchen, where you’re sat, working on your dissertation. it’s been a long road of blood, sweat, and many, many tears; but you’re finally getting towards the end. about to earn a doctorate.

"yes, darling?" kento replies, walking into the kitchen on queue, his timing impeccable.

"can you read over this paragraph, please?" you kindly ask of him, pointing to your most recent written paragraph. he leans over you, planting one firm palm on the table, the other on your back; his eyes read along the sentences and his fingers tap along your spine.

"ah," his finger becomes more focused on a certain word, "wrong 'there', honey."

"no it's not..." you instantly retort, squinting your tired eyes to read over your writing. and you're right, it was the correct one the first time. this was his version of teasing you. but kento couldn't keep up the face much longer before he's giving in with a shit-eating grin you didn't see that often. "you're funny." you groan as kento stands back up.

after reading over the paragraph for about the nineteenth time, you notice kento silently slipping you some tea before turning back around to keep himself busy with cleaning. you absentmindedly take a few sips, then some more...and you find yourself becoming more and more sleepy...

and you're out like a light, forehead pressed directly against the table as a puddle of drool forms on the papers below. kento already has a warm blanket straight from the dryer to drape over you, and you stir just enough to get comfy on your arms.

kento knows that his back will hurt in the morning, but he sits around the corner of the table next to you, settling his head into his arms to drift off to sleep alongside you.

music of your taste plays rather quietly in the kitchen. you stir the pot of soup and inhale the flavorful aroma that wafts through the air.

kento sets two bowls next to the stove, then rummages through your silverware drawer to find two spoons. the kids are at their grandparents for the weekend, it's only you and your husband, converted into the duo you were long ago.

you step away from the stove to go fill up two glasses of wine, the brand kento had as his favorite had slowly turned into your favorite over time, too.

kento fills up the two bowls to the brim of the delicious food, grinning on the inside at the simplicity of it all. just you and him. he lids the pot with the matching glass top and makes his way over to the table.

you set out place mats for the both of you, then place the wine glasses in their prospective areas. kento places the bowls on top of the mats as you grab the spoons from the counter.

in the kitchen, your bodies subconsciously dance around each other. carefully, in perfect tune and pace. delicate steps of a routine formed over so much time together.

in the universe, your souls are tied, striding alongside one another in each lifetime repeated.

and this, is love.