Chapter Text
“Utahime, what do you think of my new hair?”
The voice slithered through the crowded clan gathering like a serpent, saccharine and deliberate. Utahime didn't need to turn around. She knew that tone. That performance. She'd been subjected to it for twenty-three suffocating years.
She turned anyway, because not turning would be a victory for the other woman, and Utahime had learned long ago that she would sooner swallow shattered glass than hand Shizuka a single triumph.
Her glare could have curdled milk at fifty paces. She let her gaze travel upwards as though she was examining a particularly offensive stain on a otherwise clean floor.
The hair. Oh, the hair.
That brassy, desperate black that sat on Shizuka’s head like a wig from a discount costume shop. It was too dark for her complexion, too flat for her texture, and the bangs were cut at entirely the wrong angle.
Utahime felt her eye twitch.
She hated her cousin. Truly, wholly, with the kind of venom usually reserved for people who poisoned your dog or burned down your childhood home. And what she hated most, what made her fingers curl into fists at her sides, was the mimicry. The constant, breathless, desperate attempt to become her.
Her cousin, Shizuka, was the most infuriating creature to ever draw breath.
Obnoxious didn’t begin to cover it. She was a parasite in human skin, latching onto whatever Utahime had and trying to suck it dry. Childhood friends? Stolen. Boyfriends? Seduced away with batting eyelashes and false sincerity. That one man Utahime had exchanged three sentences with at a convenience store? Shizuka had tracked him down within a week and was suddenly everywhere she looked.
And the worst part, the part that made Utahime want to scream into a pillow until her voice gave out, was that Shizuka lived two blocks away. Two. Blocks. Which meant Utahime couldn’t even walk to the corner shop without risking an encounter with that simpering, hollow-eyed reflection of herself.
How could one person be so self-centred? So breathtakingly, astronomically narcissistic? It defied logic. It defied science. It defied every natural law Utahime had ever learned.
And now this. The hair. The eyes.
Utahime had been born with pitch-black hair, blunt bangs that framed her face, a style she’d had since childhood. Shizuka’s hair had been a warm chestnut for twenty-three years, until suddenly, mysteriously, it wasn’t.
Then the eyes. Utahime’s were amber-brown, Shizuka’s were nearly black, had been, until last month, when contacts appeared overnight. The wrong shade. Too light, too flat, sitting in her skull like two ill-fitting lies. They were a cartoon version of Utahime’s eyes, and it made her skin crawl.
It was obvious. Embarrassingly, humiliatingly obvious. Every person in this room could see what Shizuka was doing. Every single one. And yet she persisted, grinning like she’d invented something clever.
It grated on Utahime like a splinter she couldn’t dig out, festering beneath her skin.
Same age. Same year. Same school, until Utahime had fled to Tokyo for Jujutsu High, gasping for air like a drowning woman finally breaking the surface. That decision had triggered a meltdown of operatic proportions.
Shizuka had thrown a tantrum fit to wake the dead, convinced, convinced, that Gojo Satoru would be at Kyoto. That he’d be there, ‘waiting’ like some prize to be claimed, some trophy she could mount on her wall.
Her cousin had set her sights on Gojo Satoru. Just like every other girl with a pulse and a death wish.
But he’d gone to Tokyo instead. Of course he had. The universe, Utahime reflected bitterly, had a cruel sense of humour.
She understood why he was special. Everyone did. The Six Eyes. The Limitless. The weight of his name that made lesser sorcerers tremble. But as a person? He struck her as nothing more than hubris in human form. A boy who teased until your scalp ached and your patience frayed, until you wanted to scream or cry or hurl something heavy at his smug, perfect face. And it was only ever her.
He’d pull her hair. Trip her in hallways. Push her past the edge of composure just to watch her snap. And she'd fight back. Always. Chasing him through corridors like a fury, shouting curses that echoed off the walls, while he laughed that infuriating, melodic laugh that made her want to strangle him with his own bandages.
It went on for years. A ritual. A war. A dance she'd never asked to learn.
When she’d finally graduated, Shizuka’s jealousy had curdled into something uglier. She’d cornered Utahime in a narrow passage, all trembling lip and trembling fists, and accused her of seducing Gojo Satoru. As if Utahime had done anything but survive his relentless attention. As if she’d spent her youth scheming instead of running, fighting, enduring.
Utahime had laughed. A sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the walls like breaking glass.
“Focus on your career,” she’d said, sweetness dripping from her words like poison from a fang. “And less on a boy who has never once laid eyes on you. He wouldn’t recognise you if you stood naked in front of him with a name tag and a signed confession.”
Shizuka’s face had crumpled like paper in a fist. Utahime had walked away.
And at Gojo’s twenty-first birthday, here she was. Copying Utahime’s look. Copying Utahime’s style. Standing at this clan gathering like she’d invented the very concept of black hair and amber eyes, preening under the chandeliers like a peacock with a broken tail.
Of course, Shizuka would be here. Of course she’d chosen his birthday event to unveil her latest attempt at transformation.
If she wanted Gojo Satoru's attention, it meant she had to dress up as Utahime. It meant she had to become Utahime, because the real Utahime was the only one he ever saw.
At least they looked nothing alike. Utterly, completely dissimilar. They could have been from different families entirely, and Utahime was grateful for that small mercy every single day.
“Try not to make it more obvious when you copy my face,” Utahime said, her voice flat. “It’s pathetic. Embarrassing, really. I almost feel sorry for you.”
She turned to walk away, but Shizuka’s voice followed her like a particularly persistent wasp.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Utahime! I thought you’d be flattered! We’re family!”
Utahime stopped. Turned back slowly. Her smile was a knife. “Right. Of course.”
“You’re just jealous,” her cousin hissed, stepping closer. “You’ve always been jealous of me. Everyone prefers me. They always have.”
No way in hell was Utahime ever jealous of Shizuka. The very notion was laughable, absurd to the point of insult. Sure, people preferred her cousin. Of course they did. Shizuka had perfected the art of the simpering smile, the batting eyelash, the hollow compliment that made lesser souls feel seen. She was a social chameleon, shifting her personality to suit whoever she was trying to impress, leaving behind nothing but a faint residue of insincerity.
But Utahime knew she was better, in every conceivable way. As a sorcerer, with her technique refined through years of gruelling practice and genuine hardship. As a student, with grades that had placed her at the top of her cohort without a single corner cut. As a person, with a spine made of iron and a conscience that, while battered, remained intact.
Shizuka had neither spine nor conscience. She had ambition and desperation and a bottomless well of insecurity that she papered over with cruelty.
So when her cousin hissed those words ‘you’ve always been jealous of me’ Utahime felt nothing but a weary, bone-deep contempt.
Utahime laughed again, “Of course, Shizuka,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Think whatever helps you sleep better at night.”
***
Even a few months later, when Utahime had submitted her application for a teaching position at Kyoto Jujutsu High, a role she’d earned, a position she’d coveted, Shizuka had done the same. Of course she had. Because why would her cousin let her have a single thing in peace? Why would she be allowed to carve out a life without Shizuka’s grasping fingers reaching for it, trying to claw it away?
Utahime had been chosen. Naturally. She was more than qualified, her grades were exemplary, her status as a sorcerer was impeccable, and her reputation, while not without its complications (that man had ensured that), was solid enough to command respect, along with her technique. She’d earned her place at Kyoto, rightfully so, and Shizuka had not.
The rejection had been a quiet affair, no public humiliation, just a polite letter that Utahime had glimpsed on her cousin’s dining table during one of their mother’s forced family dinners. She’d felt a flicker of vicious satisfaction, small and sharp as a shard of glass, and she’d tucked it away to savour later.
And then years later, when Utahime had finally, finally, found someone. A man. A good man, or so she’d thought. Kind, steady, uncomplicated. He was a strong sorcerer, which was probably why he'd lasted as long as he had.
She’d been serious about him. More serious than she’d been about anyone. They’d talked for months, gone out for longer, and she’d started to let herself imagine things she’d never allowed before.
Shizuka had stolen him.
Of course she had.
The discovery had been a slow, creeping realisation, like watching a poison spread through water. First, the casual mentions— ‘oh, I ran into your boyfriend today, he’s so charming’. Then, the sudden cancellations— ‘something came up, I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Then, the distance in his eyes when they were together, the way his gaze would drift, the way his answers would come a beat too late.
And then, the confirmation.
Utahime had walked through the city centre that evening, her heart light for the first time in weeks. He was supposed to meet her at the corner café. He’d said he had something important to tell her. She’d smiled at the thought, had worn her favourite dress, had even taken extra care with her hair.
The evening air had been warm. The streets had been alive with the hum of city life. She’d felt almost… hopeful.
And then she'd seen them.
He was there, on the street corner, his arms wrapped around Shizuka like she was something precious, something worth protecting. His face was buried in her hair, and he was laughing at something she'd whispered, his whole body relaxed in a way Utahime hadn’t seen in weeks.
Shizuka was kissing him with an enthusiasm that turned Utahime’s stomach, her lips pressed against his with theatrical fervour. But her eyes were wide open, fixed directly on Utahime across the square, gleaming with triumph beneath those contacts.
Smug. Triumphant. Victorious.
Utahime felt the world tilt. The sounds of the city faded to a dull roar, distant and irrelevant. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to leave marks.
She could have confronted them. Screamed. Thrown things. Made a scene that would be whispered about for weeks. She could have marched across that square and torn into them both with the fury that was building in her chest like a storm.
But she didn’t.
Shizuka was getting too old for this. The games. The mimicry. The constant, breathless theft of everything she’d ever tried to call her own, for God’s sake, she was twenty-seven years old, and she’d spent too long watching her cousin circle her like a shark, waiting for her to bleed, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
But Utahime was tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that settled in your marrow and made every breath feel like an effort.
She thought about all the years, and the stolen moments. The boyfriends, the friends, the job applications, the hair, the eyes. The way Shizuka had tried to become her, to steal her life piece by piece, because she couldn’t stand to build her own.
And right there, in the silence of her flat, Utahime made a decision.
Shizuka wanted to take everything from her? Fine. Let her try. But Utahime wasn’t going to give her the enjoyment of fleeing, of hiding, of retreating into the shadows while her cousin paraded around in stolen skin.
She wasn’t going to let Shizuka win by default.
***
The obsession had calcified long ago, turned to something hard and crystalline behind his ribs, a shard of black ice that pulsed with every beat of his heart. He didn’t just want her. He ached with it, a low, gnawing thing that lived in his marrow like a parasite, feeding on every glance, every word, every furious glare she threw his way.
Addicted? Yes. But addiction implied a cure, and for him, there was none. She was the poison and the antidote, the wound and the infection, and he would never let her go. Not ever. Not while he still drew breath.
He’d done things. Unspeakable things. Deeds that fester in the dark, that decent folk don’t put to breath, deeds that would curdle milk and turn saints to sinners. He’d carved paths through men just to keep their shadows from falling on her.
Made them disappear, not always permanently, but always memorably. A broken hand here. A shattered knee there. A reputation reduced to ash and whispers. Whatever it took to ensure no one else dared look twice, to ensure that every man and woman who considered her quickly reconsidered, their minds filled with the quiet, primal certainty that she was not to be touched.
He’d smiled through all of it. That infuriating, lazy grin that made people think he was harmless, that made them underestimate the predator behind the glasses.
Diabolical? Perhaps. But he’d stopped caring about labels long ago. Morality was a construct for people who hadn’t learned to want the way he wanted. And he wanted her.
Nobody really noticed. That was the beauty of it, the exquisite irony. They saw the teasing, the hair-pulling, the relentless torment that made her face flush with fury. They saw the surface, the game, the dance, the public spectacle of their endless war.
But they didn’t see the way his gaze followed her like a tripwire, tracking every movement, every breath, every micro-expression that flickered across her face. They didn’t see the way the air turned sharp when she entered a room, how his entire body would orient toward her like a compass finding north.
And even if they did notice, no one spoke. You didn’t name the thing in the corner if you wanted to keep breathing.
And she? She was oblivious. Blissfully, infuriatingly oblivious. She thought they were playing a game— his word, not hers. He’d tease. She’d snap back. A push, a pull. Routine. Normal. But nothing about this was normal. Not for him. Every word she spat at him was a treasure he hoarded in the vault of his memory, replaying them in the dark of his room like a symphony.
He stalked her, too. Quietly, and thoroughly. With the patience of a spider weaving its web. While she was away on missions, he’d let himself into her flat, not to take anything of course. Just to be there.
To exist in the space she occupied when she wasn’t looking. He’d sit in her living room, legs crossed, humming tunelessly, his glasses pushed up to reveal eyes that saw too much. He’d trace the spines of her books, run his fingers over the cups in her cabinet, study the photographs on her walls until he could name every face, every smile, every memory she’d chosen to preserve.
But his favourite spot was her bed.
He’d lie there, face pressed into her pillow, breathing her in through the fading scent of shampoo and sleep, the ghost of her presence wrapping around him like a shroud. He’d close his eyes and imagine her there, curled beneath the covers, her hair splayed across the pillow, her lips parted in sleep. He’d imagine reaching out. Touching. Claiming.
He thought of her every day. Every waking hour. In fragments: the turn of her wrist, the furrow of her brow, the way she bit her lip when frustrated, the way her voice would rise when she was angry, the way her eyes would flash with that particular fire that made his blood sing. It was obsessive. Stalkerish. He knew that. He embraced it. He revelled in it.
She’d started this. Her. The day she first spoke to him.
They were children. He, a lonely, hollow thing with too much power and not enough humanity. She, a girl with a gentle voice and eyes like warm amber, who'd asked if he wanted to play. The first person to ever look at him without fear or pity or calculation. Just an offer. A small kindness.
And it had burrowed into him like a parasite, taking root in the fertile soil of his lonely heart. From that moment, he was lost.
It turned serious when he became a first-year and she was in her third. He saw her every day then. Every damn day. And something in him coiled tighter, a serpent waking from a long sleep. The teasing began in earnest, pulling her hair, tripping her in hallways, pushing her past her limits, watching her face flush with frustration and fury.
He revelled in it. Joy was the wrong word. It was deeper than that. Hungrier. It was the satisfaction of a god watching his creation dance to his tune.
Iori Utahime.
The one who would never, ever get away from him. The thought was a constant hum in the back of his mind, a refrain that played on an endless loop, as familiar as his own heartbeat. She was his, and she just didn’t know it yet.
The universe had carved her from the same marrow as him, had shaped her to fit the hollow spaces in his chest, and he would spend the rest of his life, and whatever came after, making sure she understood that.
He’d even killed for her, but that was a story for another time. There were so many stories, so many shadows he’d painted red in her name, and he kept them all tucked away like love letters in a drawer, waiting for the day he could lay them at her feet and watch her reaction.
Would she be horrified? Grateful? He didn’t particularly care, but he cared about her. He’d do it all again, a thousand times over, if it meant she stayed safe. If it meant she stayed his.
His favourite feature of hers was her scar. A slash of pale, raised tissue across her cheek, she called it a flaw, a mark of imperfection, something to be hidden and ashamed of. He called it hers. It was the most beautiful thing about her, because it was a part of her that no one else could replicate.
Not her pathetic cousin with her cheap imitation of her. Not any of the men who’d dared to look at her. It was uniquely Utahime, and he loved everything about her. Every sharp word that cut through his teasing. Every weary sigh that escaped her lips. Every part she tried to hide, every vulnerability she buried beneath layers of fury and pride.
She could think herself unworthy, unsightly, broken. It didn’t matter. His devotion was not conditional, but it was absolute. A black hole that consumed everything in its path, and she was the only thing that could fill the void.
He’d want her any way he could have her, broken, angry, screaming, crying, bleeding, but what he truly wanted, what burned in his chest like a second heart, was for her to want him back. He wanted her love, and her heart. He wanted to take care of her, to wrap her in the safety of his obsession and never let her feel the cold again. He wanted to be the reason she smiled, the reason she breathed, the reason she woke up in the morning and thought ‘yes, this is where I belong.’
He’d been having these feelings for so long, and it’s what makes this perfect. Their cursed energy sync perfectly too, a harmony that made the air hum whenever they were in the same room. It was absolutely beautiful, a symphony written by fate itself, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
He’d even told his mother about it, how he wanted to marry her, only her, no one else, no one would ever compare. It was the one thing he’d ever truly wished for, the one desire that surpassed even his thirst for power and recognition, even his hunger for strength and dominance. She was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that made sense in a world that was otherwise chaos and noise.
His mother hadn’t said anything at first. She’d just looked at him with those knowing eyes, the same eyes that had seen his father across a crowded room and decided to make him hers, no matter the cost.
Then she’d smiled, and told him to do whatever he wanted. He was Gojo Satoru. He could have anything. Anyone. The world was his to take.
Well, his mother was the same as him when she pursued his father the same way. Ruthless. Patient. Unstoppable. She’d seen what she wanted and she’d taken it, and she’d never once apologised for the wreckage she’d left behind. It was in his blood, this particular brand of devotion, the kind that consumed everything in its path and asked for nothing in return.
When Utahime graduated, he found out she was becoming a teacher. The news hit him like a wave, a flood of possibilities that made his head spin and his heart race. His fantasies shot further up, spiralling into dizzying heights of possibility, each one more vivid than the last. He imagined her in a classroom, her voice steady and commanding, her students hanging on her every word.
He imagined visiting her, leaning in doorways, watching her teach, watching her live, most of all doing things with her there.
He felt really giddy, and happy, emotions so foreign they made his skin prickle. He would chant her name in his sleep, in his dreams. Utahime. Utahime. Utahime. A prayer. A curse. A promise.
He always knew about her annoying cousin’s jealousy, how it had curdled into something uglier over the years. He watched it fester from a distance, filing away every detail, every petty slight, every pathetic attempt to become his Utahime.
He remembered the day Shizuka had approached him at a clan gathering, all simpering smiles and batting eyelashes, her borrowed hair and borrowed eyes making his skin crawl.
“Gojo-sama,” she’d cooed, stepping too close, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “What do you find so fascinating about Utahime? She’s so… plain. And temperamental. I don’t understand why you waste your time on her when you could have anyone. When you could have me, a better version of her.”
He’d smiled. A sardonic one where he’d tilted his head, studying her like she was a particularly uninteresting insect.
“It’s Utahime,” he’d said simply, as though that explained everything. As though the name itself was a complete and sufficient answer.
And then he’d walked away, leaving her standing there with her mouth open and her carefully constructed confidence crumbling.
He’d watched that confrontation from the shadows later, hidden in plain sight, a silent observer to the drama unfolding in the narrow passage. He’d seen the way Utahime’s cousin cornered her, all trembling lip and trembling fists, spitting venomous accusations. He’d heard every word, every desperate, grasping attempt to tear Utahime down.
And he’d smiled when Utahime laughed. That sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the walls like breaking glass. He’d smiled when she’d told her cousin off.
He’d made a mental note to ruin her cousin’s life. Thoroughly, in ways that would make her wish she’d never been born. Not yet, though. Not now. That was a project for another day, a gift he’d save for the right moment.
His first priority was to make Utahime his. Things were going slow, but they were going good. He could feel it, the inevitable pull of fate, drawing them together like two stars destined to collide.
That’s why he spotted Utahime crying outside Kyoto Jujutsu High.
The sight of her hit him like a physical blow, a punch to the chest that stole his breath and made his heart stutter.
She was tucked into a shadowed corner near the gate, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, her hands pressed over her face as though she could hide the evidence of her pain from the world. The setting sun cast long shadows across her crumpled form, painting her in shades of amber and gold that made her look almost ethereal, a fallen angel, broken and beautiful.
Looks like his plan worked just fine.
He’d made her ex-boyfriend cheat on her. It had been almost too easy, a whispered suggestion here, a carefully planted doubt there, a few well-timed encounters that made the man weak.
Men were so predictable.
So easy to manipulate with the promise of something forbidden, something that felt like a secret. He’d orchestrated the whole thing like a symphony, every note perfectly placed, every movement choreographed to achieve the desired result.
And now she was here.
He’d made her resent Shizuka even more to maybe potentially kill her— and him— in the future. That was the beauty of it. He’d given her the weapon, the motivation, the burning rage that would consume her from the inside out. And when the moment came, when she finally snapped, he’d be there to catch her, and tell her it was okay, that he understood, that he’d always been on her side.
She was so close to breaking. So close to giving in.
But the thing about Utahime was that she was soft. He knew that. He’d always known it. Beneath all that fire and fury, beneath the sharp tongue and the fiercer glare, she was soft. She was kind. She was good. In her heart, she would never voluntarily kill them, or even ask. She’d suffer in silence before she’d raise a hand, before she’d let the darkness consume her.
But there’s a first time for everything. He knew she was capable, he’d seen glimpses of it, flashes of steel beneath the silk, moments when her eyes went cold and her voice went flat. She had it in her. She just needed one more push, one more betrayal, and one more reason to let go.
Even he slipped just for a moment, and Utahime had found herself a boyfriend, and he’d needed a quick way to get rid of him. The man had been a nuisance, a fly buzzing around his woman, and he’d swatted him away. Now she was free.
Whatever she decides, he’ll be there. He’ll be her anchor, her salvation, her destruction. He’ll be whatever she needs him to be. It’s her love or nothing.
He stepped in front of her, crouching down to her level. Even that, even crouching, he was much larger than her, a shadow that swallowed the light, a predator that dwarfed its prey. The disparity between them was almost comical, a reminder of just how small she was compared to him, how fragile. How perfect.
It couldn’t get any more perfect than that.
He tilted his head, his glasses hiding the hunger in his eyes, his voice dropping to something low and teasing.
“Utahime, you cryin’?”
She paused, her hands dropping from her face, revealing red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
Even like this, cracked and blotchy and utterly undone, her mascara smudged into dark crescents beneath her eyes, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. More beautiful than the moon. More beautiful than the stars. More beautiful than anything this wretched world had ever produced.
She swiped at her face with the back of her hand, a futile gesture that did nothing to hide the evidence of her pain.
“I’m not crying…” she said, her voice wavering, cracking at the edges. “Be more polite.”
A genuine laugh escaped him, low and warm, curling through the air between them like smoke.
“Polite?” He repeated the word as though tasting it, savouring it on his tongue. “Since when have I ever not been polite to you, Utahime? I’m always polite.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing against her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The contact was electric, a spark that raced up his arm and settled in his chest like a second heartbeat. She flinched and pulled away, breaking the connection, and he felt the loss like a physical ache. But the flinch itself was a small victory. A tiny crack in her defences. She was close. So close.
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” she muttered, her voice thick with tears and something that might have been embarrassment.
He ignored the barb, his attention caught by the dress she was wearing. A pretty dress. A nice dress. Something she’d clearly put effort into, something she’d chosen for someone else. For him. That idiot, that pathetic, weak-willed excuse for a man who had dared to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her.
The thought made something dark and possessive curl in his gut, a venomous snake coiling around his spine. It was a familiar experience by now. He pursed his lips, forcing the expression into something that looked like casual observation rather than barely restrained fury.
“Your face is a mess,” he said, his voice deceptively light. “Your eyes are all puffy. You’ve been crying like a child who lost her favourite toy.” He clicked his tongue. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“None of your business,” she muttered, looking at her heels, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her pretty dress.
His smile widened, a slow, lazy curve that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me what happened. I promise I won’t laugh.”
She glared at him. Even with tears still clinging to her lashes, her eyes held that familiar fire, that spark that made his heart race and his blood sing. She truly was magnificent.
“He cheated on me,” she said flatly, as though the words were rocks she was spitting out. “With my cousin. Shizuka.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely, as though he hadn’t orchestrated the entire thing. “The one who copies your hair and your eyes. The one who’s been trying to become you since you were children. That Shizuka?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked away, her jaw tight, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
Gojo brought his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that belied the darkness swirling behind his glasses. He felt their cursed energy sync once again, that perfect, beautiful harmony that made the air hum and his skin prickle.
It really was intoxicating. Addictive. His heart started beating fast, a staccato rhythm that threatened to betray him, and he forced himself to breathe, to stay calm, to not get too excited about this.
This was the closest thing he’d ever touched her properly. Not a brush of fingers, not a tease, not a playful shove. A real touch. Skin to skin. He could feel the warmth of her cheeks beneath his palms, the slight dampness of her tears against his thumbs. He could see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes, the way her lashes clumped together from crying, the delicate flutter of her breath against his wrists.
He wiped her tears with his thumbs, and forced his voice into something that sounded almost gentle.
“If you want to get your mind off things,” he said, “I know a place. Good drinks. Good music. No one will bother us.”
She hesitated, her brow furrowing, her eyes searching his face as though looking for the trap. And then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement that sent a thrill racing down his spine.
He smiled victoriously, and she glanced at him, frowning, her suspicion returning like a cloud passing over the sun.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her voice wary, defensive.
“When am I not?” He shrugged, his smile never wavering.
She smacked him on the arm, hard enough to sting, but it only hit his infinity, his palm stopping a hair’s breadth from his skin.
He laughed it off, a bright, genuine sound that echoed through the quiet street, and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her up with him.
He would’ve let her hit him obviously would’ve even let her break his arm if it meant she touched him. But that would be too suspicious, too obvious, and he had to take things slow.
She just broke up with that guy, and now they were going out for drinks. He had to be careful, had to play the role of the supportive friend, the teasing colleague, the one who was always there but never too there.
“Come on,” he said, his voice warm and cajoling. “I’ll buy you some good beer. The expensive kind you like.”
“You’re not going to poison me, are you?” she asked, her voice dry despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.
He laughed again, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the empty street. “Poison you? Utahime, if I wanted to poison you, I would’ve done it years ago. It would’ve been much easier than putting up with your constant nagging.”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, that made his blood sing. “I do not nag.”
“You do, constantly, in fact, it’s one of your many charming qualities.” He tugged gently on her wrist, urging her forward. “Now come on.”
She stumbled after him, her heels clicking against the pavement, and he slowed his pace to match hers. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the delicate bones of her wrist, the steady pulse that beat against his thumb. He catalogued every sensation, filed it away in the vault of his memory to be revisited later, in the dark of his room, when he was alone and the world was quiet.
They walked in silence for a while, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. He could feel her gaze on him, studying him, trying to figure out his angle. He didn’t give her anything, just a lazy smile and the occasional hum of a tuneless song.
“So,” she said finally, her voice still cautious, “why are you really doing this? There has to be some motive…”
“Buying you beer? Because you look like you need it.” He glanced at her, his grin widening. “And because I’m a generous person. Very giving. Ask anyone.” He winked.
She snorted, a sound that was almost a laugh. “The only thing you give people is headaches.”
“And yet here you are.” He squeezed her wrist gently, a brief pressure that he hoped she’d interpret as friendly camaraderie rather than the possessive claim it truly was. “Drinks with me, on a night when you could be anywhere else. I must be doing something right.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either. Her steps were slower now, her shoulders less tense, the fight draining out of her. He could feel her beginning to relax, just a little, the exhaustion of the day catching up with her.
The night air now, was cool against his skin, carrying the distant sound of traffic and the faint scent of rain. He breathed it in, savouring the moment, committing every detail to memory. The way the streetlight caught the highlights in her hair. The way her footsteps fell into rhythm with his. The way she was here, with him, when she could have been anywhere else (Not really, when he’s making sure it was with him).
He would remember this night forever. Every word. Every glance. Every moment of her beginning to trust him, beginning to lean on him.
And when she finally fell, when she finally shattered completely, he would be there to catch the pieces.