𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫

As an adult you must cultivate the skill of “Gross! Oh, well. Not my business.”

VAMP!JJK FIC RECS

let's just say i have a thing for bite marks and blood-sucking creatures... requested by anon ^w^ will be adding to the list as i scavenge for more. mdni, nsfw included.

gojo creature of myth - gojorgeous vampire lord!gojo x vampire bride!reader hcs - fatalfairies beatuy of the undead - carbondioxidewater vampire!gojo - rottiens bite of the night - itadorey self-imprisonment - noroi1000 just give me a taste - harunovella haunting you - tonycries love at first bite - lostfracturess vampire!gojo - lostfracturess vampire!satosugu - lotusatoru consequential - bloobberrries

geto crimson roses - dearestgojo vampire!satosugu - lotusatoru

nanami sweets - novasdarling tailor made - ghoultramp ditched dates - rinrinx2 deliverance - pseudowho

megumi scarlet - sukirichi

yuuji this city screams your name - yuujispinkhair blood - chosos-mascara vampire!yuji - wild-jackalope

yuta pain reliever - kentopedia

choso red, blood - choso-mascara honey - peachsayshi just can't get enough - aiawaorkuroo sink your teeth to drink - hoshigray just one more bite - gojonanami vampires in a bath - kaeinvy

toji please don't bite - perzawa

sukuna the red lord (has two parts) - yuujispinkhair vampire!sukuna - slvttyplum vampire prince!sukuna - persuasivus

etc drink me - arminsumi vampire lover - cinnamonrollbaby

You guys do know you're supposed to reblog things, right

So this is my blog I guess

We gonna fuck it up

Someone Worte that he could not stand to see the Palestine flag anymore.

Sorry, but not sorry

Reblog daily

Free Palestine

I am not done yet

Only way to stop seeing this flag is when the oppression is over.

So you are tiered of this? you can end it, stop supporting Zionism!

“Hamas shouldn’t have attacked”

🙃

The Israeli genocide of Palestinians has been ongoing for 70 years.

A COOKBOOK OF QUIET DEVOTIONS | N.K.

SUMMARY: a shared apartment. a quiet kitchen. an overworked man who never asks for anything. and someone who cooks, because love needs somewhere to go.

PAIRING: nanami kento x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, slow-burn, roommates to lovers au, alcohol consumption, honestly just nanami being a gentleman (and a little bit emotionally constipated) NOW PLAYING: infatuated by rangga jones WC: 16.0k WARNINGS: none!

Your apartment always feels like it’s holding its breath.

Not in fear, but in careful, hopeful anticipation–like a heart paused mid-beat, waiting softly for something to change. It’s quiet most nights, filled only with the gentle humming of an old refrigerator, the distant murmur of traffic from the main road two blocks down, and the sound of rain, if the weather is terrible, tapping on the windows, as if politely asking to come in.

You share a third-floor walk-up with Nanami Kento, tucked between a bakery that opens too early and a bookstore that rarely closes. The floors creak with age and memory, the walls are too thin to keep secrets, and the kitchen smells faintly of green onions no matter how often you scrub the stovetop. It’s not perfect, not large, but it holds two lives in parallel–yours and his–carefully balanced like plates in a drying rack. Close, but never quite touching.

You’ve been living together for a while now, a slow accumulation of days into months, forming a routine built more on silent understanding than explicit arrangement. It wasn’t intended to be permanent, this sharing of spaces and bills and quiet evenings–but now, it’s become the only thing you know how to want. The mundane intimacy of shared dish soap, a favorite mug left rinsed and upside down, the way he folds the blanket on the couch after falling asleep under it–all of it lingers.

Nanami Kento is not a loud man. He moves through life with a purpose, his expressions subtle, muted–a quiet storm behind eyes often shadowed by exhaustion. He rises early, showers briskly, ties his tie with measured precision, and slips quietly into the morning fog to become a salaryman whose days blur into overtime evenings. When he returns, often long after twilight has faded into midnight, he carries the weight of the day like a physical burden, one you can see settled squarely between his shoulders, bending him slightly forward, just enough to ache.

He doesn’t talk about his work. You never ask. The rhythm of your cohabitation has become a kind of silent choreography: you cook, he eats. You clean one week, he cleans the other. He brews coffee in the morning, you leave a slice of fruit beside it. He brings home the occasional bakery bag, leaves it on the counter for you to find. Everything is quiet. Everything is delicate.

You never speak about how your heart clenches each time you hear the soft click of the front door, the quiet exhale of a tired breath, the rustling of his jacket being hung by the door. Instead, you’ve learned to say it differently: in the careful adjustments to his shoes lined neatly beside yours; in the way you set out fresh towels for him before dawn; in the subtle shifting of your schedule so you can be awake, somehow, when he comes home. Sometimes you pretend to still be up reading. Sometimes you are.

He eats whatever you cook without complaint, sometimes with low murmurs of appreciation, sometimes with nothing but the scrape of his chopsticks against the bottom of the bowl. He’s not ungrateful. Just quiet. As if he’s still trying to remember how to speak for pleasure instead of obligation.

You often wonder if he even notices these small gestures of yours, these invisible love letters you write without pen or paper. But he is Kento–practical, reserved, gentle in ways that aren’t always visible. And you’re you, someone who’s learned to express love quietly, in ways that don’t always need recognition, only presence. It’s enough, you tell yourself, most nights.

But not always.

Lately, there’s something restless inside of you. A longing you can’t name that simmers below the surface when he brushes past you in the hallway or lingers at the dinner table longer than usual. You find yourself spending more time in the kitchen, choosing ingredients more deliberately, plating things with intention. As if the setting of sauteed scallions might say what you cannot. As if the heat of broth might carry your meaning than your voice ever could.

And so, tonight, as you walk home beneath the gentle sigh of autumn rain, your umbrella dripping, your hands chilled but steady, you decide to try.

Not with words, perhaps, not yet. But with something warmer, softer, richer–something that tastes unmistakably like care. Like yearning. Like a question waiting to be answered.

RICE PORRIDGE WITH PICKLED PLUM AND WHITE PEPPER (let me carry the weight tonight)

The apartment is oddly still when you step inside. Not empty–but still, like it’s biding its time, the hush of late night wrapped around the walls like a blanket. The sound of your key sliding into the lock is quiet, reverent. You toe off your shoes with slow movements, as though even the floorboards might be sleeping. The air smells faintly of worn paper and wool–something like him. Like rain that hasn’t quite touched the skin.

You set your bag down gently by the door and listen, making your way into the living room.

The television is off. The overhead lights are dark. The only illumination comes from the pale glow of his laptop screen, still open on the coffee table. It casts a bluish shimmer across the hardwood floor and the low line of the sofa.

And he’s there, just where you suspected. 

Kento, asleep in the unkind angles of a couch never meant for comfort. His back is curled slightly, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still draped loosely over a thin stack of documents. His glasses have slipped down his nose. The buttons of his shirt are undone at the collar, his tie tossed carelessly to one side like a flag lowered at half-mast. There’s an exhaustion in him that never seems to sleep, but now–he looks less like a man at war with the clock and more like a boy who forgot how to rest.

The sight squeezes something soft in your chest.

You don’t move toward him. Not yet. There’s an intimacy to watching someone sleep–one you haven’t quite earned the right to claim. Instead, you stand there for a while, quiet as breath, letting your eyes trace the slight twitch of his fingertips against the paper, the slow rise and fall of his chest. You memorize it like scripture.

The silence clicks in your chest like a metronome. You don’t speak. You don’t touch him. You slip into the kitchen without a word.

The hour is late–later than it should be for anyone to be awake, let alone making a meal. But this isn’t about necessity. This is something else entirely. The act itself is a kind of offering, one you don’t have the language to name. You move through the narrow kitchen space on instinct, bare feet whispering against the linoleum. The light above the stove hums softly to life when you flick it on, casting a halo around the counter. You like to imagine it’s your own little sanctuary.

The fridge creaks open, then closes with a muted hush. You rinse the rice in cold water, watching the cloudy starch bloom like breath on glass. The silence around you stretches wide, punctuated only by the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant shiver of rain against the windowpane.

You fill the pot. Set it to boil.

The okayu doesn’t ask much of you–just patience. You stir slowly, spoon scraping gently along the bottom of the pot in a quiet rhythm. You add white pepper. A hint of ginger. You let the rice soften, melt. Let it become something warm and nourishing, something forgiving. It’s a dish meant for the sick, the weary, the lost. You’ve made it before, but never quite like this.

Tonight, you press your heart into it.

You half a pickled plum and place it gently in the center of the bowl when it’s done, like a seal on a letter never written. Something delicate and red, bright against the pale backdrop of the porridge. You stir a little more white pepper into the surface, just the way he prefers–not too strong, just enough for heat to linger on the tongue.

You don’t garnish. You don’t attempt to go above and beyond with the plating. There’s something sacred about this kind of simplicity. A quiet declaration.

You reach for a post-it and the pen you keep in the drawer–you keep these in the kitchen in case you get inspiration for a new recipe. The words come out small.

Eat this when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything.

You place the bowl on the coffee table, just beside his sleeping elbow, and cover it with a small plate to keep it warm. You don’t touch him. You don’t wake him. You just stand there, for a moment. Let your eyes drink in the sight of him–creased shirt, worn lines beneath his eyes, fingers still curled around the life he never seems able to put down.

He looks impossibly breakable. But more than that, he looks lonely.

You wonder what it would feel like to lay a hand on his shoulder, just once. To brush a knuckle down the curve of his cheek and whisper, You don’t have to do this alone. But your love lives in quieter places.

So instead, you turn off the light and let the moon spill silver through the curtains. You leave the bowl behind, steaming softly in the dark, and walk back to your own room with the scent of ginger clinging to your sleeves and a thousand unspoken things tucked beneath your ribs.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does when your heart is too full.

By morning, the bowl is gone. Washed. Dried. Put back in its place. The plate too.

The post-it is missing. You don’t ask. He doesn’t mention it.

But when you come into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you find him already dressed for work–tie straight, shirt crisp, his mug of coffee half-empty. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you notice that the tension in his shoulders has eased. He rolls them once as he stirs in his sugar, then glances your way–just a flick of his eyes. Just for a moment.

But in that glance, there is something. Not gratitude, not quite. Not love, either. But recognition. Something softened.

You hold onto that look all day like warmth cupped in two hands. You don’t need more. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

SCALLION PANCAKES AND SOY SAUCE WITH GARLIC (you still make me laugh)

There’s a different kind of silence in the apartment tonight. Not the soft, comforting kind that folds around two people sharing space in tired harmony–but something sharper, hollower. A silence with too many corners. It buzzes faintly around the edges, like a lightbulb that’s been left on too long.

Kento is home, though you only know that from the sound of the front door closing half an hour ago, followed by the soft rustle of his coat being hung by the entrance. He didn’t say anything when he came in. Not even the customary hum of acknowledgement. Just the steady rhythm of his steps, a brief pause in the kitchen for water, and then the low creak of the couch under his weight.

You glance over from your place at the small dining table. He’s sitting there now, laptop open again, glasses perched low on his nose, brows drawn together like storm clouds that have forgotten how to pass. His hand moves the mouse absently. He scrolls, clicks, scrolls again. Every so often he exhales through his nose–quiet, sharp, almost irritated, but mostly just tired.

You realize you haven’t seen him laugh in weeks. Not that he ever laughed easily. Kento’s smiles were rare, but not impossible. You’ve seen them before–in the corners of his mouth over morning coffee, in the tilt of his shoulders when he finds something mildly amusing. You’ve even seen him chuckle once, low and startled, when you dropped an entire bag of rice and tried to pretend it was performance art.

But lately, even those have vanished. Worn thin by the hours, the weight, the silence he keeps dragging home.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. That’s never been your role in this quaint little world you share. No, instead, you rise from your seat, move into the kitchen, and begin pulling ingredients from the fridge like you’re collecting pieces of something long forgotten.

Scallions. Flour. Oil.

It’s not a fancy dish. It’s not meant to impress. It’s one of those things that carries the memory of laughter inside its layers–crispy and chewy, crackling and golden, green onions seared into soft pockets of dough like secret messages. Something you grew up with. Something you remember eating on slow weekends with grease-stained napkins and fingers you weren’t supposed to lick.

The dough is warm under your palms, pliant. You roll it flat, sprinkle chopped scallions across the surface like confetti, then roll it again and flatten it back into circles, round and imperfect. The pan sizzles to life under your hand. Oil blooms in little golden pools. You press each pancake down gently, letting the heat coax its shape into crispiness.

The smell creeps through the apartment slowly.

You see him glance up from his screen, barely perceptible, then look back down. His shoulders are still tense, but one knee bounces slightly, tapping against the coffee table. You pretend not to notice.

While the pancakes cool just enough to touch, you make the dipping sauce: soy, garlic, sesame oil, a dash of rice vinegar. Stirred together with care. You drizzle a little over one slice, tuck the rest into a shallow dish beside it.

You plate it all on a small tray–no ceremony, just softness. The kind that says, I noticed you’re hurting, and I can’t fix it, but I can make this. You walk it over, setting it gently on the table beside his laptop. He blinks, then lifts his eyes to yours, slow and slightly startled.

You don’t say anything. Just smile. Not a big one. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

He studies the plate for a moment, then closes the lid of his laptop with a small sigh. The air feels less brittle as he sets it aside.

He takes a bite without much fanfare. The crunch echoes softly in the room. Then he pauses.

His eyes flick toward you again, this time longer. He chews slowly, swallows. You watch his expression shift–just a little. Something about the way his jaw eases. The way his brows smooth. His next bite is quicker. He doesn’t dip it into the sauce this time, just eats it straight, like the memory of the flavor is already stitched into him.

“I haven’t had this since college,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse from disuse.

You don’t respond right away. There’s something delicate in this moment–fragile, like lace, easily torn. You let it settle in the quiet. Then, you purse your lips and say, “It’s not perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just finishes another piece, the grease glossing his fingertips, the corners of his mouth lifting just barely–more like a memory of a smile than the real thing. But it’s enough. It’s something.

He eats everything you’ve given him. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t leave crumbs.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a napkin with uncharacteristic slowness, then leans back into the couch. You catch him glancing toward the empty plate once, like he’s surprised it’s gone. Like he wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.

You leave the plate where it is. Go back to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water you don’t drink.

From the corner of your eye, you see him push the laptop farther away. He sits back, exhales, closes his eyes–not in exhaustion, but in something quieter. Not peace, perhaps, but something very near to it.

You don’t need him to laugh. Not really. Just this–this moment where something inside him loosened. Where the weight shifted.

You clean up the oil. Wash the pan. Fold the towel beside the sink with care. It smells like scallions and sesame and a little bit like him somehow, and you find yourself holding it for a second too long before setting it aside.

When you pass behind the couch on your way to your room, you pause. Not for long. Just long enough for him to crack one eye open and say, so softly you almost miss it, “Thank you.”

It’s the first time he’s thanked you for a meal outright.

You carry the sound of it to bed like a treasure. Like the start of something you’re not ready to name–but already know the flavor of it by heart.

SILKEN TOMATO SOUP WITH BASIL AND TOASTED CHEESE SANDWICHES (you don’t have to be alone to be strong)

The rain has come again, steady and mellow, brushing against the windowpanes like fingers drumming a lullaby. The world outside is a blur of deep gray and softened light, and inside, your apartment folds itself smaller, cozier, like it’s trying to offer shelter from something that can’t be seen but can still be felt.

Kento comes home earlier than usual.

Not early by most standards–it’s still past ten–but for him, it’s a rare kindness. You hear the familiar cadence of his footsteps up the stairs, the brief pause before he keys the lock, the small, exhausted breath as he slips inside. His umbrella is slick with rainwater, his coat shoulders damp, a faint halo of wetness darkening the beige fabric. He peels it off with care and drapes it over the hook near the door, then pauses.

You’re already in the kitchen. He doesn’t call out. He never does. His presence enters the space before he does, a quiet gravity that shifts the air.

You stir the soup again, letting the scent of tomatoes and basil warm the room. You made it creamy this time, letting the olive oil blend with soft-roasted garlic and sweet shallots before folding in the crushed San Marzano tomatoes. You stirred in cream slowly, like folding in pardon. It’s smooth now, red as memory, glossy and rich. A little sweet, a little tangy. A comfort food you only ever make when the world feels too sharp.

You don’t turn around when he walks past the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. You just keep stirring.

When he reemerges fifteen minutes later, he’s barefoot and in a soft navy t-shirt you’ve seen before, one of the few things he wears that actually looks comfortable. His hair is damp from a quick shower. He moves more quietly than usual–not like he’s avoiding you, but like he’s trying not to break something in the air between you.

You ladle the soup into two wide bowls. Steam curls upward in gentle spirals. On the side, you’ve already plated two grilled cheese sandwiches, sliced diagonally, the crusts just browned, the cheddar melting slightly at the corners. The scent of butter and toasting bread lingers in the air like nostalgia.

He pauses when he sees it.

“This looks,” he says, and then stops. Blinks once. “Like home.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not immediately. “It reminds me of rainy days in my grandmother’s kitchen,” he says. “She always insisted soup tasted better when it was made while listening to the rain.”

You don’t smile, but something in your chest melts. “I didn’t know that,” you say.

He hums. “I didn’t think I remembered it until now.”

You place the bowls down on the table. Slide one toward him.

He sits across from you, fingers curling around the spoon in his usual precise way. He stirs the soup once, then tastes it. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just eats.

And you eat too, spoon by spoon, pausing every now and then to wipe your mouth, to breathe, to steal small glances over the rim of your bowl. His eyes are tired, yes, but less tight. His mouth is set in a line, but not a hard one.

Halfway through the bowl, he speaks again.

“This is different from the food you usually make.”

You pause, spoon mid-air. “Bad different?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, just–softer.”

You tilt your head. “I wanted something gentle.”

He nods. Looks down into his soup again.

“Did something happen today?” you ask, not pushing. Just asking.

He hesitates, then sets his spoon down with a quiet clink. His hands fold in front of him. His shoulders shift like he’s trying to figure out how to carry something invisible.

“Nothing unusual,” he says, but his voice is quieter than before. “Just… a long day.”

You nod. That’s enough. You don’t need the details.

“You’re allowed to have those,” you say. “The long ones.”

He looks up at that. His eyes meet yours, and for once, they don’t look away.

“I know,” he murmurs, and after a moment, “You’re always here when I come home.”

You take a bite of your sandwich. It’s warm against your lips, the cheese stretching just enough to remind you of childhood. You chew, swallow, then say, “Of course I am.”

He stares at you.

There’s something about the way he holds your gaze this time. Not searching. Not confused. Just watching. Like he’s looking for something he’s already found but doesn’t know how to name.

The rain outside deepens, drumming lightly against the glass. You shift in your seat. The warmth from the soup is settling into your bones now, melting something slow and aching beneath your ribs.

“You don’t always have to hold everything on your own,” you say, voice soft. “You don’t have to always be the strong one.”

He doesn’t answer, but he finishes his soup.

When he stands to clear the dishes, he does it gently. He takes your bowl, too. You watch his hands as he rinses them in the sink–steady, clean, precise. There’s a reverence to the way he sets them on the drying rack. Like he knows they hold something fragile.

You’re still at the table when he comes back, drying his hands on a cloth. He hesitates for a moment, then leans against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how to say thank you in the way this deserves.”

You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to.”

His breath hitches like he’s about to speak again, but instead, he nods once, slow. Thoughtful.

You rise from your chair. Walk to the sink. Wash your hands and your cup. It’s all easy, familiar choreography now–the quiet ritual of two people in a space too full of unspoken things to ever really be quiet.

When you brush past him on the way out, your fingers accidentally graze his.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t say anything.

The brief brush of your fingers is nothing. A whisper. A passing thread. But the contact hums in your skin long after it’s gone. You don’t look at him. You keep walking–slow, steady–to the hallway, to the soft hum of your room, but your heart beats too loudly in your ears, muffling the rain and the quiet and everything else.

Behind you, he doesn’t follow. You hear his breath shift. Not a sigh. Not quite. It’s more private, like the sound one makes when they are standing at the edge of something they’ve never dared to name.

You stop just past the frame of your door, letting your palm rest on the wood. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe you don’t want the moment to end. Maybe part of you wants to turn back, just to see if he’s still watching. You don’t. You let the air between you cool slowly, the way soup does when no one touches it–full of everything it was meant to give, still warm even when it goes still.

Later, after you’ve slipped into your pajamas and lit the small bedside lamp, you hear him moving. Muted, cautious footsteps. The clink of glass, the brush of the kitchen towel against the counter. The lights shut off one by one. The door to his room creaks open, then closed again.

It’s silent after that. Not empty. Not cold. Just… filled. Saturated with something delicate. Like the air has been steeped in understanding, even if no one has said the words.

You settle beneath your covers, and the scent of roasted tomatoes still lingers faintly in your skin. Your fingers curl under the pillow, and you close your eyes with the smallest smile–one no one will see but you.

There was no leftover food tonight. Only the memory of him, eating beside you like he belonged there. Like coming home meant something. Like your presence was a given and not a grace.

It’s not love yet. Not quite. But it’s something. And it’s beginning.

CURRY UDON WITH SOFT-BOILED EGG (let me be the soft place you land)

There are kinds of hunger that have nothing to do with food.

You know them well by now. The ache in the chest when he closes his bedroom door without a word. The subtle hunch of his shoulders when he steps out of his shoes like he’s trying to fold himself small enough not to spill over the edges. The way his voice, when he does speak, sometimes stirs nothing more than air–thin, careful, restrained like a flame trimmed too low.

You watch him from the kitchen, half-shadowed by the cabinets and the low glow of the stove light. It’s late again. But not as late as it could be. The city still hums faintly outside the window, lights flickering in quiet syncopation. Your shared apartment smells like heat and starch and warmth, and your hands are moving on muscle memory now–mincing garlic, slicing scallions, pressing the heel of your palm into the dough of your patience.

You’re making curry udon tonight.

Something thicker. Something that sticks to the ribs, heavy and steady and full of flavor you don’t have to search for. A meal that doesn’t whisper but wraps itself around the bones and holds. You start by blooming the spices in oil–curry powder, grated ginger, the quick hiss of garlic hitting the pan. You let them open slowly, like trust. Then come the onions, caramelizing until soft and golden, like they’ve remembered a sweet memory. The broth follows, poured in carefully, steadily. You stir it all together and watch the steam rise in swirls that look like thoughts you haven’t spoken yet.

A dish like this has a certain honesty about it. Nothing special. No performance. Just deep heat and soft noodles, the kind of food that says, I know the world outside is cold. Come in anyway.

The soft-boiled egg is the final touch–nestled on top, trembling slightly, yolk the color of late afternoon sun. You add scallions, a dash of shichimi. You don’t think too hard about it–actually, you do. You always do.

When Kento walks in, his sleeves are already rolled up, his tie nowhere in sight. His eyes are tired, but not faraway. He’s more grounded tonight, you think–like he didn’t let the day devour him whole this time.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, stopping just short of the table.

“It’s a bit spicy,” you say. “But it’s warm.”

He sits down without prompting. That’s new. You place the bowl in front of him, careful not to let the broth spill over the lip. When you hand him chopsticks, your fingers brush again. This time, neither of you pulls away.

He looks down at the dish. Studies it for a moment, brows faintly raised.

“Is the egg supposed to look like that?” he asks.

You tilt your head, leaning closer to look. “Like what?”

“Like it’s trying to hold itself together but might fall apart if you breathe too close.”

You blink. He blinks back.

Then–just barely–he smiles.

“I guess that’s the point,” he says, quieter now. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Your chest, however, warms in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.

You sit across from him and take your own bowl in your hands. The broth is fragrant, the steam curling up against your cheeks like something affectionate. You slurp the noodles, let the spice but your tongue just enough to remind you that you’re still here. Still feeling. Still waiting, in your own way, for something to change.

Across from you, Kento is eating slowly, deliberately. You watch him break the egg, the yolk blooming into the broth, golden and rich, the kind of thing you have to chase with your spoon before it disappears.

“This reminds me of something,” he says between bites, voice low. “A place I used to go during exam season in university. They served this with green tea and never judged if you ordered seconds.”

“Did you?”

He nods. “Every time. Finals made me hungrier than I thought possible.”

You smile, amused. “Were you the kind of student who studied until you passed out?”

“No,” he says. “I studied until I could forget everything else.”

The words are simple, yet they land heavy.

You don’t pry. You never do. Something in your chest folds softly anyways, like dough resting after being worked too hard.

He sets his chopsticks down and takes a sip of water. His fingers are slightly red from the heat of the bowl. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I like when you cook things like this,” he says eventually. “It’s grounding.”

You glance up from your noodles. “Grounding?”

“Like I’m being told I can stop running. Just for a while.”

Your throat tightens. You look back down at your bowl and pretend to stir the noodles, even though they’ve already loosened, already taken in everything they can.

You wonder if this is what love feels like in a place like this–not fireworks, not declarations, but two bowls of curry udon shared under a single kitchen light, and a man telling you, in his own way, that he trusts you enough to stop pretending he’s not tired.

The silence between you now isn’t empty. It’s warm, filled with the clink of ceramic and the occasional sound of breath. The kind of quiet that comes after something has been understood, not explained.

You finish eating. He does too.

When he stands, he takes both bowls again. Washes them without being asked. He hums under his breath while he rinses the pot–a low, thoughtful sound, like the kind someone makes when the storm in their chest has calmed just enough to notice the raindrops on the windows.

You go to wipe your hands with the towel by the sink, and when you reach for the dishcloth, he hands it to you before you can ask.

Your fingers touch. He doesn’t flinch. You don’t let go right away. And he doesn’t make you.

CHICKEN KATSU CURRY WITH APPLE-HONEY ROUX (you deserve something that tastes like care)

There are some meals you don’t rush.

You start this one before he gets home, long before. You’re slicing onions in your softest shirt, humming beneath your breath, the sleeves pushed up your arms as the pan hisses and steams. You’ve peeled and grated the apples already–one sweet, one tart–and set them beside a small cup of honey, waiting like punctuation at the end of a sentence you haven’t yet spoken aloud.

You let the onions brown until they give in completely, until they become silk, then add the curry paste, coaxing the color darker, richer. It’s not from a box tonight. You made it from scratch. Stirred it gently. Layered it like a confession. A little cinnamon. A little clove. The apples melt when you add them. The honey follows, slow, like a final promise.

It simmers. You let it.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, and the sky turns the color of cooled tea. The apartment smells like warmth. Like spice and sugar and something waiting to be named.

You fry the katsu last.

The oil crackles, sharp and alive, but you don’t flinch. You know how to handle this heat now. You bread the cutlets with care, dredging them through flour, egg, then panko, listening to the sizzle as they slip into the pan. The golden crispness blooms almost instantly, and you watch it, thinking, This is what it means to want someone gently. To give them something beautiful without needing to be seen.

He comes home just as you’re plating–quiet steps, a faint sigh at the door. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the thunk of his shoes being set side by side. He doesn’t speak right away, but he lingers in the doorway longer than usual.

“You made curry,” he says, soft.

You glance up. “The real kind.”

His eyes scan the kitchen–the golden crust of the chicken, the sheen of the roux, the way you’ve fanned the rice just slightly with the back of a spoon.

He smiles. Just a little. “Special occasion?”

You shrug. “You made it to Friday. I’d call that a miracle.”

He chuckles, low and brief, and moves to wash his hands.

The table is set when he sits down. You’ve even added two bowls of amazake, sweating gently against the wood. He notices. Nods once. No thank you. You see it in the way his posture melts.

He takes the first bite slowly, as he always does. Fork and knife this time–ever precise, ever restrained. The moment the curry hits his tongue, however, he pauses.

You don’t look up. You want him to speak first.

“This is…” he says, then stops. Swallows. “You made the sauce from scratch.”

“Is it too sweet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just unexpected.”

You glance up then. “Good unexpected?”

His mouth quirks at the edge, not quite a smile, but close enough to one. “Yes.”

You eat together like you’ve done a hundred times before. The difference tonight is in the tempo–how he speaks more, how you lean in with your elbow on the table, how the lamplight glows just a bit warmer than usual.

“This was my favorite thing as a kid,” you tell him, breaking the quiet. “Not because it was fancy. Just because my mom only made it when she wasn’t too tired to cook. It meant she had energy left. It meant she thought we were worth that.”

He looks at you, carefully. “She sounds like someone who loved with her hands.”

“She was,” you say. “I think I inherited that part.”

His eyes dip to your plate. Then rise to your mouth–your lips. Then flick away, polite, always polite. But you see it. The way his fingers still on the fork. The way his breathing shifts, barely. The way something he’s been holding back curls against the inside of his ribs and stays there, warm and unspoken.

You set your utensil down. “Kento,” you say, and your voice is softer now. Not bold, but close.

His eyes lift immediately.

“You don’t have to be grateful.”

He blinks.

“For the food,” you add. “For any of it.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment.

“I’m not doing it to get anything back.”

He studies you. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

“I know,” he says again. “But I think I want to.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowed.

“Reciprocate,” he says, and this time his voice is clearer. “Even if I don’t know how.”

You smile. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just soft.

“Start with finishing your curry,” you say.

And he does. He eats every last bite, even sops a little sauce from the edge of the plate with a spoon, something he’s never done in front of you before. He’s unguarded now. Like heat rising from the inside out. Like the way spice lingers even after the dish is long gone.

When the meal is done, you stand to clear the plates, but he stops you.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and you let him.

You sit at the table and sip the rest of your amazake while he rinses the dishes, sleeves rolled, the soft skin of his forearms exposed beneath lamplight. His hands move slower than usual. Not mechanical. Present.

When he turns off the tap and turns back toward you, he leans against the sink and says nothing. The look in his eyes is different now, you notice. Less guarded. Less distant. Like he’s wondering what it would feel like to say more. To reach across the table next time. To taste the next thing not for flavor, but for what it might mean.

“I liked this one,” he says, finally.

You hum. “What did it taste like?”

He’s quiet. Then, “Like someone decided I was worth the effort.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You don’t look away. And this time, neither does he.

SOY-MARINATED SOFT-BOILED EGGS OVER RICE (i think about you even when i don’t see you)

The light on Saturday mornings is different.

It doesn’t creep–it lingers, patient and golden, curling into the corners of the apartment like it belongs here. You’ve slept in. Not much, but enough that the world feels a little slower, a little softer around the edges. The air is cool. The silence is kind.

You tie your hair up with a loose hand and pad into the kitchen in socks and the soft sweatshirt you forgot you were still wearing. There’s no urgency today. No schedules to brace against. The world is quiet, and so are you.

You start the water boiling, reaching for the eggs with still-sleepy hands. They rest cool against your palm–whole, uncracked, waiting. You lower them gently into the pot, six minutes on the timer. Just long enough for the whites to hold, the yolks to tremble. You’ve made this dish a dozen times before, but today, everything feels a little different.

You think about how he looked at you last night. Not startled. Not confused. Just open.

You think about how his voice sounded when he said he wanted to give something back.

You think about the pause before he let himself say it.

The soy sauce mixture is already made–light and dark shoyu, mirin, a little sugar, the scent sharp and umami-rich. You pour it into the jar and leave the lid off for now. When the eggs are done, you cool them in an ice bath, fingers numb with the cold as you peel the shells away in slow spirals, careful not to tear the softness beneath.

You’re plating rice when he walks in. You don’t hear the door. Just feel him. Like gravity, like a shift in temperature. A presence that folds into the room like it always meant to be there.

His voice is still rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”

You smile without turning. “It’s nearly ten.”

“That’s early for a weekend.”

You hear the sound of his steps, the way he hesitates near the counter. Then, softly, “Do you want help?”

You glance at him.

Kento in a t-shirt and lounge pants is a rarer sight than a solar eclipse. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back in a way that softens his whole face. He looks peaceful. Or at least trying to be.

“You can plate the rice,” you offer.

He steps closer, and for the first time, you watch him move through the kitchen not as a guest, but like it’s part of him. He finds the rice scoop, opens the container, moves with confidence. Not perfect, not effortless–but sincere.

You halve the eggs carefully, the yolks holding in just barely, golden centers that shiver when touched. He sets the bowls beside you and you place the eggs gently on top, two per bowl. You drizzle the soy marinade over everything. It sinks into the rice slowly, disappearing like breath into snow.

“Looks good,” he says, and you can hear the warmth in his voice.

You both sit at the table, elbows near, bowls steaming between you.

The first bite is silence.

“This tastes like something you think about before you fall asleep,” he says, breaking the thread of hush.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

He’s looking into his bowl, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean.” He clears his throat. “It tastes like comfort. But not just that. Intention. Like you planned it.”

“I did,” you reply. “Last night.”

He looks up.

“I woke up wanting you to have something easy,” you continue. “Something that didn’t ask anything of you.”

He’s quiet again, though it isn’t the same kind of quiet he used to carry. This one feels heavy with thought. Like his mouth is full of things he hasn’t yet translated into words.

You don’t press. You just eat beside him, the way you always have, letting the flavors say what you’re not ready to.

The marinade soaks into the rice, salt and sweet, familiar and soft. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ve made yourself too visible. If he can taste your heart tucked into the yolk, bright and fragile. If he’ll pretend not to notice.

Instead, he sets down his bowl and leans back in his chair.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, and your breath stills.

You glance at him, heart pounding, unsure. “Since when?”

“A while.” He runs a hand through his golden hair. “I didn’t realize how often until you weren’t in the kitchen when I got home last week.”

You remember that day. You were late. You’d left something cold in the fridge with a note that morning.

“I missed hearing you moving around,” he says, quieter now. More introspective. “The sounds. The smells. The light under the door.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t know I’d grown used to it. How much I looked forward to it.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say. So you eat another bite.

It tastes like morning sun and secrets. Like the first breath after holding it too long. You meet his eyes over your bowl.

“Then I won’t stop.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

He finishes the last of the rice. Picks up a small piece of egg with his chopsticks and looks at it for a moment before eating it. When it’s gone, he sets his chopsticks down and says, “This tastes like being seen.”

You nod. It’s all you need to say.

HOTPOT FOR TWO (WITH NAPA CABBAGE, FISH BALLS AND GLASS NOODLES) (please let me stay)

There is something sacred about preparation.

You’ve always felt it. The peeling, the slicing, the lining up of ingredients in tidy bowls like offerings. The way broth is coaxed into being–not made, but invited. This is not just food, not just dinner. It is ritual. It is a way to say, I see you. I have saved a place for you. Please sit with me a little longer.

It’s colder today. The sky dim, the streets tranquil under a pale hush of wind. You spend the morning setting everything out: napa cabbage, sliced diagonally; tofu cut into perfect rectangles; fish balls, thawed and nestled in a shallow dish. The glass noodles wait in their package, coiled like the slow ache of a heart waiting impatiently to soften.

The electric hotpot sits at the center of the table, patient and unassuming. You tuck everything around it like a halo. Small dipping bowls. A little dish of raw egg to swirl into the broth. Soy, vinegar, sesame oil, chili crisp. The meal doesn’t announce itself–but it waits.

You don’t text him. You don’t call.

But he comes home earlier than usual, as though he’s learned how to read the scent of dinner from the hallway. He opens the door with that familiar quiet, shoulders relaxing almost immediately when he sees the lights low, the table set, steam curling faintly in the kitchen like an invitation.

“You made hotpot,” he says. Not surprised. More like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You nod, still at the stove, checking the broth one last time. “I thought it might warm you up.”

“It already does.”

You blink. Look up. He’s hanging his coat on the hook, glancing over his shoulder toward the table with something like wonder in his eyes. It’s the way people look at things they never thought they deserved but were given anyway.

He steps into the kitchen and reaches for the last bowl without being asked.

“What can I help with?”

“You can carry this,” you say, handing him the pot of broth. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He takes it without hesitation, hands steady, arms strong. You follow behind with the ladle and a soft smile you try not to let him see.

When everything is on the table, when the water hums to a near boil, you both sit. Side by side this time, not across. A closeness born of familiarity. Of comfort.

He looks at the spread, then at you. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s all about pacing,” you say. “Hotpot’s not about rushing. It’s about waiting. Letting things come together slowly.”

He nods. “Like us.”

You freeze, but he’s already reaching for the cabbage, laying it into the pot like it’s something precious. The tofu goes in next. He glances toward you–silent permission–and then adds the fish balls, one by one. They bob in the broth like lanterns on a dark lake.

You add the noodles last, watching them sink and curl, transparent and slow. Steam lifts gently between you.

And then, like it’s nothing, like he’s always done it, Kento picks up your bowl and begins to serve you. He plucks a piece of tofu, gently presses it to the edge of your bowl to drain the broth, and places it down. Then a slice of cabbage. A fish ball, steaming and soft. The rhythm of it is careful. Intimate.

“Try this one,” he says, setting a piece of enoki mushroom in your bowl next. “It soaked up more flavor.”

You pick it up without a word. Eat. Chew. Swallow. He watches you the whole time.

“You were right,” you murmur. “It tastes like the broth has a memory.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Is that how you describe food?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

You look at him. His eyes are warmer than usual. Lit from within.

“I used to eat hotpot with friends,” you tell him, your voice quiet, spoon swirling in your bowl. “But it always felt rushed. Like something you did to fill space. Here, it feels like time is folding.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then he says, “That’s how it feels when I come home.”

You look down. The broth has fogged your spoon.

“I think about that,” he continues, gently. “When I’m at work. Not the meals–well, yes, the meals. But mostly the way it feels here. The quiet. The warmth. The way you look at me like I’m allowed to be tired.”

You’re not sure you’re breathing.

Kento picks up another piece of tofu from the broth and places it in your bowl. Then he adds one to his own. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t speak again right away. Just lets the silence fill with steam and the occasional sound of noodles being slurped, broth being ladled, the low hum of the city through the window.

“I used to think I needed solitude to survive,” he says eventually. “That people–good people–were rare. And being alone was safer than being disappointed.”

You wait.

“But you don’t feel like noise. You feel like relief.”

The words settle like broth in your belly. Hot. Rich. Real.

You set your chopsticks down. Fold your hands in your lap. “I don’t want to be a temporary kindness,” you whisper. “I want to be the place you go when it all gets too loud.”

He turns to you then. Fully. His hand reaches across the table–not to touch, but to set down your dipping bowl, now full. He’s filled it for you without asking. Soy sauce. A little chili. A sprinkle of sesame.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how much you already are.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at you now. Not with confusion. Not with hesitation. But with clarity. As if this, the two of you here, steam rising between you, mouths tinged with heat and memory–this is what he’s been trying to return to his entire life.

You take the bowl he’s filled. Dip a piece of fish ball. Eat it slowly.

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He nods. “So are you.”

The broth simmers. The window fogs. And between the sound of two hearts slowing just slightly–matching, perhaps, at last–he adds more cabbage to the pot. Not because it’s needed.

But because he wants to stay.

CHICKEN AND CHIVE DUMPLINGS (PAN-FRIED, HAND-WRAPPED) (i love the shape of your silence)

There is something luxurious about the slow hours of a day you didn’t expect to have together.

You wake up late, later than usual, later than him–only to find he hasn’t left.

The apartment is still. But the kind of stillness that feels full, not empty. There’s soft jazz playing from the speaker in the living room, something without words. The floorboards are warm from the sun filtering through the window. You stretch and rise slowly, footsteps light as you pad into the hallways, and there he is–sitting on the couch in a plain black t-shirt, his glasses perched low on his nose, the newspaper open on his lap like a prop from another time.

You blink, bleary. “You’re home.”

He looks up at you and smiles, gentle and real. “I took the day off.”

You pause, frowning. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “I just… wanted to be here today.”

The words are simple, but they fold something inside you open like warm dough. You nod, pretend your heart isn’t doing a strange, slow somersault, and walk into the kitchen to pour yourself tea.

He joins you a little later, sleeves pushed up, hair just slightly tousled in that way that feels more intimate than a touch. He moves easily today, less like a man trying to disappear and more like someone learning how to stay.

You decide to make dumplings. Not the frozen kind. Not the rushed kind. The slow, handmade, soul-fed kind–filled with chopped chicken, fresh chives, garlic, ginger, soy, a little sesame oil, and a pinch of white pepper, just enough to wake the tongue. You plan it in your head while washing the cutting board, while boiling water for blanching, while cracking your back softly over the sink.

“Could you grab chives for me?” you ask when he appears again, already pulling a clean mug from the cabinet.

He turns to you without hesitation. “Anything else?”

“No,” you say. Then, with a smile, “Unless you see something interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Just, I don’t know, what looks good to you.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I’ll do my best.”

He leaves with his keys and wallet, and the kitchen feels like it’s waiting for him to return.

You prepare everything while he’s gone–the dough, the chicken, the seasoning. The chives are the last piece. You roll out the wrappers by hand, flour dusting your fingertips, the counters, even your shirt when you lean too close. It’s a quiet, tactile kind of joy. Your love has always lived in this place–in the space between your palms, the pressure of a fold, the symmetry of something meant to be shared.

When he returns, the door creaks softly open and you hear the rustle of the paper bag.

“I hope I chose correctly,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “The produce guy said these were the freshest.”

You look at the chives–vivid green, still cool from the fridge section–and nod. “Perfect.”

He leans over your shoulder as you chop. “You’re very precise.”

You smile. “You have to be, with dumplings. They remember everything you do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They remember?”

“Every fold. Every careless edge. They hold it in the way they cook. A good dumpling always tells the truth.”

He watches you work for a moment longer before speaking again. “Then I’m glad I’m not the one folding them.”

You glance at him. “You could be.”

“Would you trust me?”

You nod, placing the bowl of filling in front of him. “Here’s the test.”

You guide him through the first one–how to hold the wrapper, where to place the filling, how to wet the edge with water and pleat it shut. His first attempt is clumsy, but not hopeless. His second is better. By the third, he’s concentrating, brows furrowed.

You watch him instead of folding your own. The way his fingers move–slow, deliberate. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when the pleats don’t line up. The way he glances at your hands, quietly mimicking your motions.

“I’m better at deconstructing things,” he murmurs. “This is the opposite.”

You shake your head. “You’re building something.”

He looks up, and you feel the warmth in his gaze settle across your chest like a second skin.

You work in tandem after that. Slowly. Not speaking much, but not needing to. The silence is shaped now, not empty–a vessel you both fill with motion, glances, small smiles passed like secret ingredients. You finish the last of the dumplings just as the light begins to slant through the windows, golden and low.

You pan-fry the first batch. He helps you oil the pan. Watches the bottoms crisp to a perfect, golden brown. You add water, cover it with a lid, and steam them until the wrappers turn translucent at the edges.

When you plate them–fifteen dumplings, perfectly imperfect–he carries the dish to the table like something fragile.

You sit side by side again.

He lifts his chopsticks, pauses, and then reaches for one of the dumplings you folded. He dips it lightly into the sauce–black vinegar, soy, chili oil–and takes a bite.

He closes his eyes. Chews slowly. “This tastes like being trusted.”

You look at him, startled.

He sets the dumpling down. “You let me help. You let me make something with you. Even though I’m still learning.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. Then you pick up your own and take a bite. The filling is just right–savory and warm, the chives sharp but softened, the wrapper crisp on the bottom, tender on top. You taste the hours in it. The folding. The togetherness.

“You did good,” you say, your voice quiet.

He hums, and reaches forward again–not for another dumpling, but for your bowl. He lifts a second dumpling with care, turns it so the crisp edge is facing up, and places it gently on your plate.

“Try this one,” he says. “I folded it for you.”

You bite into it. It’s slightly uneven, the seal thick in one corner, but it’s full of intent. Full of trying. Full of him.

“I like it,” you murmur.

He watches your mouth. You see the shift–the glance that lingers. The breath he takes just a second too late. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t need to. The heat of him is already here, pooling in the space between your knees under the table, in the way his thigh brushes yours when he leans forward to grab another dumpling.

“Do you ever miss the days before this?” you ask suddenly.

He looks at you. Tilts his head.

“When it was just… quiet. Separate. When we didn’t touch.”

He considers it. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I think,” he says, “I’ve been touching you in small ways for longer than you realize.”

Your heart folds in on itself like the wrappers under your thumbs. You reach for another dumpling. This one, you don’t dip. You eat it plain, just to feel the texture–each fold still intact.

Beside you, he doesn’t move away. He leans in. Not enough to close the space between you, but enough to promise he’s not going anywhere.

GARLIC SHRIMP PASTA WITH CHOPPED PARSLEY AND LEMON ZEST (i want to make your life taste better)

There are days when garlic tastes like courage.

It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t wait. It announces itself with sizzle and perfume, blooming bold and unapologetic in the pan, clinging to fingertips, hair, fabric. It lingers. Leaves evidence. You can’t cook with garlic and pretend it never happened.

You start dinner in the late afternoon. Not out of necessity, but instinct. Something about the way the light spills gold across the countertops makes you want to fill the room with scent and sound. The windows are cracked. The breeze brings in the trace of faraway warmth. It feels like the kind of evening meant to carry new things in.

So you bring out the pasta.

You mince the garlic. Thin, even slices. Let it sit in olive oil while the shrimp defrost on the counter, curled and pale like commas between thoughts. You zest a lemon into a little dish and leave it beside the stove, the rind’s redolence clinging to your knuckles. You’re moving with purpose now, like cooking isn’t just about the food, but about the space it creates–steam rising in spirals, heat humming low in your belly, air thick with promise.

When Kento walks in, he pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to step into something this golden. He’s still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled, tie in his hand. His eyes take in the scene–pan on the burner, the shrimp lined like soldiers on a cutting board, your bare feet on the tile.

He leans against the frame. Watches you.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“What thing?”

“Cooking like you’re trying to seduce the silence.”

You laugh, startled. “That’s a new one.”

He steps closer, voice warm. “You do. Everything you make fills the room before you say a word.”

You turn back to the pan, hiding the way your lips twitch. “You’re home early,” you say, hoping to change the topic.

“I left early. On purpose.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“I wanted to be here before dinner started,” he says. “I didn’t want to miss it. Or you.”

You swallow and drop the shrimp into the pan. The sizzle rises instantly–sharp, fragrant, alive. It fills the kitchen like a heartbeat. Kento watches you toss them in the oil, garlic clinging to the pink edges as they turn opaque, curling tighter.

“You can sit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’ll be ready soon.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he walks up beside you and reaches for a clove of garlic from the cutting board. “May I?”

You nod, handing him your paring knife.

He slices carefully, slower than you but no less precise. You finish the shrimp, turn off the heat, and toss the pasta in a bowl with lemon juice and the reserved zest. A dash of chili flakes. Salt, pepper. A few torn basil leaves from the plant on the sill.

When you plate the food, he helps–without being asked.

He brings over the glasses. Opens a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Pours without comment. It’s all easy now. You’ve become a choreography, the two of you. No missed steps.

When you sit down, he pulls his chair a little closer to yours. Not enough to brush knees. But close.

The first bite is gold–garlic and citrus, briny sweetness from the shrimp, heat bloom softly in the back of your mouth. You exhale.

“This is good,” he murmurs, mouth half-full. “Too good.”

You scoff. “It was supposed to be impressive.”

“It is.”

He swirls another forkful and pauses before lifting it. “I had a terrible meeting today,” he says.

You glance at him, surprised.

“Three hours,” he adds. “The kind of meeting where no one listens and everyone speaks. The kind that makes you want to vanish into your own skin.”

“I hate those.”

“I know.”

You eat in quiet for a few minutes. It isn’t distance, just breath. Just room. Then he says, softly, “Sometimes I think I’ve built a life so structured it doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

You look at him. Really look. His profile in the lamplight. The tired slope of his shoulders, loosened now. The curve of his wrist as he sets his fork down.

“I know how to work,” he says. “I know how to survive. But I don’t always know how to make things better.”

You tilt your head. “Better?”

“For someone else.”

You blink.

“I don’t want you to be the only one cooking.”

Your breath catches. He goes on.

“You give so much. Night after night. And I sit here, grateful, but silent. I don’t want that to be the shape of us.”

You set your glass down. Us.

“You never asked me to give,” you say.

“But you do,” he replies. “With every dish. With every detail. And I–” He stops. Looks at you. “I want to give back.”

You don’t speak. Not yet. And so he does something bolder.

He reaches across the table–slow, sure–and brushes a thumb beneath your bottom lip.

You freeze.

“You had lemon,” he murmurs. “Here.”

His skin is warm. His touch is featherlight. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let it turn into something heavier. But he doesn’t pull away fast either.

When your breath finally returns to you, it’s soft.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“I did.”

Your eyes meet. The moment stretches. You let it. You let him.

Eventually, he leans back–only slightly. He finishes his wine. Eats another shrimp. Then he says, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

You smile. “What’ll you make?”

He shrugs. “Something edible, I hope.”

You laugh, and his eyes stay on your mouth a moment too long again.

When dinner ends, he helps you clean. He hums while rinsing, shoulders relaxed, gaze gentle. You dry the plates and hang the dish towel side by side with his. When you part for the night, you both linger.

Not at the edge of something, but in the middle of it.

Neither of you says goodnight. You just look. You just know.

This is what it feels like when someone decides they want your life to taste good too.

NAPA CABBAGE AND TOFU STEW (SIMMERED, NOT RUSHED) (made by him: i would wait for you, always)

Weekends aren’t often slow for you. Not like they are for most.

The world doesn’t soften its edges just because it’s Saturday, and your work doesn’t fold itself neatly into weekday boxes. Sometimes it spills over–bleeds into days that should smell like sleep and toast and morning sun. Today is one of those days. Your shoulders ache from standing too long, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lighting still rings faintly behind your ears. The city feels too loud, too fast, too full.

You unlock the door with tired hands, already thinking about what to cook–something simple, something silent. Maybe miso soup. Maybe just cereal. Maybe nothing at all.

The lights in the apartment are dim, low and golden, like someone thought to make it gentle before you returned. Your bag slips from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. You toe off your shoes, roll your neck, and listen.

The apartment smells like warmth. Not takeout. Not leftovers. Something savory and honest, something that clings to the air like memory.

You blink. Straighten. Because he’s cooking. You’d almost forgotten. He’d said it yesterday, voice low but sure, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You had raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

But that was last night, and you’ve learned that despite him being home, his work steals promises sometimes. You’d assumed he’d be too tired. That he’d forget. That he’d eat early, alone. Maybe order something. Maybe fall asleep in front of the TV. You didn’t expect anything waiting for you now–not really.

You walk into the kitchen. And stop.

The counter’s been wiped down, the stovetop clean except for one pot, steaming gently. The table is set–only two bowls, two spoons, water poured, a cloth napkin folded the way you always fold yours.

He’s standing at the stove, back to you, sleeves rolled to the elbows, towel slung over one shoulder like a habit he picked up just for today. His hair’s a little messy. He looks up when he hears you and offers a smile that’s too quiet to be proud but too warm to be unsure.

“I kept it on low,” he says. “So it wouldn’t be cold when you got in.”

Your heart stutters. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I said I would.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already reaching for the bowls. His movements are slow, deliberate. He ladles the stew out carefully, making sure every bowl gets a little of everything–napa cabbage wilted just enough, soft blocks of tofu steeped in flavor, a few slices of shiitake mushroom, a piece of kombu pushed gently to the side.

“I read your notebook,” he says, almost sheepish. “The one you keep next to the spice rack.”

Your eyes widen, heart jumping in your chest. “You read my–?”

“Only the food parts,” he says quickly. “Not the margins.”

You exhale slowly. The margins. Where you write notes to yourself. Quiet hopes. Stray thoughts.

He clears his throat. “I looked up the recipe. Watched a few videos. Yours still sounded better.”

You sit down, stunned. He sets your bowl in front of you. The aroma is deep–miso, ginger, a whisper of sesame. The kind of smell that says you’re home without needing to say anything at all.

“I know it’s simple,” he says. “But I remembered you made this when I got sick last winter.”

You nod. You remember, too. It was the first time he let you stay near him longer than a moment. The first time he let you see the quiet in his hands. He slept the whole day, and you changed the towel on his forehead every hour, stirring the pot between each breath.

“It tasted like safety,” he murmurs now. “Like someone decided I was still worth something even when I couldn’t do anything back.”

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

He doesn’t sit just yet. Just stands there, looking at you like the bowl is only half of what he wanted to give.

“I thought maybe,” he says, “if I could make something even half as good, you might know how much I…” He stops. Starts again. “How much I notice.”

You take a bite. The broth is slightly off–he added too much ginger, or not enough miso, maybe let it simmer too long–but none of that matters. It tastes like effort. Like time. Like someone stirring and tasting and waiting. For you.

It tastes like him–a little restrained, a little careful, but open now. Earnest. Hoping.

“It’s good,” you whisper. “It’s really good.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Finally, he sits beside you.

You eat in silence for a few minutes. The kind that’s less about not speaking and more about letting the food speak first.

When your bowl is half-empty, you look over at him. His gaze is fixed on his own, but his hand is near yours now. Closer than usual. His pinky brushes your knuckle when he sets down his spoon.

“I didn’t know when you’d get back,” he says softly. “But I wanted this to be warm when you did.”

You stare at him.

“I would’ve waited longer,” he adds. “If I had to.”

Your breath catches. He turns his hand, just slightly, so the backs of your fingers touch.

“You don’t have to always be the one who stays up. Who waits. Who gives.”

“I don’t mind,” you say. “You’re worth it.”

He turns to you fully then. And for the first time in all these quiet nights, all these shared meals and unspoken things, you see it–bare and unhidden.

He reaches for your hand. You let him.

His fingers are warm. Just slightly calloused. He holds your hand like he holds the spoon, like he stirs broth, like he speaks when he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. Gently. Carefully. With all his weight.

“Let me do this more,” he says. “Let me try. Even if I mess it up.”

You nod. You can’t speak. Not with your heart pressing so hard against your ribs.

He smiles, thumb brushing your palm once.

“I’d wait for you,” he says, softer now. “Even if the stew burned. Even if it all went cold. I’d still be here.”

Outside, the night deepens. Inside, the steam curls gently above the pot. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment, and neither of you moves to break it.

There’s still half a bowl left. And you know–he’ll wait until you’re ready to finish it.

STRAWBERRY MILLE-FEUILLE WITH VANILLA CREAM (you’ve made my life sweeter just by being in it)

There are days where sweetness lingers in the air before anything is even said.

It’s in the way the morning light curves through the window, kissing your face while you’re still in bed. It’s in the softness of your spine when you stretch, the way you hear him humming faintly from the kitchen–off-key, barely audible, and strangely endearing.

It’s a Saturday that feels like a Sunday. You don’t have to work today.

When you wander into the kitchen, Kento’s already there, halfway through making tea–not coffee. He looks up as you enter, and you catch a glimpse of the way his mouth softens when he sees you. You’re still wearing sleep in your eyes, a sweatshirt too big for you, and socks that don’t match.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice still tangled in dreams.

“Afternoon, technically,” he says, passing you a mug. “But I’ll allow it.”

You roll your eyes and grin into the rim of your cup.

It’s easy these days. Easy to fall into the rhythm of him. Easy to let your shoulder brush his as you stand beside him at the counter. Easy to let the silence stretch, not because you don’t know what to say, but because it no longer demands to be filled.

You lean into the counter, sipping, and glance sideways.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

He blinks at you. “That’s random.”

You shrug. “Humor me.”

He thinks about it for a moment, expression softening into something thoughtful. “When I was younger, it was strawberry shortcake. My grandmother used to buy it for me on my birthday. But lately…”

“Lately?”

He looks at you then–really looks at you. “I think I’m starting to like the kind that takes a little more time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Cryptic.”

He smirks, rare and quiet. “You’re the dessert expert. What do you think that means?”

You try not to blush. Fail a little. “It means you’re going to the grocery store with me.”

He pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes. And you’re carrying the heavy things.”

“That sounds about right.”

He finishes his tea and grabs his coat without protest. You throw on yours, still half-buttoned, and soon you’re both out in the sunlight, the city murmuring around you, alive but not in a rush.

At the market, he follows behind you like he always does–silent, alert, keeping pace. He carries the basket. Refuses to let you hold it.

You hand him heavy things with a sly grin–flour, butter, a carton of cream, a box of fresh strawberries–and watch him accept each item like it’s a love letter sealed in glass.

“Is this a test?" he asks at one point, eyeing the puff pastry sheets with suspicion.

“Absolutely,” you say. “You fail if you complain.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re doing very well so far.”

“That’s because you’re bossy in a way I find oddly reassuring.”

You bump your shoulder into him lightly. He doesn’t move away.

At the checkout line, he reaches for your hand. Just reaches. No hesitation, no pretext. His fingers slide between yours like they were meant to be there. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

You look at him, startled by the casual intimacy of it. He just shrugs, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“We’ve touched every part of each other’s lives but this,” he murmurs. “Felt overdue.”

You don’t speak. Just squeeze back.

Back home, the kitchen fills with the scent of butter and sugar, of sliced strawberries and warm vanilla. You let him help. He whisks the cream while you lay out the pastry. He’s not good at it–his rhythm too stiff, too precise–but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his brow furrows, the way his arm tenses, the way he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for praise he’ll pretend he doesn’t need.

When you finally assemble the layers–pastry, cream, strawberries, more pastry–you both hover over it like you’ve made something sacred. In a way, you have.

You hand him a knife. “You get the first cut.”

He eyes it. “This is a trap.”

“Maybe.”

But he cuts it anyway, cautiously, and the pastry cracks just enough to remind you that not all beautiful things stay intact.

You plate two slices. He takes his bite first. Chews. Blinks. Brows raised.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Why you make things that take time.”

You look at him over your fork. “Yeah?”

He nods. “It tastes like someone thought about you all day.”

You pause. Your chest goes soft and heavy and too full all at once. You set your fork down.

He watches you. “What?”

You shake your head, laughing quietly. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing your wrist. “But I want you to be.”

You look down at his hand. The way it settles over yours now like it’s been there forever. Like it belongs.

“I want you to expect it,” he adds. “From me.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He leans in, expression open, unflinching. “Because everything you’ve done has tasted like love. And I don’t want to just consume that. I want to offer it back.”

You breathe in sharply. The kitchen smells like sugar. And strawberries. And something new. Something not afraid.

“You’re really not good at flirting,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Good thing I’m not flirting.”

“No?”

“I’m just telling you,” he says, “what it’s going to be like from now on.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

“Slow,” he continues. “Warm. Sweet. Worth the time.”

Outside, the sky has begun to turn rose gold, clouds edged with light. Inside, your hands are sticky with powdered sugar, and the mille-feuille is leaning to one side on the plate, imperfect but real. Cracking, collapsing a little, but still holding.

You lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss. Not yet. Just enough. Just a taste.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his fingers tighten around yours. And that is more than enough. For now.

CREAM STEW WITH ROOT VEGETABLES AND CHICKEN (i want to be what you come home to)

You’ve always measured your days in flavor.

Sweet, when you rise to the scent of something warm, the memory of laughter still clinging to your dreams. Salty, when you let the weight of the world sit on your shoulders for too long without rest. Bitter, when the loneliness creeps in around the edges like smoke from an unattended pan. And savory–deep, grounding, enduring–that’s when someone sits beside you at the table, even if they don’t say a word.

Lately, your days have been savory. Not perfect, but full.

Like a meal with substance. Like something slow-cooked. Like you’re not just feeding someone anymore–you’re building a life in the pauses between bites.

You think about this as you stir the roux, wooden spoon tracing a circle through butter and flour. A thickening. A deepening. You add the milk in slow streams, letting the texture bloom creamy and golden. You season it without thought now. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. A single bay leaf, just because you like the way it makes the kitchen smell like someone is waiting for you.

Even if, tonight, you’re the one waiting.

Kento’s running late.

You don’t mind. Or rather–you try not to. You don’t worry. Not like you used to. Now, the space he leaves behind in the apartment isn’t emptiness. It’s anticipation. It’s steam rising from the stovetop. It’s your body moving through the kitchen like someone building a place for him to return to.

You set the chicken to simmer–tender, thigh pieces, browned and seasoned, now swimming in a stew of potatoes, carrots and onion, all softened to something comforting. Something that doesn’t ask to be chewed, only understood.

When he walks in, you don’t turn around. You hear the door open. The gentle click. The exhale. The way his footsteps shift when he sees you–slower, warmer.

“Smells like a promise in here,” he says.

You glance back, smiling. “The edible kind.”

He drops his bag by the door, rolls up his sleeves, and walks toward you like it’s instinct. You’re standing by the stove. He comes up behind you. Places his hand–just one–on your waist.

You freeze. Not because you’re scared, but because something in your chest flutters like fresh herbs being dropped into hot broth.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he replies, and then presses a kiss–soft, brief–to your temple.

He’s been doing that lately. Little touches. Little claims. A hand at your back. A brush of his fingers along yours when he passes you the soy sauce. Knees that knock beneath the table and don’t pull away. And that kiss last week–his thumb brushing your knuckles, your mouth grazing the corner of his like you were still learning the weight of your own bravery.

Tonight, though, it feels different. Like the air is thickening again, like a gravy left uncovered. Like something is about to spill over.

You hand him a bowl. He takes it with both hands, reverent. You both sit. Side by side, again. Always.

You eat together in a quiet so warm it could be mistaken for music. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You look at him. “What did I say?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “That you’re always here when I come home.”

You don’t speak. Your throat is full of chicken and cream and longing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” he continues. “Not just the words. The way you said them. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are.”

He sets his spoon down. You do the same.

The kitchen smells like warmth. Like something full of body and heart. Like food that would keep through a winter storm. All you can feel, however, is the way his knee is brushing yours now, insistently. All you can hear is the sound of his breath, close and certain.

“You’ve fed me so many things,” he says. “Meals, yes. But also, patience. Time. Space. Safety.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your hands tremble, just slightly, under the table.

“I want to feed you, too,” he says.

You blink.

“I don’t just mean food.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I want to be the thing that warms you. The thing you come home to. The reason the apartment smells like something worth staying for.”

You don’t think. You just reach across the table and take his hand in yours. And this time, he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. Slowly. Softly.

He stands. You look up at him.

“Come here,” he says.

You do. You round the table, heart in your throat, mouth already tingling. When you reach him, he cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing the skin just beneath your eye.

“You kissed me first,” he says. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.”

You smile. “So kiss me properly.”

And he does.

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a question. It’s an answer. He kisses you like the first bite of something long-simmered. Like the taste of butter melting on the back of the tongue. Like something learned, not rushed. Familiar, and brand new.

He pulls back only when breath becomes necessary, and when he rests his forehead against yours, you close your eyes.

“I don’t want to leave this kitchen,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

You’re both still holding each other. The stew on the table is going cold. Neither of you care.

“I like the way your food tastes,” he murmurs. “But I like the way your life tastes more.”

You laugh, shaking your head against his chest. “That was corny.”

“I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“I hope so.”

You stay there, arms around each other, the scent of cream and chicken and thyme wrapping around you like a second skin.

Later, when you reheat the stew and eat the rest of it curled into one another on the couch, you know–this isn’t the last dish, but it’s the first meal you finish not as roommates, not as friends, not even as two people who almost loved each other–but as something else.

Something with seasoning. With heat. Something simmered. And kept warm.

LEMON BUTTER SALMON WITH HERB RICE AND A SINGLE GLASS OF WHITE WINE (i love you. i always have)

The kitchen is no longer just yours.

There are two aprons hanging on the back of the pantry door now–one you’ve always worn, and one he bought last week, simple and navy blue, with a tiny oil stain already blooming near the pocket. The fridge has doubled its collection of post-it notes–your handwriting still the majority, but his are now peppered between them like little bites of citrus: “Out of ginger.” “You looked beautiful this morning.” “Don’t forget to eat.”

He’s in the kitchen with you now, barefoot, hair slightly damp from a shower, with that look he’s been wearing lately–soft eyes, sleeves rolled, mouth already tilted toward a smile. He moves through the space like he belongs in it, because he does. Because he learned it slowly, respectfully, over the course of several months, endless dishes and one unwavering heart.

He’s watching you slice lemons when you turn to him with a grin.

“You’re on prep duty.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to know how to make the salmon.”

“I also said I’d rather kiss the cook.”

“You can do both,” you agree. “But write this down first.”

You hand him a little notebook from the drawer–your notebook–the one you’ve scribbled recipes in for years and love letters in the margins, pages stained with oil and sugar and emotion. You flip it to a blank one, and he takes it like it’s holy. He uncaps the pen and settles at the table, eyes up and waiting.

“Ready?” you ask without looking.

“Ready.”

“Two fillets of salmon,” you begin, “skin-on, pat them dry.”

He writes it down, word for word.

“A pinch of salt and pepper–don’t be stingy. Garlic powder, just a little. And lemon zest, fine, not thick.”

He glances up. “Do I write down that you zest it with your eyes closed and your mouth moving like you’re talking to the fish?”

You smirk. “Yes. That’s the most important part.”

He chuckles, scribbles it in. You keep going, step by step, and he writes it all–meticulous, dutiful, like he’s learning the structure of you.

Outside, the sky is the color of old gold. It’s quiet in the city. A Friday evening with nothing to chase. The only thing rising is the scent of rice on the stove, infused with herbs–dill, parsley, a bit of thyme. You’d tossed in a bay leaf too, just because. You always do.

When the salmon hits the pan, it sings. The butter melts around it, foaming golden and fragrant, and Kento stands behind you, hands warm on your hips.

“You’re crowding me,” you murmur.

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“I’m in love.”

You flip the salmon, the skin crisp, the flesh pink and barely touched by heat. He leans in and kisses the back of your neck.

“You keep doing that,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I keep wanting to.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth this time. You tilt your head, chasing him, catching him full this time–soft, slow, inevitable.

You finish the salmon together. Plate it over the herbed rice, a wedge of lemon on each side. He only pours one glass of wine, and gives it to you.

“I’ll steal sips,” he says, and you believe him.

At the table, you both eat slowly. He closes his eyes after the first bite. “This is stupid good.”

You beam. “Stupid good?”

“I’m trying to speak your language.”

“You’ve always spoken it,” you say, cutting into your fillet. “You just didn’t know.”

He hums. “Tell me something.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the scallion pancakes?”

You look up at him. “I do.”

He smiles, soft, a dulled edge. “You were tired. I could see it. You didn’t say anything. But you still made something that cracked when I bit into it. And I remember thinking–someone is trying to remind me what it feels like to smile. To laugh.”

You set your fork down.

“I think I fell for you then,” he says. “Maybe earlier. Maybe it was the porridge.”

“You didn’t even eat that one hot.”

“But I read the note.”

You take a breath. It comes out slow. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “You gave me everything in bowls and plates and spoons. And I just–ate. Because I was starving, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Your eyes sting, but it’s not sadness. It’s fullness. It’s years of hunger answered.

“And now?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “Now I want to feed you,” he replies. “In every way.”

You lean in. So does he.

There are no fireworks, no orchestral swells, no grand epiphanies–just his thumb brushing the back of your hand, and the warm weight of his knee against yours, and the memory of all the dishes you’ve made curled up between your bodies like a language you both learned by accident and never stopped speaking.

You eat the rest of the meal in quiet, but not silence. There are soft jokes. A few shared bites. His fingers brushing your jaw when he reaches for your glass. Your toes pressing his under the table. His laugh, easier now, effortless.

And when the plates are empty, and you stand to clean, he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Leave it,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Stay here with me.”

“I am here.”

“No,” he says. “I mean here. Like this.”

You turn. Look up at him. He cups your face like it’s the last dish he’ll ever learn to make. Like it’s delicate. Like it’s worth every burnt pan and failed fold and oversalted soup that came before it.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m going to keep saying it. Over and over. Until you believe I’ve known it since the beginning.”

“I already believe it,” you say, voice shaking.

He kisses you again, and it’s not a question. It’s the answer to every one you never asked out loud.

That night, you fall asleep with your back to his chest and his arm curled around your stomach. His breath is warm on your neck. His fingers are tucked between yours.

In the kitchen, the wine glass is still half full. The stove is cool. The plates are clean. And in your notebook–under a page titled Lemon Butter Salmon–is a line he added just before bed:

The first meal we made after we stopped pretending.

MISO SOUP WITH ASPARAGUS AND ENOKI MUSHROOMS (made by him)

You wake up to the scent of toasting rice. Not sharp, not burnt–just golden. Soft. A little nutty. The kind of scent that makes you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

The bedroom is warm with late morning light, your limbs slow, your mind still fogged with sleep. You stretch. Blink. Reach over. The other side of the bed is empty, but only just. The sheet is still warm.

You hear him in the kitchen–quiet movement, the click of a stove knob, the low scrape of something wooden on metal. You smile again, push the blanket off your legs, and shuffle toward the doorway barefoot.

He’s muttering to himself. You stand there for a moment, half-hidden by the frame, watching him.

Kento is shirtless, still in his pajamas, blond hair rumpled from sleep. He’s squinting at the notebook on the counter–your notebook, which has now been converted into ours, the pages gradually filling with his neat handwriting alongside your sprawling, chaotic notes. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear and smudge of miso paste on his wrist.

He’s stirring a pot like it contains the answer to something. Talking under his breath as he moves.

“Simmer, not boil,” he mutters. “Simmer. Don’t break the tofu again, idiot.”

You press a knuckle to your mouth to muffle your laugh. He glances up. Sees you. Smiles.

“Morning.”

“You’re cooking again?” you ask, stepping in.

He kisses you before you can say anything else. One hand on your hip, the other cupping your face. Slow. Unhurried. Like you’re part of the recipe.

“I said I would,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You sigh into him, then nuzzle your face into his shoulder, catching the faint scent of sesame oil clinging to his skin. He rests his chin on your head for a moment before pulling away just enough to gesture toward the stove.

“I’m making miso soup.”

“I can tell.”

“With enoki mushrooms and asparagus.”

“Gourmet,” you tease.

“And a little tofu,” he says. “If I don’t ruin it.”

You move closer to peek into the pot. “You’re doing fine.”

“I watched three videos last night while you were asleep.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Your chest folds softly around the warmth blooming there.

“And,” he adds, lifting the spoon toward you, “I wanted to make something that would sit in your stomach all day and remind you that you’re loved.”

You taste it. You close your eyes.

“Okay,” you say. “You win.”

He smirks, steps aside, and begins ladling the soup into bowls. “Sit,” he tells you. “I’ll do everything.”

“Even pour the tea?”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You laugh softly and settle at the table as he finishes plating. He sets down your bowl with reverence. Sits beside you with his own. You both pick up your chopsticks. There’s no ceremony. No need. Just the quiet clink of bowls. The scent of dashi and ginger. A comforting rhythm of eating that feels more like breath than routine.

“You didn’t burn anything this time,” you say.

He chews, swallows. “Progress.”

“You didn’t break the tofu.”

“A miracle.”

“You didn’t start a small fire like you did with the curry.”

“That was one time.”

You grin. “It was charred.”

“I thought you liked smoky flavors.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it, laughing. And God–he laughs more now. Real laughter. Not polite exhalations. Not sharp little scoffs. Full, genuine joy. You live for it. You live with it.

“Work’s been awful,” he says after a while. “My boss keeps suggesting we pivot toward client-facing strategy development.”

You raise a brow, lost. “That sounds like gibberish.”

“It is.”

“Do you have to?”

He shakes his head. “Not if I pretend not to understand.”

You reach for him, run your fingers over his wrist, feel the tension there. “You’re too good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “At least not at home.”

You both eat in silence for a while after that. Comfortable. Close. He tucks his foot around yours beneath the table. You let your knee rest against his.

Eventually, he stands. Rinses the bowls. You move to help. He swats your hand away with a dishtowel. “Sit.”

“You can’t stop me from loving you,” you say.

“I would never try.”

He places the bowls in the drying rack. You rise anyway, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, tucking your face between his shoulder blades. He leans into you.

“I’m writing down the recipe,” he says softly. “It’s not perfect. But I think it says what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns in your arms. Faces you. “I mean,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “that you’ve always fed me. In every way. And I want to feed you back.”

You look at him, heart thudding gently. “You already do.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“I know.” He smiles. “It’s just a meal, yes. But I want to make sure you stay full every time.”

You kiss him. He pulls you closer.

Outside, the morning has shifted into noon. The light is bright now, spilling across the kitchen floor, warming your toes. There’s nothing urgent waiting. No deadlines. Just the quiet steam rising from the pot, and the scent of broth in the air, and the feel of his hands splayed over your lower back like he never wants to let go.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

Later, you find your notebook open on the table, turned to a new page in his handwriting.

NANAMI’S MISO SOUP (FOR HER) dashi stock (enough to comfort) enoke enoki mushrooms (delicate like her laugh) tofu (firm but gentle, like her hands and her) asparagus (for bite–she likes it a little sharp) white miso (two heaping spoonfuls of everything I never learned to say) a little sesame oil (for warmth that lingers) simmer until it tastes like safety serve with love

You don’t say anything when you find it. You just trace the ink with your finger, the way you once stirred soup in silence and hoped he’d taste the message. Now the message writes itself.

Just beneath his last word–love–you add a line in your own script, smaller, slanted, like a secret you no longer need to keep:

I’ve never gone hungry since you came home.

And you close the book–not as an end, but as a pause. A breath between bites. A space between courses.

In the kitchen, the air still smells faintly of broth. The sun turns the sink, always glinting silver, into gold. Somewhere between the soft boil and the stir of your two spoons in two bowls, you built something you can stay inside. A place made of cracked egg yolks and congee steam, scallion oil and stolen glances, dumplings with uneven folds and kisses with shaky hands. A home with no doors. Just warmth. Just flavor. Just him.

And you.

Two lovers at the stove.

A thousand meals ahead.

No longer asking–only offering.

No longer waiting–only full.

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! i wrote this fic in a haze over the span of two days. there's just something about domesticity with nanami kento that gets my brain worms acting up (and no, i am not a chef by any professional standards so if one of these dishes doesn't make sense, we can fight in the parking lot of a dennys /j). (art by riritzu on X)

Would you come with me?

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary: You have been Satoru's best friend for such a long time, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. What!?!? Well, Satoru has to take a wife as he's running the Gojo corporation, and what better way to get them off his back than 'marry'? In name only, just best friends living together for a year to calm them down, sounds so perfect and uncomplicated, right!!! Well, living with Satoru Gojo makes you both question everything, is this fake marriage feeling... real? and can you just be friends after this?

CW: NSFT-MDNI- So much mutual pining and longing, not sharing feelings. This chap- making out, masturbation (toru hehe), teasing and some very kinky ass thoughts, but mostly TENSION. Eventually - Explicit sex, oral sex, it's me so a breed kink. Gonna be a miniseries, Satoru is a lil sweetie and a lil freaky ass- falls hard, ya'll both down bad. WC this Part- 7.5k

Songs for this - Lose Contol // My Boo // Friends

This was supposed to be a oneshot but it's going WAY too long, so I'm separating it into three parts! (Also ty for 5k hehe) Comments and reblogs appreciated <3

Masterlist - Part Two>>>

Part one

“You love me, right?”

You blink a bit, as you stare at Satoru Gojo, he’s been your best friend all throughout high school and even before you’ve known him. You’re sitting across from him, while he’s sipping boba with you, his Gucci shades perched on the bridge of that straight nose, a smirk on his glossy lips. You tilt your head curiously at him, of course you love Satoru, but he only pulls this when he needs a favor.

“What’d you get into this time, Toru?” You demand, he gasps then, affronted, a hand to his chest.

“Excuse me, missy? I’m just asking if you love me.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat in the little cafe. “Of course, you know I love your goofy ass.”

 Satoru takes off his glasses, those swirling blue eyes wrecking you as they have all these years, usually you can put up enough of a barrier not to let them consume you, but apparently you haven’t today. You watch those snowy lashes lower when his eyes bore into you, swirling storms of bright blue, you have to snap yourself out of it.

Being Satoru Gojo’s best friend wasn’t for the weak.

“How much you love me, hmm?”

“What is it you need, an alibi?” He snorts then, shaking his head and wrapping his lips around the straw.

“M’not Suguru, shit… no, I need a really big favor. Like… the biggest favor, but if you agree, I can really make it worth your while.”

“Okay this isn’t a mobster movie, Toru, what is it?” Satoru looks down then, long fingers swirling around the top of his cup, before his eyes snap back to yours.

“What if I said I’d help you with all that student loan debt, and buy you a shiny brand new car?”

“Satoru, I don’t want your money, I do fine okay?”

“Your car is old enough to drink.”

“Fuck off!” Your glare makes him snort in laughter. “It is not, it’s like… not even old enough to vote… I don’t think.”

“It’s old, sweets. Say you also had a place to stay, for free?”

“Satoru this isn’t Pretty Woman-”

“I love that movie!”

“Satoru! What are you getting at!?” You’re crossing your arms then, raising a brow at the lanky man across from you, whose legs are spread wide in his dark blue dress pants, he’s pulling just a bit at his silky black tie.

Satoru has taken a huge role recently in his family business, the conglomerate that owned a million different things, you know how much he detests it, but once Satoru graduated college his family pushed it more and more. At this point he was thriving, doing most of the work with his father taking much more of a back seat, his health starting to deteriorate.

You and Gojo spend more time together than ever, you know he needs his friend, especially with Suguru having left for some time, the two of them not together was always hard on him. You’d been friends with both of them, but Suguru seems to have left and found his own calling, swinging through to see you both from time to time, but much is different since those days at Tokyo high.

Not you and Satoru though.

For the longest time you pined away for him, but you never made that move, aside from one stolen kiss in a closet during seven minutes in heaven, and Satoru had it bad for you all of Junior and Senior year, but the two of you never risked it, your friendship. And now you’re glad to have him in your life, but it’s hard to even think of someone serious when he’s so brightly and firmly in your life.

“This is a huge favor I need, it’s… a lot to ask.” Satoru murmurs softly, you tense a bit, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” Your voice is a low hum as you murmur, he nods just a bit.

“Yeah it’s fine just… I’m being forced to choose a bride, and they have many candidates.” He laughs humorlessly, and your heart breaks for him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Satoru. I thought you’d have longer?”

“Yeah, I wish.” He runs a hand through his silky white locks, looking down for a moment, lips that always smirk or maybe pout actually frowning. “I need to just get it done, get em off my ass.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, why not tell em to fuck themselves, hmm? Where’s my Toru!?”

“He’s exhausted.” He swipes a hand across his face, and you lean closer, hand on his leg, his eyes sliding back to yours.

“Do you want me to help find someone? I have a lot of good friends in high families… find you someone not money hungry, not a psycho? How much time do you even have?”

“That’s not what I'm asking.” He puts his big hand over yours now, sighing, leaning closer to you. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“If I want to, what exactly?”

“Marry me?”

“What!?” He chuckles then, but even that sound is exhausted.

“You forget you’re from a top family, nah it’s not the Gojo clan but…”

“Satoru…”

“Just for like a bit? To get em to leave me alone, let me gain some more power. All for show, and I’ll help you with anything, I promise.” He’s clutching your hand, and suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning.

“Wh-why me? We… you… I…”

“You’re my best friend, it would be like being roommates damn near. You could… do your thing as long as you’re discrete.” He murmurs, you want to laugh then, as if you’ve done anything in a couple of years now. “And I would be discrete, respectful, we’d just be in name, appearance. We’re best friends, it will be a piece of cake, and most of all… I trust you.”

You try to digest all the information, blinking and trying not to think the insane thoughts that come with it, but you fail. “But won’t they want… an heir?”

Satoru’s cheeks flush bright pink now. “We don’t need to… I’d never ask you to do that, ever I swear. I’d never be an ass like that.”

You feel your heart racing as you shove back all of the images you should not have for your friend. “I know, I know. But… they’d-”

“That’s the thing, a year or so and they’ll back off. Give me time to fix some mistakes, with dad being sick… I’m not saying I won’t miss him, but how he is running shit? No, I know I can make things better, take down these shitty higher ups who are so greedy. You just could give me more time, and I promise I’ll do anything I can to help you too.”

“It’s insane, this is marriage!” You blink a bit, shifting, his hand now brushing back a lock of hair from your forehead, a familiar gesture that now takes on something more intimate.

“It can just be for show, we’ll be the same best friends as always. I have no one I can imagine even living with but you, maybe Suguru but… he’s not a girl.”

“He has that long silky hair?” You both laugh a little, softly then.

“He sure does, but… you’re prettier to look at.”

“Flattery? Stop that. It’s insane, and… how would we even explain it in such a rush?”

“We’ve been friends forever. Who wouldn’t believe that we got together? It’s even easier. I mean, maybe a couple kisses and things for show, but… you’ve kissed me before, remember?” He’s grinning wide then, you shove at him playfully. “That closet was cramped, hmm?”

“Oh shut it, that was so long ago. I mean, if you really need me, you know I’ll do this for you. I don’t expect you to go all out on anything for me in return.” Satoru pauses now, watching how the light streaming in through the large cafe windows hits your pretty face, as you explain to him that you’d want nothing in return for this!? For this huge imposition on your life.

You have always been the sweetest, best friend he has had, so important to him he’s never dared to cross that line, and he knows it will tempt him to no end to do this, but he also knows he can trust you. “Let me just take care of a few things for you, you can almost see it as a job. There will be events, meetings with the other leaders, trust me. Like anything I can do, you’ll be helping me so much.”

“Alright.”

“What!?”

He’s hugging you tightly to him, you giggle a bit, breathless. “Yeah, I’ll do it… I need a nice car though, Toru. A BMW?”

“I’ll get you ten BMWs.”

“Jesus, no. Silly boy.” You giggle as you look up at him, your best friend, but then your heart falters when he’s just a bit too close.

“Should we practice kissing now?” He teases, voice husky.

“Satoru, you're insufferable.”

He pouts now, and you swallow down the fact that you don’t know if you can even handle kissing his lips. “Aww you’re still such a brat, since middle school.”

“You’re the brat here.”

“Meanie.” You both stick your tongues out, and when he’s walking you over to your shitty car, he wraps you in a big hug in his strong arms, making you melt against him. “Mwah, mwah, mwah you’re the best friend ever.”

“Oh, stop.” He’s smacking kisses on your head as you inhale his cologne, sighing as you contemplate just what the fuck you’re doing. “When do we do this?” You ask, pulling back a bit and looking up at him.

“I can have things going in a couple weeks, something super simple, like I said we’ll just live our lives, just be friends, it’ll be fine. Like a really long sleepover, hmm?” He teases, grinning now, putting back on his shades.

You figure, what’s it hurt? Your apartment is shitty, your car is old, Gojo is your best friend, and you’re down to help him avoid a miserable marriage for as long as he can. You nod then, smiling. “A long sleepover.”

One week of being ‘fake married’ to Satoru Gojo, your best friend

Satoru Gojo thought he would control himself decently living with you, considering how many times you’ve slept over, how many movies you both have crashed out on the couch together. He’s seen you in bathing suits over the years, he’s caught glimpses of your pretty body of course, he knows how beautiful you are and he’s always maintained himself.

Satoru treasures you far too much to fuck it up in any way, despite the amount of times he’s almost lost it. Aside from Suguru, you have been the most important person in his life, and perhaps you’re closer now. But he can’t help but compare other girls to you over the years, and he usually makes quick work of the small relationships that he has with them.

However, what he hadn’t anticipated? Living with you walking around in your fucking panties and a crop top.

You nearly took him out the first morning you were here, when he went to brush his teeth, he has a huge house but of course you went to the main bathroom that divides his room and the room he set for you, it’s the bathroom you used when you stayed over. So he should have maybe anticipated it, but nothing prepared him for you bent over the sink, washing your face.

Your ass looked far too tempting in those damn boyshorts, half of each cheek tempting him to smack it, grab it, fucking lift you by it and slide into you. He was shocked when he was hard from the sight of it, he’s not inexperienced or not used to women, and he’s used to you, but something about the sight made him fucking feral, and he had to literally run to one of his guest bathrooms.

He now was almost used to you walking around in almost nothing, but this morning you’re in some little white tank top and he sees the outlines of the curve of your pretty tits, sees your nipples perked up, begging for his mouth. You’re wiping your eyes, yawning, using his Keurig to make coffee, smiling at him as if this is in any way normal or okay.

He gulps as you turn your attention to him, hair in a messy bun, his eyes struggle not to just stare at your body, he has to shut his mouth because it’s just slightly ajar. Satoru, a man who sees women naked frequently, fuck he has business meetings at strip clubs, nudity is nothing. But he can’t take it, take how your breasts are calling for him, how your thighs shift.

“Good morning, Toru! We have that event tonight, right?” You say sweetly, as his heart hammers in his chest, and then you feel his gaze on you, making your nipples tighten, more apparent as you look where he is now, biting your lip. “Shit, white isn’t the best color huh? How embarrassing… it’s kinda cold…”

“Yeah, cold.” He clears his throat, stepping closer, and your eyes drink him in, shirtless and built so perfect. You’ve seen him this way of course over the years, Satoru had no issue pulling his top off to work out, play a game of ball, but something about him in his soft sweats that show too much makes your brain run awry.

You should be immune to it, the god-like body Satoru Gojo has, how fucking perfect he is built, how pretty he is, but something makes your tummy heat up lately, especially when he comes closer, blue eyes lidded. “Um, I’ll make coffee?”

“Yes please.” He smiles sleepily, far too pretty, and you have to remind yourself, as you have all week, that you’re not with him, not truly.

It feels too easy, too comfy.

That was the point though.

“Got it.” You turn now, setting to put the pod in, tiptoeing to get his sugar, he chuckles deeply, reaching above you now, far too close to you, his bare chest pressing against your upper back. Your fingers grip the counters, feeling the cool granite of them, your breath catching.

“I’ll put them a little lower.” He teases, smirking as he sets them down, leaning a hip on the counter, and you smile, pretending to be calm, like your heart didn’t just beat out of your chest.

You’ve literally hugged this man every time you’ve seen him, you’ve even crashed next to him, why is he fucking with you so badly!? You suppose his presence in pieces was just easier to cope with than anything, but now your brain keeps having ridiculous images. Him having you up on that counter, your thighs spread, so intense you drop the spoon, it clatters to his tile floor.

“Shit, sorry.” You bend down, and your breath is right against him, over his thin sweats, and you look up at him, creating the worst images of his best friends he can ever imagine.

“It’s… fine.” He clears his throat, turning so you don’t see the clear evidence of what you’ve done.

“You okay, Toru? Tons of sugar, like usual?”

“Yeah.” His voice is gruff, as he glares at his cock, willing it to go down, you blink curiously at his back, wondering what’s wrong. You clear your throat again and hand him the cup, stepping next to him, he takes it, having put his cock up in the waistband of his boxers now, smiling nonchalantly. “Thanks sweets.”

“Of course! Can we go over a few things later today, before we go? I don’t wanna fuck anything up.”

“Of course we can. I also ordered you a dress and some jewelry, that cool?”

“Oh what? I have dresses, pretty ones!”

“I know, it’s really uppity bitches there though, you need something top notch.”

“Oh…” You trail off, a blush decorating your cheeks now, making you look even more tempting. “But you don’t know my size?’

Satoru brushes a tendril of hair that’s come out of your bun then, smirking just a bit. “Think I don’t know your size, sweetheart?”

“I… um…” Satoru has you flustered, dammit. “Oh?”

“Mhmm.” As if he hasn’t eyed your body a million times over. “It’ll be here later, I have to go to work for just a couple hours.” You nod then, for some odd reason wanting to kiss him, but you bite your lip instead.

“Sounds perfect, I have the day off!”

“Even better, go take a nice bath and relax before we deal with the snobby old fucks.” You giggle at him, you have always loved how he speaks of rich people, when he’s filthy rich, but Satoru? He’s very different.

He’s just…

Satoru.

Satoru’s heart doesn’t hammer in his chest, it almost falls out after he’s got his three piece pinstripe suit on, adjusting a skinny silk tie and peering at his silver Rolex, seeing what time it was, as you appear in front of him. The dress he picked out was a lacy black one, perfect for evening, but the way it hugs your every curve, the way your breasts are pressed up in that top?

You do a nervous spin, revealing your pretty back, the curve of your spine, the v neck so deep he sees hints of the dimples on your back. You turn back around, eyes glittering, enhanced with a little mascara and eyeliner, your lips the prettiest shade of red he can imagine. You look…

Beautiful.

Is that even the word?

How does he even explain it, when he’s speechless, when he feels his ears heat up at just how nervous he is to be in your presence then, eyeing a delicate gold necklace that hits just so in the hollow between your collar bones. You’re tilting your head to the side, hair falling softly in curls you’ve put it in, clutching your pretty little evening bag.

“How do I look, Toru? You look so handsome, but when don’t you.” You tease, and he tries not to look at the slit showing far too much of your pretty thigh, so tempting to slip a hand up it, find your surely pretty little pussy.

“You look…” He takes a breath, trying to act somewhat normal, smiling then. “You look… hot as fuck.”

You giggle then, rolling your eyes. “Oh whatever!”

“You look… amazing. Really.” He steps to you, giving into the temptation to brush the backs of his finger across the apple of your cheek, then across your jaw line, watching your breath catch, your red lips part, showing a hint of your little bottom row of teeth.

How would that pretty face look so fucked out?

God, it’s been a week, he needs to stop.

His hand falls, and you barely hold yourself together, breaths coming quicker and quicker. “You look beautiful, sweets. Gonna make quite the impression.” His husky admission makes you blush further, looking down and eyeing that little knot on his tie, as it’s like the entire room is holding its breath, everything so overwhelming, his nearness, his scent.

“Thank you, really for this dress. It’s so beautiful, and this.” You touch the pretty gold necklace, just making his eyes watch your pretty breasts rise and fall.

“Of course, it’s part of this, you know.” His little admission breaks you just a bit, for some insane reason, you felt like this was some date? You rein yourself in just a bit, smiling.

“Yes, but thank you. Shall we go, hubby?’

“We sure can, wifey.” You both laugh, the friendship of years prevailing finally, when you slip into the back of his limo with him, trying to ignore the feeling of his strong thigh pressing against yours, burning through the silky layer of the dress. “So remember the story?”

“Yeah, it’s easy to think of it happening, friends falling.” You then panic, as his blue eyes catch yours in the dark of the limo. “I mean-”

“No, of course it is. I’ll say that… I started falling in high school.” Because he did, god he did. After you all are about to be at the event, he notices it, your nerves, this just wasn’t your scene. “You look perfect, really.”

“Oh no…” He leans close, cupping your face, but it feels too good, your lips are too close.

“You do, gonna knock 'em dead, yeah?”

“We both will.” You smile tremulously, inhaling the night air greedily as you both walk up to the event, being ushered in. You’re clinging around his elbow as he casually goes about it, going into Mr. Gojo mode, you’ve seen him do it plenty over the years, still keeping his charm and sarcasm, but he’s just a force, the way he plays them all.

Knowing Gojo wants to take most of these people down is thrilling in its own way, you’ve always been enamored with how he fights for his principles, how real and raw he truly is with you about it. How humble when he’s come from everything, but still he knows that role he must play, and play it he does, his hand pressing on the small of your back as you two make small talk.

“I always thought of you two falling for each other.” Says your mom now, yes even your parents had to think it was true.

“I did too… so sudden though? Young love.” Gojo’s mom says, tossing back her silky long locks with a smile.

“What can I say? Your son is hard to resist, he’s so persistent. Like a cute little puppy.”

“A what!? Brat.” He’s glaring, but your parents and his mom are laughing, and you know it works, being real.

“Aren’t you two so in love?” Another person says later, as they observe Satoru placing a little peck on your temple, and he smiles with ease, not realizing the entire mess he’s making you.

“A beautiful couple. Gojo, you chose well.” One of his work friends says with a grin.

“We’re very lucky, both of us.” You say softly, stopping Gojo’s heart, when you peck a little kiss on his neck, tiptoeing in your heels, he turns then, your lips far too close, so close you taste the sweetness of his breath, and your eyes lock. “Aren’t we, Satoru?”

He blinks, realizing… you’re just helping him, and you’re nailing it. He tries to shove back the odd fluttering in his tummy, tilting your chin up. “We are lucky.”

The night ends up with plenty of dancing, plenty of schmoozing back and forth, and plenty of both of you being the perfect team. It was so easy, you both knew each other like no one else, the answers flow, the dancing flows, you’ve both danced in school before, you’ve partied together. You’ve been a plus one even as a friend.

Too natural, too perfect.

You soon need a breath, as you feel far too much as Satoru dances with a lovely girl, you recognize her, Gojo dated her and she’s a family friend. You assume she was a candidate for marriage as you recall her family ties, but seeing someone in his arms suddenly makes your heart break.

It’s only been a fucking week!? Can’t you keep it together!?

Later as you both get home, you’re taking off your shoes, wincing as the heels are off your feet, and Satoru looks at you curiously. “You okay, sweets? Kinda a long night of assholes, huh?”

“Oh it’s fine, Toru. Truly. Um… I recognized a couple girls there.”

“Yeah, they run in the same circles.” He takes off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves of that crisp white dress shirt, revealing the veins of his strong forearms, addling your mind further, how fucking attractive he is when he loosens that tie.

“Um, I know you said discrete, will you be… bringing them here?”

Satoru blinks at you, head tilting, soft white hair falling just so. “What? Bring who here?”

“Um, her, or any of the girls there really. If so I think I’ll probably… wanna know if you don’t mind? So I can make sure I’m in the room or whatever. A little notice?”

Satoru walks to you now, your head is tilted back when he hooks two fingers under your chin. “You think I am interested in them?”

“They’re beautiful. And we’re not together, so it’s fine! Just… a little notice would be cool?”

“And you, what if you bring someone over.” His jaw tenses, his words surprisingly sharp. “Will you tell me?”

You laugh softly. “That won’t even be a thing.”

“In a year?”

“It’s… never been a thing really.” You realize then, that you are almost spilling it, the fact that the entirety of your experience is one fuck in college, a two pump event that involved nothing really.

His brows draw together in disbelief. “Never? You don’t…”

“Listen, we’re best friends, but that’s private. Okay?” He nods, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck, looking down.

“Shit I mean you date a bit though?”

“Yeah, I do. But… it’s… I need to get out of this dress.” You say then, suddenly rushing to your room, leaving Satoru’s mind whirling.

How do you think he wants anyone when you’re here killing him.

“Toru?” You lean your head out from the bathroom a few moments later.

“Yeah?”

“This is embarrassing, but the zipper is stuck, and it’s so expensive… I don’t wanna fuck the dress up.” You murmur, he smiles, feigning ease as he steps into the bathroom, peering at you in the golden gilded mirror.

“No worries, got ya. Huh it is a little stuck…” He gently tugs at the zipper, humming a big. “Um… hang on I need to pull it up a bit.”

“Sure. Be careful!”

“You’re worried about this when I could buy you ten more tomorrow.”

“Still!”

He smiles at your reflection, hand palming your bare back then, making you bite back a gasp, body shifting in desire at just the touch, your eyes shut so he can’t see them rolling back, but he sees those goosebumps everywhere. He unzips it then, revealing lacy panties that make him pause, letting the dress fall, you’re catching it at the front, gasping.

“I think I got it.” He says huskily, unable to stop his fingers from trailing up your delicate spine, blue eyes so bright in the mirror they wreck you, while you barely hold the material on. “Need any more help?”

“No! I mean… n-no.” Shit shit shit.

You’re soaked from a brush against your back!?

“Got ya.” He smiles just a bit, leaving you now, resting his back on the door, hand running across his face, curious how he’s throbbing with precum from seeing your fucking back.

Two weeks of being ‘fake married’ to Satoru Gojo, your best friend

You arrive at his work, the coworkers all greeting you so friendly, as his assistant Miwa escorts you, giving you both soft smiles. “Your wife is here Mr. Gojo.”

Satoru looks up in surprise, you’re in your pretty work dress, looking all cute and professional, holding a bento box in one hand, a boba in the other. You’re smiling brightly, as his lips part in surprise. “I had an early day and I thought I should bring some lunch?”

“Oh… oh thank you… Miwa if you could?”

“Of course, I’ll give you some privacy.” You hear her giggle and you smile at Satoru, looking as he’s leaned back in his big leather seat, smiling softly back at you, eyeing your hands.

“I get lunch made for me, shit I am lucky with my fake bride.” You snort, rolling your eyes and walking up to him, setting them on the desk.

“It seemed wifey to do? But also I really do have a short day, figured you might be hungry?”

Fuck you’re sweet.

Fuck you’re pretty.

God, you’re looking at him like that, leaned over just a bit, his eyes darting over your body that tempts him every day more and more, but your sweetness ruins him, the thoughtful nature you’ve always had, but now so geared to him. Is it all for show, he can’t believe it is when you open the bento and show him sushi, onigiri and greens placed so prettily his mouth waters.

“You ordered this, yeah?”

“No silly, I’ve been practicing. You helping me have some time off work has literally given me so much time… I hope they’re yummy? Oh, I didn’t make the boba though.”

“Why didn’t you get anything?” He asks, frowning.

“Oh I’m good, I just was dropping it off. You’re probably busy, taking down the villains huh?” Satoru’s words catch in his throat, looking you up and down again, before looking back down at the food in front of him.

“Stay a bit, it’ll… look good you know, us having lunch together.” He murmurs, lying out of his fucking teeth, as if he didn’t want to eat you then and there.

Your thighs spread, panties to the side, lapping you up?

Yummier than this. Killing him to imagine.

“Oh, um… where do I sit, over here?” You go to scooch a chair over, and he stops you.

“Nah those are heavy, come on.” He pats his thigh, earning your eyes widening, pulse fluttering as he smirks. “You’ve sat on my lap at parties plenty.”

“Y-yeah… but it’s… I…”

“C’mon, have a couple bites please, I’ll feel bad if you did all this for me and didn’t eat.”

“Satoru, you have bought me a new wardrobe and a car, can’t I make some sushi?”

“Sit.”

You sigh, it’s true you’ve sat on his lap, but the past two weeks of constantly being wet around him are taking their toll. You smile brightly, sitting on one of his thighs, praying he can’t feel it, the heat from your pussy as you’re pressed on a muscled thigh, and he’s picking up sushi with chopsticks, popping one in his mouth and moaning, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck that’s yummy. You made it for real!?” You giggle, nodding and trying to be more comfortable, it’s your Toru, right?

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. That’s got eel sauce on it, this one is the spicy crab.”

“You like spicy crab, here.” He pops one to your lips, and something feels too intimate, on his lap like this. “Open.”

Open.

Open!?

The pictures of you hearing him that while on your knees makes your cunt dribble, you shift nervously, clearing your throat.

“Open, silly.”

You do as he says, as he pops the roll in your mouth, and you chew, feeling the flavor hit your tongue, he grins now, popping another into his mouth, and you wonder if it’s easy for him to be this way. He’s so natural at it, sipping his boba and humming happily, all while his thigh presses where you’ve been aching for him, forcing yourself not to touch your pussy to the thought of him.

You can’t do that, it’s fucked.

You try to get up, and he presses you down, big hand on your waist, far too close when he leans the thick straw to your lips. “Take a sip, it’s so good.”

“Oh… um sure. Thank you.” You take a sip, lips pressing where his had, and he can’t stop focusing on how good your lips look, wrapping as you suck, cheeks hollowing and making his cock twitch.

You both sit there then, staring at each other, breaths coming just a little too quick from you, as he sets the drink down, but you stay on his lap. “Y’know… the event tonight, we should probably actually kiss? There will be cameras all over.”

“Kiss!?” He laughs then, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I mean it’s kind of part of it. You’re comfy with it right, not gonna fall head over heels.”

“Psh.” You already have, long ago, it’s all fucking hitting. “You’re so cocky, Toru I swear.”

“I can’t help it, my lips are so talented, you know. Makes girls fall.” He brushes his silky hair back, winking at you then, and you swear you can hear your heart in your goddamn ears.

“I remember you were pretty good.”

“Yeah, you remember?”

“Yeah it… was my first kiss.” You mumble then, looking away, sipping his boba nervously, he blinks rapidly, blue eyes wide in shock.

“What now!?”

“No biggie, we were like seventeen…”

“But you… never told me?”

“It was embarrassing.” Satoru’s mind races to that night, as does yours, as you sit in his office, just the hum of the fan and soft music playing from his little device, staring at each other, both in a haze.

You and Satoru Gojo were thrown in a closet together, you’re sighing as you’re pressed against him, peeking at your phone in the dark to see the time. Being too close to Satoru wreaked havoc on your brains at times, though you have known him so long, you couldn’t lie and act like you didn’t think of things… kissing him, maybe dating him? But you know they’re silly thoughts.

“Don’t freak out, we’ll just let 'em think we made out.” He says now, and you turn your eyes up to him, adjusting in the dark, but even here you can see the glint of those bright baby blues.

“Y-yeah. You’ve kissed plenty, though.”

“You haven’t really?”

“Um, no.”

Satoru’s gently turning you to him now, tilting your chin up while his eyes adjust to see your pretty face, you’re thankful it’s so dark that he couldn’t see your blush. “We could practice, you know.”

“Satoru!”

“What? A little practice between friends? You know you wanna kiss me.” He taunts, teasing tone as he grins.

“No way!”

“Not at all? I’m hurt, sweets.”

“Oh whatever, it'd be weird, we’re too close. Do you kiss Suguru?”

“Oh yeah, have you seen him?”

You both laugh then, when he leans down just a bit. “Well, if you kissed Suguru, I feel left out now.”

“We can’t have that. Show me what you do know, I’ll advise.”

“Kissing expert, hmm?”

“Mhmm.” You lean up then, as he bends down, your arms wrapping around his neck, you pause as his hands press against your waist, making your heart race. “Ya scared?”

“No! Goofy ass.” He’s chuckling until you lean up, pulling him down for a kiss, and your lips meet for the first time.

Your first kiss.

He pauses, your lips connecting just do something. Satoru at seventeen had done plenty of make out sessions, but they were fun, something to do, exciting at times, but nothing prepared him for it. For your sweet lips on him, tingling them, his heart beating in his chest.

Satoru falters, and he never falters.

He doesn’t slip his tongue in, he doesn’t pull you close, he freezes, so in shock at how good it feels, how right it feels. You ease back, nervous then, clearing your throat, as he hasn’t moved his lips. “I’m sorry I’m not…”

Satoru yanks you against him then, pressing your body on his, kissing you over and over, so deeply, taking your breath away, you’ve never felt something like this, you’re trembling as you feel his tongue slip against the seam of your lips. “Open them up for me.”

This isn’t silly Satoru, goofy ass friend, his husky declaration destroys you, and he uses the gasp to slip his tongue inside, swirling with yours, igniting something between you that night that you will both avoid talking about for years. When he presses you against the closet door, sighing into your lips, and you’re being picked up in his arms, as your mouths move over each other.

You both pull back, gasping as the timer goes off.

What was that!?

“If I’d known it was your first kiss, maybe I wouldn’t have… gotten so excited.” He says with a little pink on his cheeks.

“No, you didn’t cross any lines, Toru. Don’t worry.”

He wants to laugh, because oh, he wanted to.

If he’d had more time he’s sure he’d have lost it, whatever control he has now he did not have as a seventeen year old. “Was it a good one at least?”

“The best a girl could have.” You say softly, smiling at him then, making his heart race when you both sit there, far too close, and he swears he can feel your heat against the hand that’s on your thigh.

“I know I’m pretty amazing hmm?” He teases, trying to hide the raging storm inside of him, you giggle, shaking your head and standing finally.

“You’re a conceited little shit.”

“Hey!?”

You’re both back at ease, as he stands now too, looming so tall over you, his presence making it hard to remember why you’re here. “I should go.”

“We should practice, though, yeah?”

“I mean… you think we’re that rusty?” You try to feign ease, he smiles then.

“Yeah, we gotta be. We’ll bump our heads together or some shit.”

“Okay… um…” You take a sip of his boba then, clearing your throat and smiling up at him. “Let’s practice.”

Satoru brushes his thumb across your chin, your ass pressed against his desk and you’re pinned between it and him, your hands sliding up his starch white dress shirt slowly, eyes lowering to his glossy lips. He presses a kiss against your lips, and you then know it, more than ever.

Nothing is like kissing Satoru.

Nothing is like his lips making contact with yours, as your eyes close, the feeling of him working his lips over you so gently, making you tremble, making you ache in ways you have tried to hide, to avoid. He pulls back, cupping your face and exhaling, his snowy lashes low over cerulean eyes, his lips parted just so, as you both stare at each other, speechless.

You don’t know if he’s as affected, and neither does he.

“How’s that?” He asks softly, and you lean up, your fingers enwrapping in his hair, as two of his hands bar you on either side.

“Maybe one or two more? To look natural.” You whisper, and you expect a smirk, or something cocky, conceited, but he slams his lips on yours now.

His tongue is swirling against yours in moments, as you both devour each other, hungry and needy, kissing each other desperate, messy now. A kiss like you’ve never had, as his hands press against your hips, then he lifts you on the desk, your thighs around his hips, making you cry out. The sound causes him to lose any semblance of control, he’s biting your lower lip, moaning into your mouth.

“Mmm!” Your hands pull his hair now, as his slip up your bare thighs, and then you feel it, the hardness under his slacks against your heat, your panties already sticky and damp, and you pull back with a gasp.

Your eyes shoot up to his when you break apart for just a moment, and Satoru’s breath is coming in little pants, his fingers scrunching your skirt up your hips, yanking you closer. You whimper now, head falling to the side, and he’s kissing down the side of your neck, your breasts pressing against his chest, dying for him inside you, as he’s ready to fuck you right on his desk.

“Satoru… what are-” You’re trying to whisper when his lips find the shell of your ear.

“I need-”

Knock knock knock.

You both pull back, his eyes dilated to the point they’re dark, his hands still on your bare skin, as his eyes dart down your body. “Yes?” He manages gruffly.

“Twenty minutes until your meeting Mr. Gojo.” You hear, and he curses softly, turning away, trying to calm his nerves, his racing heart, all while you’re hopping down, trying to pull yourself together.

You’re almost darting out of the door when he sees you. “Shit, please…”

“No, no. We um… were practicing?” You manage to whisper, as his hand is over yours on the knob. “I got carried away.”

He laughs, without humor. “You did?”

“I did. I’m sorry I don’t even do this.”

“Just how… inexperienced are you?” He asks softly.

“A lot.”

Because she can’t help but compare every man to Satoru Gojo.

“Well, you can’t tell, you’re an amazing kisser.” You blush furiously, looking down, biting your lower lip.

“You don’t have to say it.”

“You are, shit. My god.” He brushes your hair off the side of your neck, exhaling, breath tickling you, setting your body on fire.

“Thank you, so are you. We will be good to go tonight, you think?” You whisper, so nervous to say what you want to, and he pauses, clearing his throat, his hand falling off your shoulder now.

“We’ll kill it. Thank you again for lunch.”

“Of course.” You brightly smile, trying to remember.

It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake.

As you’re repeating it in your head, Satoru is struggling to not lift your skirt up and fuck into you right on this door, he wouldn’t care if the entire office heard you scream his goddamn name. When you slip out the door he rests his head on it, the cool wood doing nothing to his overheated skin, hands clenching into his fists as he tries to calm himself.

What was that, what is that with you both?

He promised he would be respectful, he has to try to rein it all in, he has to make sure your friendship isn’t ruined because he can’t stop himself. Satoru tells himself that as he wills his cock to go down, but he can’t stop himself, soon he’s stroking it right in that seat, remembering feeling your pussy pressing against his length.

God he needs you, he shuts his eyes, imagining sinking inside you while he twists his hand up and down his length, desperate for any relief. He had some regulars he would call back in the day, but not only does it feel so wrong to do so, he doesn’t want anyone but you, he can’t even put a vision in his mind but you.

‘It’s fine, baby girl you can take me’ he murmurs softly, snowy lashes shut as he imagines fucking into you, stretching you god he bets you’re so tight, and he could feel that warmth, imagining you as he spits down on his pretty cock.

His pink tip is oozing precum while his head rests back in his office chair, he can still smell your scent, that shampoo you use, the body spray you have worn since high school, it’s you. He’d kiss every inch of your body, have you so ready you beg for him, fuck you so good tears pool in your pretty eyes, he can damn near feel is as his hand strokes faster and faster.

He lets out a soft groan, muttering a ‘that’s it, you’re so wet f’me, huh?’ to the very image of you on that desk, tasting your sweetness on his lips, while he pinches his tip, the precum and spit wetting his cock enough that the sound of him stroking fills his office. His breath quickens as he thinks of shoving your thighs up high, slamming into your cervix, ruining you.

As he cums white hot spurts all over his palm he cries out softly, the release feeling so good, he’s fought it, touching himself to you, but he can’t anymore. He quickly cleans up, panicking as he sees what he’s done, jerked off to one of his best friend’s in the world, someone who trusts him, and he’s not even holding himself together for shit now.

He exhaustedly leans his head against the desk as his alarm for the next meeting starts, struggling to remember this isn’t real, but his cock sure didn’t fucking realize that, and by the time he’s home and he sees you all dressed up for the next event? He almost has to go jerk off again.

You’re smiling all nervous in this beautiful glittering gown, and he’s once again speechless, trying to pull together his usual charm, but it falls flat. You look at him, concern clear on your features. “Everything okay Satoru?”

“Of course it is. Look at you.” He smiles, putting on the best show he can, as you wonder if you’ve over thought that kiss, he just seems so normal really.

Maybe he just got carried away, should you act normal too?But how can you, when just the brush of his hand on the small of your back shoots desire straight through your body. It’s only been two weeks, how could you hold out an entire year?

Sooo to have written this in a oneshot would have been INSANE but expect the next two parts very quicklyyy ;) Gojo is DOWN BAD my god- smut in the next hehe.

Part two

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the only thing more powerful than a weird little girl is a weird middle aged woman. the only thing more powerful than a weird middle aged woman is a weird old lady. and the only thing more powerful than a weird old lady is a weird little girl. thus the world is balanced.