Flour And Flowers | George Weasley X Reader
Could I request a fic about George x Muggle!reader? Like she stays and works in the little village near the Burrow. Could either be snippets of them throughout the years having little flirty talks and slowly turns into a George feeling protective/scared for her safety kinda thing. Fluff/smut/angst/maybe happyending? That I'll leave up to you if this isn't too much of a ask!
Absolutely love your work!
flour and flowers | george weasley x reader
a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)
warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread
The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.
He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.
You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.
He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.
Told himself a lot of things that day.
You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.
“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”
He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”
You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”
He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”
“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”
George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.
“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”
From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.
Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.
Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.
You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.
Still, there were things you noticed.
He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.
The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.
He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.
He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.
Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.
Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.
Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said.
But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.
The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.
He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.
He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.
You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.
And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.
He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.
You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.
---
He realized it on a Tuesday.
He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.
The café was dark.
The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.
Something in his chest snapped to attention.
He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.
Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.
“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”
He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.
His hands were already shaking.
Because he didn’t know where you were.
Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.
And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.
Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.
He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.
Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.
The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.
He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.
And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.
You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”
You nodded. “I’m okay.”
And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Not yet.
Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.
He doesn’t let go.
Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.
“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.
You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”
Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”
He looks up. His eyes are too bright.
“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.
“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”
He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.
“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”
You squeeze his fingers.
“I'm here,” you whisper.
And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.
His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.
The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.
His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.
You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.
You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.
“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.
You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”
He kisses you again.
Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.
You nod before he even says a word.
That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.
You let him.
You tell him he is.
And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.
You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.
Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.
He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.
“I want to try something,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.
He closes his eyes. Breathes.
He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.
When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.
“Expecto Patronum.”
And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.
It takes the shape of a magpie.
He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.
You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.
And he comes home to you all over again.
-----
tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy
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Lotta-Latte? Lotta Love!
ᝰ.ᐟ synopsis — getting hired at your favorite coffee spot is one thing, but managing to survive being trained by your barista crush turned coworker is another...
ᝰ.ᐟpairing — manager!sohee x new!barista!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre — smau, barista au, non idol au, coworkers to lovers, comedy, fluff, angst ᝰ.ᐟ warnings — swearing, use of pet names, coworker relationships, playful bickering between friends, eunseok does NOT like yn at all, mutual pining if you squint
💬 — barista sohee you'll always be famous!! i love barista aus so much i hope it showed here... also, shotaro's part is next hehe! | divider creds: @/enchanthings-a
© gyumibear 2024. all rights reserved! kindly do not repost on any social media sites, translate or modify my works without my permission. please don't plagiarize, it's okay to use my works as inspo as long as you credit me!
She's often accused of playing the victim, that's a big line in like the Kanye stuff, and so on, like she's self-victimizing. But to me, what's actually kind of interesting, and it's almost an artistic flaw of hers, is that she is unable to be the victim. Like, in Dear John, which is one of her best songs, she has that, you burned all the other girls you date out, but not me, I got your matches before you could burn me. And so like, she actually doesn't play the victim, she's just kind of honest. Like, if somebody releases a music video of you with like, a giant nude wax Taylor doll, she'll be like, that's kind of revenge porn and I don't like it. That's just hitting back, right? So like, what actually irritates people about her is her refusal to be the victim of a situation, but like, they call it playing the victim.
B.D. McClay, Know Your Enemy: Taylor Swift Derangement Syndrome
gojo fans, we must embrace our roots.
jaeyong being military boyfriends because i miss my bbs
[ both separate relationships!1!1! not poly ;2 ] cws — none that i would call out !!!
genre | fluffyyy!!
꧁✬◦°⋆⋆°◦. 𝒽ℯ 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝓈𝒽ℯ 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 | ℊℯℴ𝓇ℊℯ 𝓌ℯ𝒶𝓈𝓁ℯ𝓎 ◦°⋆⋆°◦✬꧂
𝐬𝐮𝐦: 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚? 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐭?
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬/𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐯 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞!!
𝐥𝐨 𝐥𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬: 𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬! 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭! 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲!! 💋💖
You were leaning against the wall in the Gryffindor common room, a half-finished essay on your lap. Across the room, George Weasley was sitting with Fred, laughing over something they were planning. His laugh was loud and infectious, and despite your best efforts, you found yourself smiling.
“You’re staring,” your best friend nudged you, her tone teasing.
“I am not!” you protested, quickly looking back at your parchment.
“Sure,” she said with a smirk. “You’ve only rewritten that same sentence three times while looking at him. It’s fine, though. He’s cute.”
You risked another glance at George and found him already looking at you. Your eyes locked for a split second before he quickly turned back to Fred, but not before you caught the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks.
Little did you know, George was having a similar conversation with his twin.
“You’ve got it bad, mate,” Fred teased, clapping him on the back.
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” George said, though his eyes betrayed him, flicking back to where you sat.
Fred smirked knowingly. “Well, either do something about it or stop acting like a lovesick puppy. It’s getting embarrassing.”
The next few days were filled with more stolen glances and awkward smiles. George would go out of his way to sit near you in the Great Hall, and you started “accidentally” running into him between classes. It was unspoken, but the spark between you two was undeniable.
One sunny Saturday morning, you were sitting by the lake with your best friend, chatting about nothing in particular, when she suddenly said, “You know, George flirts with everyone. It’s just his thing.”
You frowned, her words hitting you harder than you expected. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s a charmer. Don’t take it personally if he’s just having fun.”
The thought lingered, casting doubt over every interaction you’d had with George. Had you misread everything?
Meanwhile, in the common room, Fred was stirring up his own chaos.
“You know, she said she thinks you’re immature,” Fred said casually, as George tried to figure out the best way to approach you.
George froze. “What?”
“I overheard her telling her friend. Something about how your pranks are a bit much.”
Fred didn’t think much of it, but to George, it felt like a punch to the gut. All the moments he’d spent trying to impress you suddenly felt foolish.
When you and George crossed paths that evening, the air between you was colder. You smiled tentatively at him, but he barely acknowledged you. Stung, you decided to match his energy.
It started small. You stopped saying hello in the hallways, and he stopped going out of his way to sit near you in the Great Hall. Then, the pranks began.
One morning, you woke up to find your bag filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. By the time you fished everything out, you were late for class and covered in soot.
That evening, George opened his Charms textbook to find all the pages enchanted to sing “God Save the Queen” whenever he tried to read them. Fred was doubled over with laughter as George glared at the book.
“Oh, this is war,” he muttered.
The pranks escalated. You hexed his broomstick so it would turn upside down mid-air during Quidditch practice, and he charmed your quill to write nothing but embarrassing poems about him during class. Everyone in Gryffindor was talking about the rivalry, and Fred was thoroughly over it.
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with excitement after a Quidditch victory when Fred decided enough was enough. He dragged you and George into an empty broom cupboard and locked the door.
“What the—Fred!” you yelled, pounding on the door.
“Sort it out, you two!” Fred’s voice called from the other side. “And don’t come out until you’ve stopped being idiots!”
You turned to find George standing stiffly on the other side of the small space, arms crossed.
“Well, this is just perfect,” he muttered.
“You think I want to be stuck in here with you?” you snapped.
The tension was thick, but after a few moments of silence, George sighed. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is with me, but—”
“My problem?” you interrupted, glaring at him. “You’re the one who started ignoring me out of nowhere!”
He stared at you, confused. “You’re the one who thinks I’m immature.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fred told me you said—”
“Wait.” You cut him off, realization dawning. “My friend told me you flirt with everyone and that I shouldn’t take you seriously.”
There was a long pause as the pieces fell into place. Then, George let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Fred. Of course.”
You couldn’t help but laugh too, though it was tinged with frustration. “And my friend. Unbelievable.”
“So…” George rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly shy. “You don’t think I’m immature?”
“And you’re not just toying with me?”
“No,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “I’ve liked you for ages. And I was too much of a coward to say anything.”
You felt your cheeks heat up. “Me too. I mean, I like you too.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Oh.”
When Fred finally unlocked the door, you and George emerged with matching grins. The tension was completely gone, replaced by something warmer and lighter.
Fred took one look at you both and groaned. “Finally!”
George threw an arm around your shoulders, his touch casual but protective. “Well, thanks for the help, mate.”
Fred raised an eyebrow. “Help? I locked you in a cupboard!”
“And it worked,” George said, grinning.
From that day on, the pranks stopped—or rather, they turned into a collaboration. You and George were inseparable, your playful banter taking on a softer edge. And every so often, when Fred saw you two stealing a kiss behind the shelves in the library, he’d shake his head and mutter, “About time..”
taglist: @wingyattium @georgeplease @kisses4fred
Psst can u draw re4 leon on a date 🥹 what would he be like??
drinking his whiskey
smut's fun. have you ever read soul crushing, heart aching, head throbbing comfort that makes your eyes burn out of your head to the point where you just have to crawl into a ball because your inner child feels so safe? haha... yeah smuts fun.
Have you “Oh, you think ya big, boy, throwing three stacks? I'ma show you how to ball, you a mismatch. Opinionated, but I'm always spitting straight facts. Throw it back, I might throw this on an eight-track” today?
𓆇 •ִ ᜔. 🧸 my secondhand bookstore
THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO
pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader
summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.
word count — 14 k
genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)
author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3
masterlist + support my writing
When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.
What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.
Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were.
It was frustrating, to say the least.
You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial.
You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.
Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.
"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides."
You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.
“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.
“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.”
That had set the tone for everything that followed.
He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.
He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.
You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.
But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.
You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.
“Having fun down there?”
You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.
“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”
“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”
You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”
“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”
You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"
"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"
You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.
"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"
"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.
Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.
"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."
"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.
"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"
"I will set your house on fire."
He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”
A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting?
No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way.
Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.
“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.
“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.”
You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.
"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”
You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.
"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.
"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"
You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.
Why was he only mentioning this now?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.
Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there.
But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.
"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.
On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.
“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loud enough.”
“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”
Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”
“Would you believe me if I said everything?”
But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.
By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.
It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.
“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.”
You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light.
The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.
“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.
“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”
“Satoru—”
“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”
“You don’t have to—”
“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”
You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”
He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”
And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all.
Even if you’d never say it out loud.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal.
The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.
It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.
“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”
You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”
“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”
Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."
"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."
You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.
So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.
"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."
Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"
“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."
"We?"
"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”
"Is that what this is?"
"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”
You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”
You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.
“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”
“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”
He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”
“You have quite the ideas.”
“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”
“To celebrate what?”
He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”
You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.
The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.
“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.
“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.
You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."
His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together.
And it felt… good.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.
It was chaotic, let's just say that.
But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years.
The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.
You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.
"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."
"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.
"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."
"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.
"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"
You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."
His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"
"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."
Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.
"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"
"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.
"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.
Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."
Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.
"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."
"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."
"You don't think people know how to love now?"
"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."
Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile.
“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."
You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.
And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.
"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”
He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"
The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.
"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."
"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."
You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”
"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."
You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.
The house.
It was finished.
Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty.
Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you.
"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.
He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.
“You needed the rest. And I had the time.”
"Satoru, this would have taken days—"
“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."
You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.
It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful.
That's all.
The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.
"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."
He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”
"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"
“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”
"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer.
He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."
Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.
"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.
"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."
You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.
But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back.
Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—
"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.
"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination.
He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.
At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"
You smiled. "No promises."
He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"
He turned.
"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.
His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”
You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.
Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
Not that you were staring, of course.
His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”
"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"
"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."
You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.
"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.
You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.
"This is—"
"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.
"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."
He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."
You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.
"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.
“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”
“Should I be afraid?"
"I take it back. No cake for you."
"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”
"What about it?"
"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."
"Don't sound so shocked."
You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.
"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"
Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek.
They looked intimate.
Happy.
Like an actual couple.
Your stomach dropped.
"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"
"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."
"Now? But we haven't even finished—"
"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."
"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"
"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."
"Other plans? What are you—"
"Bye!"
You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.
"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.
He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.
You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?
Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned.
And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life.
Easy.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.
And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).
Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy.
"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"
"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."
Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.
If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.
You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.
This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.
Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.
But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.
Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.
You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.
It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.
The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.
You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.
The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.
"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.
"Don't say it.”
"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"
"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"
"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine.”
You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.
"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."
"It's nothing—"
"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"
The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.
"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.
"Kitchen has better light.” He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.
For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.
"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."
You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.
He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.
"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.
"It's a new system I'm trying out."
"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately.
He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.
"Too cold?"
“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”
He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.
“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”
“I have renovations to finish.”
“The renovations can wait.”
“Says the man with the perfect house.”
He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"
A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was.
You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."
“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.
"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"
"What girlfriend?"
“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”
To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh. "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"
"Your... sister?"
"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."
"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?
"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.
"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.
"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"
"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."
"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.
"You're insufferable."
"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"
Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"
You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.
"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."
With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.
The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.
You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.
The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs.
It felt…natural in a way.
Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.
One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.
"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"
Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.
"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"
"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.
"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."
You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."
"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”
You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."
“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."
“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”
“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”
“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”
“As my lady commands.”
He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.
Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.
“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.
"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.
You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.
You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours.
"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."
It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.
"What time?" you asked.
"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"
"You just want me for my baking."
"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"
You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.
He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.
The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.
When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.
As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.
"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."
Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.
"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."
"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.
He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."
The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.
"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."
"I can't take your gloves."
"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."
You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him.
As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.
"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.
"I haven't skated since I was a kid."
"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."
Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.
"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.
"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."
Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.
"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."
You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends.
After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.
"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.
"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."
He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."
The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?
Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date.
Like something couples did.
Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?
"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
"Just trying not to fall."
"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.
Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?
"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.
"Um, I don't think—"
"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.
He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.
"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."
"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."
He laughed. "Not everything."
You didn’t believe him for a second.
Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.
You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?
"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.
You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.
"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."
Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.
"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."
"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."
As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.
Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.
By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.
The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?
He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.
"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.
"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."
You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.
"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."
You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."
"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."
"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"
You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."
"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”
"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."
He blinked. "What I don't do?"
You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."
"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.
"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?”
You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.
"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"
Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.
You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.
"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".
You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"
"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."
"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"
"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"
This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.
"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."
"Noted."
Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.
"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.
"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"
Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."
And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—
"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."
"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."
"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.
"Bedroom?"
"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."
He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.
And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.
The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.
"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.
"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."
"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"
"At seven in the morning?"
"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”
Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.
Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.
"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.
"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"
"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"
"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."
You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."
"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."
Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.
"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."
"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."
He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."
You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.
"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"
"A dangerous pastime for you."
"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."
"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.
"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.
"And the—"
"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."
"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."
Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"
“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"
"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.
"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."
You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"
"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."
"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."
"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"
You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.
"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."
He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."
"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."
"My hands, huh?"
"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."
"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”
"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"
He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.
"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."
"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."
You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."
"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"
You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.
"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."
His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"
"Especially then."
Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.
anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna
@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan
@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna
@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion
@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie
© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.
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