Archive of Our Own

When Yuuta walked into the café today, he expected a normal day. 

He expected Panda sprawled on the usual drab couch, manspreading in a kind of theatrical entitlement that would have left Toge squeezed into the corner of the couch, who would then murmur odd syllables of amusement once Maki began her exasperated scolding. 

And right on cue, he had walked into an argument already mid-swing.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Maki snapped, though Yuuta doesn’t miss the faintest colour traced on her cheekbones as he reaches his usual seat — a distinctly red single couch, its fabric dulled and rubbed threadbare from years of bodies slouching into it. “She’s just some underling at work. She gawks at me all the time — it doesn’t mean anything.”

Panda grinned in response. “C’mon,” he chuckled. “You’re going out with a woman. A real-life-size woman. Isn’t that something?”

Maki rolled her eyes as Toge gave a quiet syllable of agreement, his eyes brighter than ever. 

This was a routine. This was ordinary. He had never once imagined that such a place of ordinary rituals could tilt itself into something more fantastical and ceremonial. But it did. 

The door of the cafe opened with the regular chime sound, and he remembers it all too clearly— at first, he heard the hiss of rain, then he smelt the damp wet stones. Yuuta’s eyes looked up lazily, expecting another student, another office worker, someone here for cheap coffee and shelter from the drizzle. Instead, he saw you. A woman — no, not just any woman, but a bride. 

The café had stilled in that moment. Even the old espresso machine, which was usually hissing and wheezing about, seemed to fall silent. 

Panda’s hand froze mid-air, halfway to his muffin. Toge’s mutter died on his tongue. Even Maki had lifted her gaze, holding an expression that was dangerously close to surprise. Because it is not every day a bride walks into this café. 

Your eyes dart across the room — frantic, urgent, desperate to find someone, and it’s only when your eyes find him that he realises — it’s him. You were searching for him. 

At that realisation, he lurched up to stand at once. It was a little too clumsy, too sudden, as though his seat had grown immediately hot.

He thought he should speak, ask something rational, like what are you doing here? Or say something gentle, like asking if you were okay, but his tongue felt thick and lumpy in his mouth, sodden just as the dirty hem of your white dress. 

So when you began to speak, he almost sighed with relief.

“Yuuta,” you said, his name softened between your lips, and your whole face seemed to ease. “Oh, it’s so… I’m so happy you’re here. I didn’t know where else to go. I just— I left. I left him, Yuuta. I was standing there, staring at the aisle, at him, at all of it. The expensive flowers. The expensive carpet. The expensive champagne, and suddenly it was like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it. So I ran. I just— ran.”

Yuuta isn’t sure what he can say to that. It’s loaded, so he doesn’t know where to start asking questions. He simply stares at you. And then turns back to see his seated friends, as though one of them will ground him away from this dream that he seems to have slipped into. Because it is a dream, right?

But when Panda only gave a low whistle in response, it was the kind that seared the reality of the situation into his brain. “Now this,” Panda said, leaning back, “is better than Love Island, my friends.”

He knows now that this is real. And you’ve apparently left a wedding. You had agreed, once, to marry someone else, and then you hadn’t. This is an afterthought he tries to suppress, given everything else that’s staring him stark in the face. But he does think it, even if it were only for a moment.

Maki crossed her arms then, watching you closely. “You’re dripping mud all over the floor,” she comments, but her voice doesn’t come out with any sort of sting, but rather as an observation.

You looked flustered, but ignored the comment as you took Yuuta’s hands, clutching them with a desperation that made his heart stumble out of his chest. You were cold to touch, and he wonders if he should give you his jacket.

“I don’t want to be who I was,” you confessed now softly. “I was this girl who lived in a bubble, who thought diamonds on her hand meant she was alive. I looked at him, Yuuta, and I thought— this isn’t it. This isn’t my life. This isn’t me at all. And all I could think was… I needed to find a friend. A friend who knows me.”

It’s out of place to hear this confession from a person he hadn’t seen in years now, but everything about this situation was out of place. You belonged at the end of an aisle, and he belonged here. You were meant for cathedrals and champagne halls, and he was meant for a chipped mug of coffee and a menial job. Yet, you were here holding his hand. 

It was all out of place. 

—

The group, to Yuuta's surprise, was astonishingly well-composed in the wake of your situation. Toge and Panda had gone to the counter to get you something warm. Maki, whose name, you would only learn later, had wordlessly stripped a navy shawl from her own shoulders and flung it across yours in a gesture that was brusque.

And then there was Yuuta.

Yuuta was crouched before you, perched on the low table opposite. His body was tilted forward as he stared intensely at you. You didn’t blame him, though the intensity of his stare, mingled with the realisations of what you had just done — of the words you had mumbled to him, of the man you had abandoned, of the people whose names would be lighting up your screen, of the entire state of your life — all of which had suddenly all come boiling to the surface. 

And sitting there, clutching the borrowed shawl tight around your shoulders, you felt the shame and embarrassment rise sharply in your throat.

“Are you okay?” Yuuta tried, the words falling clumsily from his mouth.

And immediately he realised how stupid that sounded. Are you okay? What a ridiculous and pathetic question. Of course, you weren’t okay. People who were okay didn’t abandon weddings midway through. People who were okay didn’t search, wild-eyed, for the face of a boy they hadn’t seen in almost half a decade. People who did this were — undeniably, certifiably — not okay.

He glanced sideways at Maki, who was already looking at him like he was the dumbest man alive. He gulped. He wanted, very sincerely, to punch himself in the face.

“I just feel like someone has reached down my throat, and has grabbed my small intestine, pulled it out of my mouth, and tied it around my neck.” The description was grotesque, or even dramatic and childish, but it was the truth of your body. “If you get me,” you attempted to add, your voice dropping to a meek, apologetic murmur.

And at that, Yuuta really wanted to punch himself in the face. He should be saying something, anything to distract you from your situation — to make your world lighter, but where could he begin? He knew nothing anymore. Not about you, not about the person you had become, not about the life you had just abandoned.

“I am glad to see you, though,” you added softly. “It’s strange. I haven’t seen you in years, but you’re my only true friend I’ve had in such a long time.”

“A friend who wasn’t even invited to the wedding,” Maki remarked. Her voice was sharp, but the remark itself was plain. It didn’t feel accusatory, but more so — observational. 

“Maki,” Yuuta protested, however, as his chest was tightening.

“We did drift apart,” you admitted, eyes not leaving his. “But you would always be my friend, Yuuta. You know that, don’t you?” He could swear your eyes twinkled just then.

—

You sat with both hands curled around the hot chocolate. The porcelain of the cup radiated a simple and welcoming warmth that you clung to, sip after sip, while they all stared at you. There are questions simmering beneath their tongues, you can feel it, but the warmth of the cup around your palms, the warmth of the drink down your throat left you a bit listless, and comforted — that you didn’t mind. You simply sipped on the drink as they watched you like some exotic creature they were meant to study.

You look up now, at the group, and then at Yuuta.

“Can I borrow your phone?” you asked, quiet but firm. “I need to call my father.”

Yuuta startled, cleared his throat, already reaching for his pocket. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You handed him the empty cup, the porcelain had tints of red from your lipstick, and he exchanged it for his phone. You stood up and drifted to the far side of the café, for privacy, he assumes. 

“Who is she?” Panda asked first, his voice sly, delighted by the scandal at hand. “Don’t tell me you were having an affair with an engaged woman. How perverted is that?” He paused, grin widening as he looked at her now. “Kudos, though. She’s pretty.”

Yuuta’s brow knit, irritation flashing across his face. “It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I haven’t seen her in years. She’s just— an old friend. We grew up together. We don’t even talk anymore.” His voice trailed off. It’s all out of place.

“And yet,” Maki murmured, arms folded, eyes narrowing in clinical interest, “she runs to you as she leaves her future husband. Isn’t that interesting?”

Yuuta hesitated, words catching. Then, softly, almost pleading, he said, “I mean… look at her. She doesn’t seem like she has a lot of good friends. She probably just needed someone outside of those circles. Her family— they’re the rich kind, you know. They’ve got their own world, their own orbit. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m assuming she has no one else.”

At that, he could visibly see Maki soften, her shoulders relaxed. You were not the threat afterall. You were just a woman with a family of idiots. 

“That’s… kinda sad,” Panda said in response, voicing what everyone was feeling. And for once, his voice held no joke at all. It was sincere. 

You stood by the window, with the phone pressed to your ear. You almost wish he wouldn’t pick up. You didn’t want to face this reality of yours. This life you lived. You wish you could start a new one here, with Yuuta and his odd group of friends. 

When your father’s voice came through, it was clipped, cool, controlled — as though you had interrupted a board meeting, or worse, humiliated him by existing in the wrong place.

“Where are you?” he demanded, without any effort to establish a preamble. “Come back. Now.”

You swallowed. “I left.”

“I am aware,” he said. “You have thirty minutes. Return.”

“No,” you whispered.

“Speak up,” he urged. He hated it when you mumbled to yourself. Meek. Weak. Small. 

Your voice was trembling, though you forced it to sound steady. “I couldn’t—” You failed. “I could not do it, Papa. I tried. I really tried, but when I looked at him… I wanted to leave, and so, I did.” 

You pressed your hand against the cold glass, the rain outside smearing the city into indistinct lights. Something to steady you, you tried to focus on the colours. 

“I only wanted to apologise to you and Mama. I love you both. And I’m only sorry for that. For abandoning you to deal with this for me. But I never wanted it, and you knew it.” 

You clutched the phone tighter, as though by holding it you might tether yourself to something familiar, but the voice on the other end was not safety. It never was. 

“Goodbye,” you said then. Final. Ending. “I hope you forgive me.”

When you lowered the phone, the café seemed to tilt, the air thinning around you. Your stomach hollowed, your skin prickled. You wanted air. You wanted your bed. 

“Are you alright?” Yuuta’s voice cut through cleanly into the fugue — steady, warm, and concerned.

You turned, slow and uncomposed. Your eyes were rimmed with red, and before you could reason your way through it, you closed the distance between you and him. You all but collapsed into his arms.

He was startled and nearly lost his footing until he steadied himself. Then he steadied you, pulling you upright into his hold. His arms folded around you as his palm pressed to the back of your head in a slow, patting you now. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. He repeated them anyway, again and again, slowly, until the sound itself became a tether. A mantra. A spell. And the more he said it, the more you began to believe it. 

When your sobs stopped, as the deep tremor in your chest had flattened down and softened, you pulled back. The world may look a little blurrier now, but you felt lighter, too.

—

There wasn’t a lot left to do now. The evening had already begun to fold itself into routine, the kind they all knew by heart. Usually, it was Maki who left first — she had a strict regimen, physical health scheduled into her life with the same precision she levelled at everything else. She stood, gathering her things, then fixed the two of you with that measured, sharp-eyed stare as you held her shawl out to her.

“Thank you for the shawl,” you said, a little awkwardly. 

“You’re welcome,” she replied, matter-of-fact. Then, after a beat: “You’ll be fine. Ask Yuuta for my number if you need a place to stay. My roommate’s moving out, actually, so the timing is sort of perfect.”

Your eyes widened, catching faint light from the café’s low lamps. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Maki said, shouldering her bag. “Just, it’s not a big deal. Just be… cool.”

“I can be cool,” you said, feeling defensive all too suddenly, though grateful at her proposal. You hadn’t mapped this out realistically at all. Where would you stay? How would you pay for things now?

Panda lasted another half hour before lumbering up from the couch, crumbs trailing from his shirt. He clapped Yuuta’s shoulder with a heavy hand that left an ache long after, rolling through Yuuta’s bones.

“You have so much to tell me,” he said, grin spreading wide, teeth flashing. “Can’t wait to see you Monday.”

It sounded less like enthusiasm and more like a threat. Yuuta frowned as Panda winked, shambling out into the drizzle with a parting wave.

That left Toge. He lingered the longest, nursing another cup of tea in silence, his gaze flickering between the two of you. Eventually, he stood, setting his empty mug down with a small click. Yuuta rose automatically, and you followed — nothing really left to do at the café but leave. Still, the act of standing felt imposed, almost abrupt, and guilt nipped at you, the faint sense that you had been a burden this evening.

Outside, the air was damp and cool. Inumaki hesitated by the door, then glanced at you once, at Yuuta, and back again. Without a word, he shrugged off his own coat — a dark woollen thing, faintly scented with smoke and tea — and draped it carefully over your shoulders

“Salmon,” he murmured, tone soft, almost tender.

You turned to look at Yuuta, feeling tended to, but confused nonetheless. 

Yuuta, fumbling for clarity, added, “You can return it next time you see him.”

“Thank you,” you said, still confused but clutching the coat closer around yourself.

Yuuta watched, throat tightening. Something faint and warm filled his chest, blooming against the night chill.

“Um, what do you want to do now?” Yuuta asked. His voice was gentle and unassuming, as if the question cost him nothing particular or grave. Like the energy it took to move a muscle at best. 

You blinked, a half-smile breaking through on your face. You expected he’d bid you farewell and wish you good luck on your way. And this would be the end of this.  

You would preside after this evening only as an anecdote, a funny story to be told at parties.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, feeling lighter than you’ve felt in a year. Then, sheepishly, you speak up. “I’m hungry.”

For the first time in a long time, you heard Yuuta laugh. It’s a quiet, incredulous, almost disbelieving laughter. 

You smiled. His laughter always carried this particular alchemy.

It pulled you back, just a little, to an image of a boy — slight and sunburnt, and a girl — bright and unburdened. To summer afternoons that were filled with knee scratches and ice creams, where time had stretched itself out for you and you alone. Where his laughter accompanying your own meant the evening would be well-lived and light. 

Now, you’re here, years later. 

“I have a bike,” he said suddenly. “I can drive us up to the high street.”

You blinked. “You have a bike,” you repeated, tone incredulous, baffled, impressed, but baffled nonetheless. 

Because the Yuuta you remembered — scrawny, awkward, scared of his own shadow Yuuta — had somehow grown into this. Into a man who rode a bike. Into a man whose jacket stretched slightly over the curve of real muscle, whose hands looked steady enough to hold both the handlebars. 

The thought invoked something strange within you.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. 

Still awkward, you concluded with a smile. Still him.

The rain had eased into a mist, soft enough to blur the streetlamps into trembling halos. Yuuta wheeled the bike out from the narrow row where it had been chained, the frame slick with water, the metal gleaming in the half-light. It wasn’t anything glamorous — but a sleek red motorbike, well-worn yet polished, the kind of machine that spoke of quiet care. You noticed it immediately, how clean it was despite the weather, as though he’d taken time to tend to it, to keep it shining.

And yet, seeing him swing his leg over it, steady and confident, made something twist unexpectedly in your chest. A strange contrast to the boy you remembered, awkward and hesitant. This was new, unfamiliar — and it unsettled you in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

He glanced at you then, his expression caught somewhere between soft pride and embarrassment. “You, uh… you’ll have to hold on.”

The words made your pulse stutter. He said them with such plain practicality, and yet.

So you slid onto the seat behind him, hesitating for a beat before wrapping your arms around his middle. His body was warm even through the fabric of his jacket, the steady rhythm of his breath grounding you against the cool, damp air. You hadn’t realised how cold you’d been until now.

Yuuta stiffened, just slightly, then exhaled, adjusting his grip on the handlebars. “Ready?”

“Mm,” you murmured, your cheek brushing against his shoulder.

And then you were moving. The bike hummed under you, wheels hissing against the rain-dark road. The night opened itself up in streaks of light and shadow — shopfronts shuttered, puddles gleaming, the occasional car spraying water as it passed. The air rushed past, damp and sharp, tugging at your hair, carrying the faintest scent of soap and rain from his collar.

—

There were only a precious few places open at this hour. It was that liminal hour between early night and late evening. This was when the city was pausing for a brief moment to start the night — commuters were seen to be returning to their flats, and the noise emanating from cafés was thinning down to a lull as they started closing down. Yuuta was racking his brain for the different possibilities of cuisine, but the truth is, the options were few and very limited.

Yuuta walked beside you after parking near the stretch everyone colloquially called “food street,” and was turning this task over in his head, as though the very act of deciding on food were a kind of responsibility he must shoulder for you. Almost reverently, for your sake.

His mind ransacked through all the possibilities — the ramen joints with neon lights on side streets, but too shabby, and perhaps too makeshift for you. You would be a pale flare in that kind of place, the white of your dress catching every eye. Worse yet, someone might assume he was your husband and think him a figure so careless enough to drag you here on your wedding night.

Convenience stores, he thought, were too sterile, lit with fluorescent bulbs, though he suspected you hadn’t had the opportunity to have a proper meal all day. He imagined you standing there outside the store in your wedding dress, peeling back a corner of film from a microwaved meal, and recoiled. He wanted to give you a meal that wasn’t pre-sealed in plastic. 

He could cook for you, he thought briefly. But the idea felt awkward, inappropriate. He hadn’t seen you in years. And you were a lady, after all. 

As though he was caught in a well-timed play, his eyes immediately caught sight of red lanterns glowing above a narrow wooden doorway. He had seen this place before, always in passing, and always from the corner of his eye when he was on his way to the laundromat, but never saw a real opportunity to enter. He wasn’t one to eat out often, besides the occasional social obligations he was invited to. He preferred cooking at home. It was a private ritual he liked.

He slowed, then turned to you. Your gaze was already drawn to the lanterns.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice soft, tentative.

You looked at the doorway, the lanterns, the promise of something warm and sustaining, and then back at him. 

“Honestly,” you replied with a tired smile. “I could eat anything right now. It’s a free game.”

And so, you entered, slipping beneath the lanterns.

The interior was smaller than you had expected. There were long counters of dark wood, and some fake green plants were scattered around the corners. 

There was already a bunch of patrons on occupied tables, people who seemed to be mostly office workers still in suits hunched over their bowls and plates. The air was thick with the fragrance of grilled fish, miso, and the faint scent of the bitterness of charred onion. You would eat well tonight, at least.

At the entrance stood the proprietor, who was a middle-aged man with his hair pulled back into a low knot, and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He looked up as the two of you entered, and you could tell he attempted to repress his surprise at seeing you in your state. 

“Table for two, then?” he asked, his demeanour reverting to a calm assurance of someone who had seen all sorts of late-night guests pass through his doorway.

Yuuta nodded quickly. “Yes, please.”

The proprietor gestured you toward a small table tucked into the corner. You were grateful you wouldn’t catch the eyes of most of the patrons from here; you were half-shielded. 

Yuuta hovered for a moment, awkwardly, unsure whether to pull the chair out for you or pretend he hadn’t thought of it, and in his hesitation, you had already firmly seated yourself with a heave of sigh, smoothing the damp folds of your dress. He followed, sitting opposite you now — dejected by his lateness.

For a moment, neither of you spoke before Yuuta picked up the menu, eyes skimming without really reading. The truth was, the act of choosing a meal seemed suddenly impossible, just as choosing a place to eat did.

You leaned over your own menu, propping your chin on one hand, watching him. Intently, he would say. 

Finally, he looked up, as though catching your gaze. “Um,” he said, clearing his throat. “They have fried chicken? And, uh, a few noodle bowls. Do you—” he hesitated, “uh, want me to pick, or—”

“Yuuta,” you cut in, grinning before you could stop yourself, “I told you. Anything. I’d probably eat the menu itself if they deep-fried it.”

The waiter arrived with two glasses of iced water, setting them down with a clink. You reached for yours immediately, the cold, sweating glass delicious against your palm, and took a long swig.

“So,” you spoke up, as you propped your chin onto both your hands. “Tell me then.”

Yuuta blinked. “About?”

“About your life, I mean.” 

The clarification didn’t quell any of the weight for Yuuta. 

You’ll admit you did not know how to ask this without sounding intrusive, nor how to stop once you had begun. 

“What do you do now? For work, I mean. Do you have a wife? Is your favourite ice-cream flavour still vanilla?  What made you start riding bikes? I never, in all my life, expected to see you on a motorcycle. You look—” you paused, then smiled at him, “you look cool.”

Yuuta smiled back, a little sheepish. “I work as a physical therapist. I help people with rehabilitation after injuries, surgeries… that sort of thing.” 

You considered this for a moment — and yes, it made sense. A vocation rooted in gentleness, in patience, in touch. If anyone was suited to gently coaxing people back to their bodies, it was Yuuta.

He went on, “I still like vanilla, I guess. I haven’t thought of it much, but I like butterscotch lately. I ride motorcycles because they’re cool, like you said. And because my father used to.” 

A small, boyish tug crossed his mouth at the thought.

“And I don’t have a wife… not yet, at least. ”

You laughed softly at that, not unkindly, but with something between amusement and disbelief over his sheer sincerity. A lesser person, you thought, would have parried, would have given you one answer, or would have given you none at all. Yuuta, in his way, had offered you everything you asked. It was just his nature to do so. 

“Well, butterscotch makes sense. They’re practically the same,” you mused, leaning back in your chair now. Your back feels relaxed against the slope of the chair. 

“They’re not,” he said quickly, not defensive so much as insistent.

“They’re the same,” you grin. 

Then there was a beat. It was not awkward, but suspended rather. 

“And you know,” you added lightly, “the rest… It’s good to know.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just sort of acknowledges it the way one lets the silence do. 

And so, the food arrived. 

You squawked it down elegantly as you could. And Yuuta, for his part, managed to manipulate the utensils and plates on the table, quietly, to push more food toward you. Sliding dishes closer to you, turning bowls so they faced your side instead. 

You must have eaten ten times more than he had. And you didn’t complain either, not as the lightheadedness that had strained you all evening began to disappear out, leaving with each full bite.

Eventually, the plates emptied out, leaving the table looking strangely naked. And though you were full, you felt a strange emptiness in realising that the night had come to its natural end as you both made your way outside. 

“So,” Yuuta said, after a moment.“I can call Maki. You could stay with her tonight, if you need someplace to stay. Or… if you have a place, I can take you there.”

“I don’t—” You stopped yourself, almost like you were recalibrating.  “I don’t have a place, and I really do appreciate Maki’s offer. I probably will take it. But…” 

Then, suddenly, you drew inward into yourself and grew shy, in a way he had never quite seen you before. 

“I just… I don’t know her. I’m sure she’s nice, but could I stay with you instead?”

His eyes grew in size over that. His apartment was small. His place is really only meant for one. But he could move, he thought. He could make space somehow.

You hurried to correct yourself. “J—just for tonight, I mean. I feel like I’m all over the place today.”

“O–of course,” he said, almost meekly. “I can take you to my house. For tonight.”

And so you hopped onto his bike again. The ride back became a scrunched rush of sensations — the street signs slid past you in a haze of bright flashes, the wind was needling through your clothes, the soaked weight of your wedding dress billowing against the wind. And without notice, you had managed to nuzzle further and further into Yuuta’s back, drawn by the heat. Something he didn’t miss, not when the contact stopped his breath in small.

— 

By the time you two reached his apartment, the rain had dimmed in its volume, mere dust specks falling at an asynchronous pace. 

Yuuta parked beneath the narrow space for parking outside his building. The engine died, and the sudden quietness settled.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your arms were still around him.

“We’re here,” he said softly, not daring to be the first to move. 

You blinked, as if coming alive from a dream now, and slowly unwound yourself from him. The absence of your touch left a phantom warmth in its place. Yuuta swallowed against it and swung his leg off the bike, steadying it before offering you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, as you followed him upstairs. 

You climbed the stairs together, your dress grabbed carelessly in one hand. It left faint damp prints all over the cemented steps. He lived on the first floor, so it wasn’t much of a trek, but after the day you’ve had every movement had slowly started to feel like a chore. 

He fumbled slightly with his keys at the door and turned before opening it. “I didn’t know I’d be hosting,” he muttered, embarrassed.

You smiled as you looked down at the state of you. The brown ends of your garb, the wet hair — “I think I’d be the last person to care about that right now, Yuuta.”

The apartment was tiny, as he’d warned you on the ride back home. A neat entryway. A quaint little kitchen to the left. A drab green sofa facing a television. A bookshelf that was, surprisingly, full —  of manuals, novels, rehabilitation texts stacked in a certain order you couldn’t make sense of. 

But it was clean.

And it was warm inside. 

“I’ll uh… make tea. You can take a shower.”

And so, you did. 

The bathroom was filled with steam that cleansed you whole, almost a baptism. Water ran over your scalp and down your spine, rinsing away the day’s dirt and the rain.

When you got out of the shower, wrapped in a dim blue towel, you walked out to the sight of clothes neatly arranged on his bed. 

You dressed slowly — donning pants that fit you just about, and a large hoodie that swallowed you whole. The fabric sat heavy and warm against your skin. It smelled faintly of detergent and something sweet that brought you comfort.

When you stepped back into the living room, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, with two mugs in his hands.

He looked up.

And then his gaze stopped. The hoodie hanging loose at your thighs. The bare legs, and then his eyes shifted away. 

You shifted your feet to cross the room slowly. 

“Thank you,” you said, taking the mug from his hand, your fingers brushing his.

“Careful,” he murmured, watching as you brought the mug to your lips. “...It’s hot.”

You settled onto the green sofa, tucking one leg beneath you, blowing softly over the surface of the tea. He remained where he was, leaning against the counter.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” you asked, one eyebrow arched. 

He felt his throat tighten as he walked up to place himself beside you on the sofa, leaving a careful inch of space between the two of you — a morally measured inch.

He puts the television on, his only saviour against the awkwardness of the silence befalling. There is a channel that’s playing a reality show of some sort — the ones that have giant balls of cushions that contestants seem to be bouncing off of. It’s strange, but it’ll do, he thinks, turning to look at you, to find you oddly invested. 

He smiles. 

You finish your cup eventually, placing it down on the table with a clink as you no longer seem invested in the TV but more so, his face. 

You keep turning to stare at him, and he notices this in his periphery but can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. 

And when he finally does, moments later. “I should get the bed ready for you,” he said, already half-rising.

“Don’t go,” you said, immediately as your hand closed around his.

He stops. 

“What?” he had managed to breathe out. 

Your thumb rubbed against the top of his hand. “Just stay for a bit.”

He sits, noticing how you don’t let go of his hand. You seem enamoured by his hand and its anatomy, running your hands across and over it as though you were a sculptor trying to understand the shape of him. 

He doesn’t say anything, as he sits there feeling every touch of yours — it scorches against his own skin. Marking him whole. 

“We need to sleep,” he said as he felt your movements slowing, though his voice lacked conviction. “Eventually.”

“Must we?” You tilted your head, mischief skimming over your features. “Can we not stay up all night like we used to?”

“I have work,” he says. But what he really wanted to say was he’d stay up all week for you if you had simply asked. 

“Right,” you said, dejected if only for a moment. “I’ll let you go then.”

But neither of you moved.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a thought, one that’s been brimming to the surface ever since you walked into the cafe to find him. 

“You left your wedding,” he said, plainly. 

“Yes.” You met his eyes without flinching.

“And you came to me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

And then the room seems to contract around him.

“Yuuta,” you say. His name is careful in your mouth. Delicate. 

He waits. His pulse is unpleasantly loud in his ears.

“Don’t you know why?” you said, your eyes low now. 

Something in him breaks just then.

He breathed in before he leaned toward you. It wasn’t sudden, not when he had imagined this for years despite his wits asking him not to. He stopped mere inches from you, as he waited. For you to initiate this, for you to come to him. 

And you did — meeting his lips halfway, pulling him into a kiss. The contact was warm, your lips moved against him languidly, like you both had all the time in the world.

His hand rose at last, tentatively finding its way to what he could grab first — your waist. You drew him closer in reply, your fingers sliding upward, curling up the fabric of his t-shirt sitting on his shoulder. 

The absurd laughter from the television carried on as you continued to kiss, tongues lapping against one another for the very first time. 

He’s sure this is a memory that will etch itself in his brain for eternity to come. 

Yuuta pulled away after a moment, his lips still close enough to brush yours. 

“Are you su—” 

You kiss him again, firmer this time, though still tender. It is an answer, or perhaps a refusal of the question.

“S’okay,” you murmur when you part. Your forehead rests against his.

“You left me,” he says. 

“I did.”

“For years.”

“I did.”

“Don’t ever—” He stops. His heart aches just then as he tries again. “Again—”

“I won’t,” you say. You don’t hesitate. “I won’t ever leave you again, Yuuta.”

You think, distantly, that this feels more binding than anything you might have said at your wedding today, standing in front of your family, standing in front of that stranger for a fiancé. 

“Don’t just say that,” he warned, though his voice had softened, as though he remembered the hurt all over again. 

“I do not,” you answered. “I missed you too much to leave you again.”

He drew you closer this time, to let your head settle beneath his chin, as his cheek rested against your hair.

“I kept thinking about you,” he says eventually. His voice vibrates faintly against your temple. “Even when I tried not to.”

“Yeah?” You say. Curious, wanting to know the deep imprints you had left on him.

“Yeah,” he said. “All through college.”

“Today,” you say carefully. You hear hum in response. 

“When I was getting ready, I was left alone for a moment. The moment before I’d have to go out and walk to the altar,” you continue. “I thought that the dress I was wearing felt too tight, and I never wanted a veil, but my mother wore one, so I had to as well. And I thought about the last time I felt happy — I mean, truly happy — was when I was a teenager.”

Yuuta doesn’t say anything, but you notice his arm enclosing you further into him. He’s warm against your skin. 

“And now I don’t know what I’m doing. I ran,” you said. “And now I’m here with you.”

He exhales slowly, his hand moving along your arm. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he says. “You don’t have to decide the rest of your life tonight.”

You tilt your head up at him. “But I already did one big thing. Life-changing big thing.”

“You just ran from a wedding,” he says gently. 

A small huff of laughter leaves your mouth. “You always did that.”

“Did what?”

“Make things less catastrophic,” you added. “That’s part of why I ran to you today. Well, that and you know.”

“Yeah,” he says plainly. He knows. 

You shift, drawing your knees up slightly, turning toward him more fully. “Are you sure about this?”

“What about?” He asks, surprised. 

“I’m a burden,” you say. 

“You’re never a burden,” he replies immediately. 

“No,” you say, your finger coming up to hush him. “Listen to me, I have no skills outside of sustaining an audience of wealthy people. I have a degree that I didn’t enjoy. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a burden”

“Like I said,” he says then. His hand comes up to brush your hair back. “You don’t have to think about that tonight. And it’s okay, I’ll take care of you until you figure things out.”

“You think I can just… reappear and take up space in your life again?” You ask.

His jaw flexes. “You already have.”

You reach up, smoothing a wrinkle near his collarbone — a meaningless gesture, an excuse to touch him again. “You’re not angry?”

“I’m just happy you’re here with me,” he admits. He thought it was only ever possible in his dreams. Now that you’re here, it was hard to hold any resentment he had built up. 

And you then at some point you’re helping him place the cups back as you sit and watch him make up his bed for you.

You walked up to him now. 

“Thank you,” you say, though you knew the words feel insufficient.

“Of course,” he replies quickly. “Do you need extra pillo—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as you suddenly inched forward to kiss him. Your hand loops around his neck as his hands find your waist. And he keeps kissing you fervently and your mind wanders, onto images of him in college kissing other girls. It’s a silly thing — to be bothered by a version of him that you left and hurt, finding solace in other women. 

You fall onto the bed at some point with him over you, he pulls back. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, smiling up at him. “You were asking me something?”

He laughs, but it catches in his throat. He looks away, as if the ceiling suddenly had a large stain.

“Yuuta,” you rasped. “Look at me, please.”

You moved his face to make him meet your imploring gaze. You found his expression to be open, almost boyish in its vulnerability.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, ducking his head into your neck, away from your eye contact again, “You make me nervous…”

You run your hand through his hair, grazing up and down his nape. He likes the sensation. He thinks he could rest here forever. 

It was safe to say that you were aware of your effect on him, whether it was physical, as you feel him against you now, or mental, but hearing it out loud is different. 

“I make you nervous?” You ask, trying to maintain a sense of coy in your tone, but it simmers down and is overpowered by a genuine wonder.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at you now. “You always have.”

At that, you scrunch your brows. It’s a brief reflex of disbelief. “Not always. We were friends, weren’t we?”

“We were,” he says. We are. “But you made me nervous. You just didn’t see it back then. You always made me nervous.”

“Why?”

“You were so pretty,” he says, strangely unabashed. “You are,” he says, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger there, grazing your temple, your cheek. “You are pretty.”

“So pretty,” he murmured, bending down to kiss your neck now, no doubt tomorrow you’d be blessed with flurries of red kisses all over your neck. 

You clothes didn’t last long on you after that and you soon found yourself bare atop his bedsheets as he licked and sucked his way along the vast skin he had left exposed. 

He’d moved so languidly, but you were wound tight like the string of a bow. 

“Yuuta,” you said then, as you was leaving kissing your stomach. “You’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” he says briefly, too invested in kissing down your abdomen. 

“No,” you say, pulling his head up. “You’re really good at this. Had a lot of experience in college did you?”

He looked up then, just with his eyes to gauge if this was a real concern or if this was you being you. Teasing. 

“Always knew you’d be a possessive one,” he said plainly. 

“The most,” you said with a pout. 

He came back up then, kissing your cheek. “Good,” he replied softly. “Means you plan on keeping me this time.”

“Hey,” he said softly. “Was that a real question?”

You hesitated. That was answer enough.

“I dated,” he says simply, his arm moving to hold your hip. “A little.” Honest as always. 

Your stomach dips.

“But it was never…” He pauses. “It was never you.” Honest as always, you think again.

You frown faintly. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not just saying this.” His thumb moves absently against your side. “I liked some of them. They were kind. But I always knew it was you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed plainly. 

“And you?” he says then, coming back down to kiss your stomach. “You were about to marry someone.”

That one lands, as you find him inches away from your clit. 

You swallow. “He was,” you admit as he was about to press a kiss against your trembling thigh, “Boring.”

And then your knees part, your cunt is fully on display. And you don’t think you’ve ever felt this bare before. You watch in your own awe as Yuuta licks his lips and finally presses his mouth to your clit.

You have an instant reaction, the way you buck into his mouth and release a moan. His thumb seems to massage your outer lips, with his tongue trailing up and down your folds. 

His lips suction against the bundle of nerves, with his tongue caressing the nub right after. Rolling up and down as he groans into you. You can’t hold back the string of moans and whimpers from your throat, your eyes roll back into your skull, as your legs vibrate, your hands yank on Yuuta's hair, before you find your brain turn to mush. 

He comes back up, his mouth slick as he says, “Think he could do that?” with a smirk. 

brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“You were gone for years,” he says, “Think this is the least I’m allowed.

“Oh, is this payback?” you ask.

“Not payback,” he says, his hand coming down to finger your slick pussy. “If you’re enjoying this, can it be considered payback?”

“Yuuta, please,” you whimpered finally, your hand reaching out for whatever skin they could find purchase in.

“Please what?” he asked gently, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hand moved against his shoulder blades.

“Need you,” you whined, turning to kiss him. You pulled back, “Now.”

“Need me?” he repeated your words against your mouth.

You nodded.

Yuuta reached down to guide one of your legs up and bent back towards your hip, looping it to rest around his waist. He took his cock in hand, moving up and down against your clit a couple of times before he pushed in. 

It was a welcoming burn as he moved a couple of times before you adjusted to the sensation of him in you. Your hands slid up to brush against the short strands of Yuuta’s undercut. 

“Is this okay?” He asked, then placed a soft kiss against the corner of your lips. 

“More,” you whimpered, pulling him into the crook of your neck.

Yuuta snapped his hips up hard into you, sheathing himself entirely inside of you. A moan tore out of you again. 

“Shit,” Yuuta breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he kept moving. “You’re so pretty.”

You trembled beneath him, your eyes drawing down to the sight of him pulling in and out, in and out, you were mesmerised at the sight of him, sweat sheening as he looked so vulnerable for you.

He set a rhythmic, steady pace, it was almost languid. His movements weren’t quick, but rather, they were deep, pressing you down into the mattress so hard with every move of his hips.

His thumb came down to brush against your clit, gently at first and then a little firmer when he saw the way it made your expression go glassy and unfocused. 

“I’m gonna come,” you declared. “Kiss me.”

And so he did, bending down as he kept his movements steady, kissing you deeply. 

“‘m close too,” he groaned against your lips now, coming up to brush another unfocused kiss against your forehead, as his panting breaths caught on. 

And then you came, your legs trembling as he kept moving. Soon after, he did too, craning down to crash his mouth to yours, his hips stuttering.

Yuuta collapsed beside you, catching his breath as you moved to fall onto his bare chest. Like clockwork, his arms gathered you against him, slowly then drawing circles against your back.

The adrenaline that carried you through the evening has finally begun to ebb, leaving a heavy drowsiness in its wake. Your head droops heavy against his chest.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs.

You shake your head weakly in protest. Your fingers have slowed against him. Your breathing has deepened.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you admit softly. “I want to stay up and talk to you all night.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” he replied, voice soft, circles on your back never faltering.

You swallowed.

“I feel like if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up back there.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His hand flattened briefly against your spine, firm. Present. “You’ll wake up tomorrow to a tray full of breakfast and some flowers.”

That made you lift your head. Just enough to look at him.

“You’re getting me flowers?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Now that we’re…” he trailed off, still too timid to admit it.

You tilted your head. “Dating?”

“…Yeah.” The word came out softer than before. “I’ll buy you flowers every day.”

A tired laugh slipped out of you, warm against his skin.

“That’s a bit much,” you murmured, shifting so you could see the small, earnest curve of his mouth.

“Oh?” he said, one brow lifting. “Thought that was the kind of treatment princess was used to.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a slow kiss to his lips.

“Princess will settle for kisses every day for now,” you said against him. “If that’s okay.”

He hummed softly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek as you settled back down. His arms tightened, just slightly, as you listened to his heartbeat.

And when your eyes finally closed, he was still drawing circles on your back.