Chapter Text
This feeling.
One you never thought would become your reality, wraps tightly around you. Suffocating your psyche, filling your brain with a mental fog of desire and longing. The realization hits hard, echoing through your body with a rush of stunned pleasure.
Firing off all at once, the nerves beneath your skin threaten to overwhelm you, your body seizing to heat and tension. But your cunt takes the brunt of it, stretching to meet him, pulsing around every inch. Just the aching press of him filling you out, reshaping your insides. Your walls adjust to his size, tight and trembling.
Ijichi’s size.
Pleasure and disbelief crash through you in waves, each one cresting higher than the last. This doesn’t feel real. This moment, this closeness, the fact that he’s truly inside you. Your body still reeling, still adjusting, but your mind already chasing the next rush.
You study Ijichi’s face. Watching without blinking, collecting each detail as it appears. Your eyes don’t leave him. Not because of lust, not entirely—but because you need to see it. Some subtle twitch of his brow, the parting of his lips, anything to tell you that he feels it too. That he’s just as overwhelmed, just as unraveled as you are. That this moment is swallowing him whole the same way it’s swallowing you.
Ijichi lays lax beneath you, his body caught in the soft weight of sedation. Pinned between your hips and the mattress, he doesn’t move. Every breath thick, every thought suspended in the heat. His mind drifts, dissolving into a haze. The way you pulse around him. The way he pulses in you. It barely feels real. The moment not registering as something happening to him, but only something he’s inside of, his body moving with a certainty his mind can’t yet understand.
That parchment meant nothing now.
Not compared to this.
The soft buzz of the phone still echoed throughout the room. It barely stirred anything in you. But Ijichi’s body remained tense, eyes low, drifting toward the sound, his frame stiffening, hyper aware of the buzz cutting through the room. A reflex. The call to duty, a tangible reminder that it still had its grip on him. Faint but still there, his movement suggests he's one breath away from reaching for it.
But he doesn’t.
Because he’s still inside you.
The slick, soft flesh of your pussy keeps him there, anchoring him in place. Warm, wet, impossibly snug, your walls fluttering each time he so much as twitches. He fits like something carved for you. Thick and full, pressing against the most tender places inside. Each pulse of him deepens the ache, and you feel it gathering in your belly, low and hot and spreading.
Your body craves more.
Closer now, you tilt your hips just enough to sink him deeper. The stretch drawing a soft sound from your throat, and a sharp inhale from his. You roll your hips, dragging yourself against him just enough to make him feel it, how tight you are. For him to feel the full weight of you. His mouth falls open. He tries again to speak—to reach, maybe to plead. To ask for the phone. To pull himself away from you.
But you don’t let him.
Raising your hands, you guide your fingers up along his cheeks—his skin warm, his jaw tight beneath your touch. You trace the bone slowly, steadily, until your thumbs meet just beneath his eyes. Then, carefully, you shift your grip, easing your palms over his ears. His breath hitches. The pressure not harsh, but just firm enough to muffle the sound. Enough to make the world fall away.
Nothing outside this moment exists anymore.
A new expression graces his face. One you rarely see, but one that suits him well. Complete calm. His eyes wide, dilated, locked onto you. Through your palms, your heartbeat presses into him. He hears it. Feels it. A soft, muffled thud pulsing in both ears, echoing through his skull like it belongs to him now. It’s the only sound he can focus on. The only sound that matters. And just like that, whatever flicker of impulse he had to pull away. Gone. All he can feel is you. Only you. Exactly how you wanted it.
Eyes locked on his through the lenses you borrowed, still perched on your face, you move slowly. Your body finds its footing, dragging him deeper, tighter, into the heat of you. The stretch makes your breath stutter. He fills you too well. Thick. Warm. Pressing into every tender ridge. Aligning with you completely, every inch accounted for. The way he fits, too much. And somehow, still not enough.
You lift.
Just enough to make him feel the loss of you before you take him back in again. It’s everywhere. Your arousal, seeping slowly out of you, gliding down your skin and onto Ijichi. You're soaked. But shame doesn't fill your mind. Only hunger. You want it, to feel him more, to be filled with more of him, to feel it all. The slick. The grip. The pulse. The fact that you're this wet, not from the prevalent fact that your boss's cock was buried deep inside you. Not from the fact that you were riding him. Not from the fact that you were able to pull him away from work. And that he had his attention on you, fully you. But that it was Ijichi. Your nervous wreck of a lover, your clumsy yet bashful superior.
A part you wasn't entirely sure of the integrity of this moment. Hadn't this happened too fast? Were you and Ijichi already on this level, after having only just exchanged a clumsy confession of love. And on this very day? And yet, here he was laid beneath you, trying to keep it together. Suddenly you couldn't be bothered to concern yourself with such irrelevant thoughts. Not with him at the mercy of your hips, your body locked around his and moving with such obscene control, tearing him apart.
The phone finally comes to a halt, ending its persistent attempt at interruption. Not that it matters. Not when your superior is balls deep in your cunt, drawing soft, broken moans from deep inside you.
Pulling your hands down from over his ears; no longer needing them as a shield against whatever outsider was trying to take him from you; you reach for his fingers, lazily balled into the bedding around him. A desperate attempt at grounding himself. You peel them from the mattress, curling them into your own. Guiding them between your bodies, you shift forward, sinking down harder, deeper. His breath catches as your chest meets his, your breasts pressed flush against the flat of his torso; the stiff peaks of your nipples sweeping across his skin—hot and aching from the friction.
Leaning even further into his space, you close the gap almost entirely. Your lips hover just over his—half-open, his shallow breaths grazing your skin. You study them closely. His lips. Each crevice and valley. Then you sink your teeth into the bottom one, giving it a gentle tug before slipping your tongue between them. The tip searches for his own. Ijichi’s tongue fumbles, trying to keep up with your rhythm. Out of sync. But it only makes it all the more enjoyable for you, as you roll yourself deeper on him. He whines into your mouth. And you swallow it. His nose grazes your own, and you relish in the deep exhales he lets out against your skin.
Ijichi tries to keep up with you.
Not just with your tongue, or the pressure of your hips grinding against him. But with your hunger. The way the entirety of you ferociously devours him whole. His body has never experienced this kind of love; nor lust. Even with his fingers tightly wrapped around yours, your breasts pressed flush against his chest, so undeniably close… he can’t seem to find anything to ground himself. He wants to keep up, but you’re making it so hard for him. And when your face comes into view so present, so loving, it terrifies him. Because if you were capable of being this passionate toward him… how could he ever return it? This level of need. Of want. He hadn’t felt he’d satisfy you enough in that department.
But this was already enough. To have him here, beneath you, letting out those airy sighs and whiny breaths. That was more than enough to satisfy any need you’ve ever had. To have him know that your satisfaction came from his own pleasure. From pleasing him.
“Does it feel good?” you ask, breath shallow and heavy. “A-Am I… am I making you feel good?”
A shaky exhale escapes his throat, chest rising beneath you. His head shifts faintly against the mattress, just enough for the back of his skull to brush the sheets with a soft, rustling drag. Sweat dampens his hair, clinging in stray strands. Then, a slight nod. Barely there. But it’s a yes. A silent, breathless yes.
Not good enough.
“Come on—” You reach back down, lowering your mouth into another kiss. Deeper. Sloppier. Your tongue moves more desperately around his, aching to hear him voice his pleasure, to hear him say it out loud.
You stop moving, but don’t pull away. Your lips unlatch from his by a fraction, breath passing between you. Your tongue stays inside—still touching his. You speak directly into his mouth, words sliding in like breath. Your hips pick up in speed, your desire growing stronger through each steady roll of your hips.
“I-I want you to say it,” you whisper, breath hitching. “S-Say it for me… please?”
The phone goes off again.
Persistent, still vibrating somewhere just out of reach. Whatever this call was about, it must be urgent. Its relentless buzz cuts through the room, sharper with every second. Whoever’s on the other end impatience must be growing—ringing again, and again, while your hips keep grinding against the man they need.
Too bad he’s preoccupied.
His trainee’s aching pussy is stuffed full of her superior’s cock, and neither of you so much as flinch. The sound becomes background noise, folded into the heat between your bodies, muffled by skin, swallowed by breath. Especially not now. Not when you’re so close to hearing your beloved voice just how good you feel to him. How good you’re fucking him. What it’s doing to him. You’re begging for it inside. Tell me . Come on and tell me, Ijichi.
A hoarse sound breaks loose from his throat, guttural, involuntary, dragged through every slam of your hips against his. Each impact driving the breath from his lungs, pulled from a place he’s never dared to touch.
“It—” he chokes, voice cracking. “You… you feel… good…”
There it was. Those words laced in overstimulation and submission how good you made him feel. The stutter in between breaths. The way his mouth opened and closed against yours. It’s all too much. His words giving you a sense of motivation and you lift yourself from his chest, the soft slick and sticky sound of damp skin with sweat, pulling away from each other. Filling the space between you, as your hips begin to pick up in speed, grinding deeper against the sensation. The head of his cock reaching into the farthest part of your aching pussy.
You were so close.
The phone finally stops it buzzing. But you were sure it wasn't the last.
“ ~Ijichi,” you gasp out as you throw your head back from the slight shift in position. Too good. It—he felt too good. Your teeth sinks into your bottom lip, trying to minimize your sounds. They sound so shameful, yet the way you're losing yourself on top of him. It felt like you’d lost yourself completely. And all parts of you wanted to conceal these sounds of covet. But your body wouldn't allow you. Not caring what those parts of your mind had to say. It was there that feeling of release nearing close to the edges.
As if instinctively your fingers pull away from his grasp, it wasn't enough, you snake them around his throat. Pressing down just enough, the sounds that came out, came out with strain. The sound of the struggle brings the corners of your mouth to lift into a faint smile.
Ijichi, frantic at the loss of the anchor your hands had provided, fumbles in the surprise of the gesture, his fingers searching blindly before gripping your wrists with a tightness that makes your body wince. The way your hands now press around his throat stirs something he doesn’t recognize. Coiling low in his stomach, sharp and heavy. He doesn’t know what to make of it, only that his body reacts before his mind can catch up. His grip tightens. And your head lifts. His face falling back into your line of sight. Tears teetering at the edges of his eyes before slipping down the sides of his face, their trail catching the light spilling through your window from the moon. His ragged breaths echo into your palms, every twitch and shift of his throat alive beneath your fingers. So many senses at once, and each one sparking a single, valiant thought.
The idea wasn’t fair in the slightest. This request you were about to offer, no less revolting than the act of wrapping your fingers around his throat. And yet, it's too enticing of a thought. You wanted him to consume you. Just as you had consumed him. Around him, inside him, again and again. And it had taken over your mind like a heavy mist settling after the rain.
It wasn’t fair, that you knew he’d say yes without question. How could he? Not when you were grinding your cunt deeper onto him, each roll of your hips leaving no room for him to spill out of you. Yet you’d still ask. Never feeling the same when you did things on your own. Not hearing him voice his approval of your antics. Not nearly as satisfying when he didn’t back your shameless urges—when he didn’t give in to them with you.
So you request.
“I want to watch it fall into your mouth. My spit.”
Ijichi looks up at you—love-drunk eyes, lust-laced moans. He takes in your words, but he doesn’t know how to answer. To answer you when his body lost all memory of basic function. So does what he does best. Giving you a response through moving his hands. Releasing his grip from your wrists, then placing them back onto your hips. Opening his mouth.
Something you hadn’t anticipated.
You open your mouth. Leaning forward and tilting your head just enough to aim your mark. A single string of spit that formed behind your lips, trickles down slowly. The line stretching thin as it falls, unbroken, swaying slightly before landing on his tongue with a wet little – tap .
His mouth twitches.
The sudden warmth of your DNA, hitting harder than expected. The slick consistency, gently gliding down his tongue. But he doesn't move. Nor does he close his mouth. He takes it. Takes it with reverence. To him, the act, a quiet proof of his devotion. Unwavering, and wholly surrendering to everything you were willing to give.
Your mouth follows the trail, dipping into it before it can reach his throat. You seal your lips around his once more, the light pressure drawing out the liquid as it slips to the edges of your mouths, spilling down his chin. Tongues collide, teeth clash—his cock sliding in and out of you beneath it all. You pull back for air. Thick with dioxide and sweat. It clings to your mouths, your skin, settling heavy in the space where your bodies meet. The haze in your head deepens.
“~Fuck Ijichi” you breathe out against his lips. “You’re gonna make me—come like—that.”
“I want you to. Please.”
You smile. You’ve wrecked him so completely that he’s begging for your cum now? The thought alone sends a electric thrill throughout you. This man, once so reserved, so stiff, now trembling beneath you, desperate for something he would usually be ashamed of. The very idea is almost laughable, if it weren’t so intoxicating. The you from before, curled under these very sheets, crying into the pillow, convinced you were too much, too needy, too strange. She wouldn’t believe this moment even if you showed her a picture. She wouldn’t believe he could ever want all of you. Like this, in this filthy manner. And yet, here he is. Pleading for it.
“You want it? Hm? For me to come all over you?”
“—Please.”
There it was, the only word he seemed capable of forming, and the only one left in his vocabulary. But even that, with this simple, desperate plea was more than you could’ve asked for.
“Then—say it. Say… you love me. Say it, and—maybe I’ll consider it. Huh?”
You pick up your pace. Each movement of your hips becomes more forceful, pressing down with sharper, more deliberate impact. His pelvis meets yours with each thrust, the contact producing a wet, repetitive smack as your bodies collide. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes in the room, layered beneath the quieter, stickier noises of fluids being displaced—each squelch, each slick slide audible in the space between you. The buildup of heat and moisture at the point of connection thickens, coating both of you. Every downward push draws a tighter response from his body, tension collecting under your touch.
“I—I love you. You... only you.”
This man was ruining you with words you never imagined would come from his mouth. The way his words had switched between want and need. The weight of his words slam into you, not stopping you, but pushing you harder, dragging your climax out of you like a demand your body can’t refuse. You come hard—crying out against his neck as your body locks down around him, clutching him tight, grinding through the wave until it borders on unbearable. And just as the heat blooms white behind your eyes—
BZZZ-BZZZ.
The phone starts buzzing again.
But you don’t even look at it.
Because Ijichi hasn’t come yet, and weren't stopping till he did.
You keep moving, your hips stuttering through the tail end of your climax, your cunt still fluttering around him as he twitches beneath you. His moans break into whimpers. His hands grip your hips so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow; but you don’t care. You bring your hands down, fingers sliding over his until you’re locking them together again, grounding him.
“ Tell me ,” you whisper against his cheek, voice still shaking. “ You have to tell me when you’re gonna come, okay ?”
Because you’re not on anything. No birth control. No condom. Not a single thought between your legs when you sank yourself down on him earlier—just need. Just heat. Just him. And as much as you want it, all of it, every drop of his hot virgin seed buried deep inside, you’re not that far gone. Not yet.
“~Come–I’m gonna–”
His voice cracks as his body arches beneath you, hips jerking once, then again. You act fast, lifting yourself with sharp precision, and his cock slips free, wet and swollen, slick with everything you’ve given him. It slaps against your ass with a wet, desperate sound. And then you feel it. Hot. Sticky. Scattered across your skin in thick, pulsing ropes that paint you in white. He cries out, head thrown back, face red and contorted in pleasure. It’s so much, more than he thought he had to give. And then, he goes limp. Chest heaving. Hands still clutching yours. Eyes glassy. You’re both wrecked. But you’ve never felt more alive.
“ I love you ,” you coo against his skin, lips brushing his neck in soft, lazy kisses.
He doesn’t answer—not with words. But then, you feel it. A tear, warm and sudden, landing softly against your cheek. Another follows. You pause, still pressed to his throat, and slowly lift your head.
That’s when you see them. Silent tears trailing down his face, catching the faint light as they fall. His eyes, glassy and wide, remain fixed on the ceiling, until they slowly shift to you. Breath quick and uneven, he meets your gaze with an expression so tender, so unguarded, it stills you completely. You rise slowly, still straddling him, your breath catching as your thighs ache with the weight of the aftermath. His face, so open now, so vulnerable, so exhausted. Almost unfamiliar in its softness.
“Ijichi?” you speak. Words laced with worry and confusion. He looks so… out of it.
Trying to give his face a sense of familiarity once more. You reach up, fingers gently curling around the frames resting on your own face; the glasses you borrowed in the midst of all this. Carefully, you lift them from your eyes. A pause, brief but full of weight, passes between you both. Then, inch by inch, you lower them back onto his face. They don’t quite sit right at first. Nudging the arms into place, pushing them lightly over the bridge of his nose, you adjust the angle. Your fingertips grazing his temples. He blinks slowly, like the world’s just returned to him.
It takes a moment.
Then his gaze shifts—steadier now, clearer. The change in him, subtle but unmistakable. Like some part of him has reemerged from under the tide.
“…The phone,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I have to get it.”
It doesn’t sound like a command. It barely sounds like a request. Just a soft confession, an acknowledgment of duty he can no longer ignore. And you can hear it in his voice: the guilt, the reluctance, the quiet plea for permission. And it kills you a little, knowing that he’s still bracing for the consequence of choosing you .
But it was far too early for him to be leaving you—again. Not when your bodies were still tangled together, steeped in the warmth of each other’s presence. Not when the air still clung thick with sweat and sex, with the scent of you both heavy in the room. The fluids, the mess, the quiet weight of everything that had passed between you—you were still sitting in it. Still feeling it. Still needing him close.
“ Please.”
The buzzing stops.
The room, once filled with breath and heat and rhythm, falls into silence. Not peace, just the kind of silence that presses on your eardrums, like the world itself was holding its breath. And then, from the living room, another buzz. This one sharper. Louder. The sound cutting through the quiet like a knife, echoing off the walls with mechanical insistence. It reverberates—off the hallway, into the corners of your shared warmth, demanding attention like a siren. Your phone.
Your head falls back, a weary sigh following it. You don’t have to look at him to know you’re both thinking the same thing.
It’s over. You’ve run out of time.
And with a breath of reluctance, you ease yourself off his lap—slow, careful and gentle, like you’re peeling yourself away from something sacred. The cold air kissing your skin as you rise. Your eyes flick to the floor where his shirt lied crumpled, discarded in haste, still holding the shape of him. At some point, the shirt had come off—you don't remember when.
Without thinking, your hand reaches for it. You tug it over your shoulders, the soft fabric clinging to your damp skin. It’s oversized, hanging from your frame like a shield, like a memory. The warmth you leave behind lingers on your skin as you hurry down the hall, bare feet hitting the floor in urgent rhythm. The phone still buzzes, vibrating against the countertop like it’s been demanding your attention for hours. You don’t think. You just move. You reach for it too fast, fingers grazing the edge. It slides further out of reach.
“Shit—” you mutter, slapping your palm against the counter to stop its escape.
No time to look at the screen. You snatch it before the second ring can finish and bring it to your ear with your best approximation of composure.
“Hello,” you answer, breath still uneven.
A beat. Then a voice—firm, direct.
“Is he with you?”
Confusion hits, your breath stuttering. No greeting. Just a question. You blink, still coming down, too slow to answer.
“—uh—I?”
“I didn’t realize we were hosting sleepovers now.”
The voice cuts in—sharp, sarcastic, a little too casual. And then it clicks. The familiarity, the teasing cadence.
Gojo.
Your superior… but more than just yours. Ijichi’s. His superior is calling your phone.
“You know,” he continues, voice lilting in that familiar, casual cruelty, “when I told you not to distract him from work, I didn’t think you’d take it as a personal challenge.”
Your breath hitches.
You don’t respond. Can’t. That voice—so calm, so insufferably knowing, it pours into your ear and settles under your skin like an electric current. There’s no anger in it. No accusation. Just that unmistakable glint of amusement that tells you everything.
He knows.
Knows just enough to call. Knows enough to be right. Not just about you. About Ijichi. About tonight. About all of it.
Your mouth parts, instinct tugging at your vocal cords, but nothing comes. No defense. No denial. Just silence, thick and choking, while the weight of his awareness coils tighter around your ribs.
You glance over your shoulder. More instinct than thought, and your breath catches mid-motion. He’s there. Ijichi. Standing at the edge of the hallway, half-dressed, eyes tired but steady. Shirtless. His hair still slightly damp, pushed back. His slacks, creased from where your legs had been wrapped around him. In one hand, his tie, limp and wrinkled. The other, his jacket in the crook of his arm, his phone in the other hand. You don’t know how long he’s been there. But the look on his face tells you it’s been long enough.
Gojo’s voice continues, calm and cutting, vibrating through the phone pressed to your ear.
“You should send him back… before someone else starts asking where he is.”
And then, the line goes dead. But the silence that follows is louder.
You lower the phone slowly, your fingers numb around its weight. Ijichi doesn’t move. His gaze remains steady, heavy with something unreadable, something quietly breaking.
“Thirteen missed calls,” he says, voice low and parched. “All from Shoko.”
That’s all he gives you. But it’s more than enough. You piece it together instantly. Shoko must’ve tried again and again. And when he didn’t pick up, she told Gojo. And Gojo, of course, didn’t wait.
He called you.
“I know it was him,” Ijichi continues, gaze flickering downward, then slowly returning to meet yours. The breath he lets out next shaky, measured. Not from exhaustion, but from the weight of acceptance. Of knowing this moment would come.
“I think…” he begins, but the words catch. His throat works around the next part like it’s too solid to pass. “I think it’s best if I head out.”
There’s no edge in his tone. No bitterness. Just quiet resolve, the kind that makes your stomach turn. Like he’s not only decided, but already stepped away in his mind.
“They’ve probably already pulled someone in to cover whatever came up,” his posture seems to say, shoulders shifting beneath the words he doesn’t voice. But the rest lingers unspoken.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t have to answer for it.
He starts toward you, slow with unhurried steps across the floor. From the hallway to the counter, the space between you narrows inch by inch, each footfall laced with hesitation he doesn’t say out loud. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. Just walks, like it’s the only way left to be near you, even if he’s already halfway gone.
You feel it before you even process it, a sharp burn at the base of your throat, a twisting pang deep in your chest, as if your body knows what’s coming before your mind can catch up. His hand lifts, reaching for the shirt still clinging to your skin—his shirt, the one you grabbed without thinking, the one that still smells like him. Clinging to your body, heavy with heat and sweat and the fading echoes of everything you just shared. He touches the hem at your side, just above your hip, fingers grazing the edge. You try to hold still. You almost manage it. But as he starts to lift it, you flinch, and you hate that you do. His hand pauses, just barely. His eyes flick up, meeting yours for half a second. He doesn’t speak.
“No.” It leaves your lips hoarse and raw, more instinct than speech. A childlike denial. A plea.
He freezes, not in fear but in sorrow, the weight of it all pooling in his gaze. Then he moves again, slower this time, more careful. He reaches not for the fabric, but for your hand. His fingers graze your skin, like glass, delicate, breakable. He lifts your hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to the center of your palm. It’s reverent. Like it’s the only part of you he believes he’s allowed to touch within this moment.
“Please.”
He whispers it against your palm, soft, fragile. And that’s all it takes. The dam bursts. Tears blur your vision, spilling fast and unbidden, streaking hot down your cheeks before you can blink them away. You wrench your hand from his grasp, the warmth of his mouth still clinging to your skin. Your breath stutters, panic clawing up your throat so fast you can’t stop it. You don’t even know what you’re scared of, only that you can’t bear to be touched like that. Not right now.
“You’re really doing this…”
It slips out in a whisper, the words trembling more than your hands. You don’t shout. You don’t beg. You just say it, because that’s all you can do. Your head shakes slowly, lips parting like you might say more, but nothing else comes. Just the thick, choked sound of your breath as it snags in your chest.
“...You said someone else would cover,” you murmur. “So why does it have to be you?
You whisper, the words less of an accusation and more of a wish. A fragile hope spoken into the quiet, as if saying it could make it true. You know it wasn't that simple. Yet you still hold on to it. The false sense of security it gives you.
Knowing what duty meant to him and how tightly it wrapped around his—rarely it lets go. But still, you reach for this one slim thread, praying he’ll grasp it with you. Not because you want to drag him away from who he is, but because you want him to fight against it —just this once. Not for the sake of rebellion, but for you. For the both of you.
He—he just stands there, drenched in silence, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of duty. His expression unreadable, like every emotion he’s ever known is pressed beneath years of restraint. Years of being useful. Years of disappearing before anyone could ask him to stay.
“They can manage without you—but...I need you. Here.”
You step forward before even he can take another step, arms locking around him with necessity. Holding him like he’s the last real thing tethering you to this moment. Your face buries against his chest, breath stuttering as the familiar scent of him overwhelms your senses. His skin warm, still slightly damp, and your palms press flat against his back, desperate to keep him close. Fingernails curling unconsciously into his skin, grasping, holding, needing. He doesn’t move. And for a second, you swear he’s holding his breath, too.
You press your body harder into his, clinging like you're afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Your breasts, still bare beneath his shirt, flatten against his chest, molding to the shape of him. Then your lips follow—seeking him, claiming him. Kisses falling messy and uneven across his skin, your tongue slipping out between them—giving him a soft lick, then a suck, before moving on to the next spot your mouth can reach. The salt of sweat mixes with the streak of your tears, and still, you can’t stop. You taste him. You taste the ache.
And you love it.
Your voice barely escapes between breaths. “We can go again…” another kiss, needier this time, as if it might convince him. “As many times as you want.”
His arms circle around you.
A soft embrace, too soft. Not one of surrender, but of sympathy. The feeling similar to mourning. Like a goodbye. And you know it. You feel it in the way his hands settle on your back without any urgency, the way his chin barely grazes the top of your head. It’s gentle, but distant. Not enough. And it sends a fresh wave of panic coursing through your chest. Your fingers curl tighter around him—pressing, searching, pleading for something more. Something real. Something that says stay .
But there’s no shift. No resistance. No grounding weight pulling you back in. So you move.
Your hands trail downward, slipping along the curve of his waist, sliding lower until your fingers catch on the waistband of his slacks. You ease down, bit by bit, your knees finding the floor with a quiet grace and desperation. Your cheek brushes his abdomen as you descend, breath hitching against his skin. You feel the shallow rise and fall of his stomach beneath your lips. He doesn’t stop you.
Not yet.
Your head lifts slightly, eyes tracking upward along the planes of his body, stomach taut beneath your cheek, trembling with a breath he’s trying to hold in. Then lower. Your gaze catches on the slack of his waistband, the open fly, the heat pressing just behind the fabric. Still hard. Still aching. Still his body answering yours, even if his mind won’t. You raise your hand and lay your palm flat over him, fingers spreading slowly—purposefully—like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him through the cloth. A soft, pulsing weight beneath your touch. The same one that claimed you only minutes ago.
And still, he doesn’t stop you.
“How are you supposed to leave,” you whisper, voice tremulous, lips grazing the heat of him through the fabric, “when you still have this?”
You kiss him through his slacks, slowly, deliberately. Not once, but again. And again. Your mouth lingers longer each time, heat swelling in your chest, unfurling like a second heartbeat. The fabric is soft but unyielding, and through it, you feel the weight of him; thick and full, twitching beneath your lips as if answering your plea. You breathe him in, lips parting just enough for your tongue to slip out and taste the shape of him, the musky tang of desire filtered through worn cotton. Your nose brushes the seam as your hands smooth upward, fingertips curling beneath the waistband. Your breath stutters as your fingers find the slit, carefully parting it, slipping between—
And then his hand finds your head.
Not rushed. Not rough.
Just there. Pausing on the crown of your skull, his palm warm and steady. Slipping his fingers through your hair. He strokes once—soft, aching—then rests his hand against you fully. He runs his fingers through your hair once, slow. A pause. Then he rests his palm against the top of your head, thumb grazing your temple. Gently. Devastatingly. Then he lifts it. His jaw tightening just barely, but you see it. His hand hovering like he might reach for you again… and then doesn’t. Something flickers in his eyes, something pained and paralyzed. Like if he touches you, he won’t be able to walk away.
Then softly, “You’re not like yourself right now.” he says quietly, not to shame you. Not to stop you. But to save you.
And that’s what shatters you.
You tremble beneath him, lips parted, vision swimming. The taste of him still clinging to your mouth, the warmth of his skin still on your tongue, but none of it feels real anymore. Like this moment has already slipped, and all you're left with is the ghost of it.
“But this is me, Ijichi,” you whisper, the words catching on the lump forming in your throat. “And this whole time—I’ve been trying to show you this part of me.”
Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Not letting him walk out that door without hearing this—without knowing—not again.
“It’s not just about the sex,” you choke out. “It’s… it’s about you being here. Near me. Because when you’re not...I lose myself.” Your fingers tighten against his skin, searching for something—anything—that won’t vanish.
“I don’t want to go back to that feeling again.”
The words stutter at the edge of your tongue, your mind screaming at you to stop. You’re already saying too much. It’s too much. You're going too far.
But then—he doesn’t pull away. His hand rests again on your head, warm, steady, listening. Holding you tighter.
So you go on.
“Since that day, the day we held hands… that closeness, that warmth. No one’s ever given it to me like that before. The way you circled around your words, the way you stumbled through everything—I loved it. I held onto it. That feeling. And for the first time, I felt important. Valued.”
Your voice shakes, but you don’t stop. You can’t . Even when your cheeks are damp and your chest feels carved open, you keep holding onto him—your voice, your truth, this part of you .
“I meant it when I said I loved you, Ijichi. Those weren’t just empty words.”
Your eyes flicker upward to his. His expression not wavering but feeling the war inside of him. He looks at you—really looks. And for a moment, it feels like maybe he sees you, and maybe. He always has. Your fingers twitch against his waist, aching to keep him there, to hold him still, in this one second where everything might be okay if he just says it back.
That day in the office, flickers to the forefront of your mind. The way you touched him with no hesitation, when you allowed him to unravel into your chest, trying to soothe his guilt with soft, reverent strokes. You weren’t just giving him release. You were giving him safety. Acceptance. A place where shame didn’t exist between your bodies. And now, you tremble beneath him, voice cracking through a plea's, as you realize you’re asking for the same thing. Not begging him to stay because you were weak or clingy. But begging because you too had once held him at his weakest and asked for nothing in return. This moment, right now, your mirror to that night. And the part that scares you the most isn’t just the thought of him leaving, but it’s the fear that he won’t recognize what you’re doing. That he won’t see your unraveling for what it is: an invitation to love you the way you once loved him. No pride. No performance. Just need, laid bare.
But the moment stretches.
And then, the phone rings again.
Sharp. Shrill. Unforgiving.
You both freeze, watching it light up across the counter, glowing like a verdict neither of you asked for. Your breath catches, lashes clumped with tears as you lift your gaze to his. Staring still at the phone. Silent.
“If you pick it up,” you whisper, barely holding yourself together, “I’ll understand… but just know, Ijichi—” your voice cracks, all hope and helplessness— “that I really don’t want you to.”