Chapter Text
“Are you kidding me?”
My fingers clamp around the sink’s cold steel edge until the metal bites into my palms. I still shove the mug forward anyway. Coffee spills in a thick, sluggish ribbon, dark and glossy, steam rising in slow twisting coils that brush hot against my cheekbones. The final drops slide down the drain with a wet, sucking gulp, leaving thin black trails bleeding across the porcelain like ink someone knocked over in a hurry.
The salt crashes through me harder now. It coats everything: a gritty film plastering the roof of my mouth, sharp crystals wedging into the soft grooves behind my teeth, stinging the delicate skin inside my lips until every swallow scrapes. I can still feel the exact second the taste betrayed me. That first hopeful sip, warmth blooming quick, then the switch. Pure saline. Brutal. My mouth floods with saliva trying to rinse it away, but the brine only thickens, spreading across my tongue. Why does something this small tear into me like it’s got claws? It’s coffee. A stupid, childish prank. I’ve survived nights that left my eyes raw and bloodshot, meetings where voices on the line carved me open without mercy. Yet this one petty move on a random Thursday morning hooks deep under my ribs and twists.
Because it’s him.
Because Satoru knows every single pressure point I have, and he presses them with the calm focus of someone who’s memorized the map of me just to see which touch makes me flinch hardest. He doesn’t do it out of care. He does it because the power tastes sweet. Because the hitch in my breath, the lock of my jaw, the way my spine snaps straight is his private show, and he’s got front-row seats.
I stare into the empty mug still locked in my grip. My reflection swims in the curved steel: forehead creased, mouth pressed into a furious slash, cheeks burning with the kind of heat that has zero to do with anything soft and everything to do with the humiliation scorching through my veins. The break room feels unnaturally still except for the refrigerator’s low, constant growl and the distant throb of traffic leaking through the walls. I refuse to face him. Not yet. My heart hammers so hard I’m convinced the sound bounces off the cabinets and lands right at his feet. My skin feels stretched too tight across my collarbones, every nerve lit and aching. The fridge cycles again, a deep vibration rumbling up through the floor. The air hangs heavy with yesterday’s stale grounds and the sharp, relentless drip-drip-drip from the faucet I keep swearing I’ll fix because no one else ever will and the noise is slowly driving me out of my mind.
A soft laugh rolls out, velvet-low. God, I hate that sound. I Hate that I can see his face without turning: lips curved in that slow, knowing tilt, eyes slitted with satisfaction, that sharp spark of victory he never bothers hiding when he scores.
Satoru Gojo, one. Me, zero.
He’s already arranged himself perfectly. Hip angled against the counter’s edge, one ankle hooked over the other, the glossy black tip of his loafer tapping once, indolent, against the tile. White hair catches every harsh glare from the overhead lights, strands falling forward in deliberate disorder, brushing the sharp line of his brows. Collar open at the throat, top two buttons given up without a fight, sleeves shoved to his elbows so the lean muscle in his forearms shifts every time he breathes. Long fingers wrap the black mug with careless grace.
He raises it. Takes a slow, deliberate sip. I hear the quiet glide of his throat working, see the faint ripple under pale skin. His gaze stays locked on me over the rim, steady, like I’m the only thing in the building worth his attention this morning.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice so soft it almost brushes tender. But I know better. A sudden, violent urge surges through me, to drive my fist straight into that perfect jaw just to see if it cracks.
His attention slides downward. To the sink. To the empty cup I’m still crushing in my fist. One final dark bead clings to the edge, hesitates, then drops with a faint, mocking ting.
His gaze lifts again, slow, lazy amusement curling the corners. “Rough start?” That tiny lift at one side of his mouth. Barely there. Devastating.
For one searing second the fantasy plays out in vivid color: my fingers uncurling, the mug launching in a perfect arc, coffee spraying behind it in a dark comet tail, then the clean, bone-deep crack of porcelain connecting dead-center with his forehead. His eyebrows shooting skyward, that eternal smirk blasted away by genuine surprise. I exhale hard through my nose instead. Slam the mug down onto the counter with more force than necessary. My other hand is already reaching, snatching a clean cup from the drying rack. I tip the carafe without ever looking away from the steady black stream filling it. Fresh steam rises, carrying the bright, clean bite of real coffee this time, no sabotage, no tricks. I try to latch onto that scent, let the rich bitterness flood my lungs and wash him out of my head. A curse spills from my lips anyway, low and vicious, the words tasting sharp and satisfying because at least they’re safer than actually launching projectiles.
He pushes off the counter in one fluid motion. The dark blue cotton of his shirt pulls taut across his shoulders, outlining the clean lines of muscle that shift beneath as he closes the distance. He stops right beside me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that the faint cedar-and-citrus trace of his cologne sneaks past the coffee steam and curls into my nose.
“Damn,” he says, quieter now, that same indolent pleasure threading through every syllable. “That bad?”
Dragging my eyes up to meet his feels like stepping directly into flame. He’s already watching. Always watching, always collecting data. His gaze flicks sideways for the briefest heartbeat, landing on the glass jar sitting innocently on the counter behind us. White crystals inside, sparkling like they’re harmless. The label stares back at me in crisp black letters: Sugar.
“You psycho,” I hiss. My arm jerks upward; I jab one finger toward the jar. The tip quivers, just a tiny tremor, almost invisible. I still loathe that he definitely noticed.
He glances back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the label like he's trying to solve a particularly dull crossword clue. His brows crawl upward in slow stages, until they disappear under that silver mess of hair.
“Huh,” he says, stretching the sound. Then he turns to face me fully, and the grin spreads wide and easy. “That’s unusual.”
I stare straight through the middle of his chest, wishing the floor would open up and take one of us, preferably him, out of the equation before I say something that lands me in HR.
He shifts his weight, hip bumping the counter right next to mine. One arm crosses over the other. “You’re telling me,” he continues, “you didn’t notice anything strange when you scooped it?”
The amusement threads through every word. I don't need to look at his face to know it's there.
“You did this.”
He tips his head the smallest amount. “Did what?”
If they gave out awards for playing dumb, he'd have a lifetime supply.
“The salt.”
A short huff escapes him, not quite a laugh, more like a quiet exhale of satisfaction. He reaches for the jar, lifts it between thumb and forefinger, and holds it up to the light. “This guy?” He gives the jar a tiny shake. “Completely innocent. You dove in without checking. Rookie mistake.”
Something tightens in my chest, not dramatic, just the slow grind of irritation ratcheting up another notch. He turns to the wall, stretches one arm, and yanks a paper towel from the roll with a quick, sharp rip. He dries his hands methodically, palms, then between each finger, before folding the towel once, then again, and setting the neat square on the counter.
Then he leans in a fraction. “I could’ve gone with wasabi,” he says. “Or hot sauce. Just sayin.”
I take a step back, my hip slams into the counter’s unforgiving edge, the sharp jolt racing up my side in a pointless stab of pain. Satoru’s eyes track the movement instantly, just… noting. Every tiny flinch, every reflexive hitch gets logged somewhere behind that calm blue stare. He doesn’t leer. He simply observes. And the quiet satisfaction in it is worse than any leer could ever be. I flatten both palms against the front of my blouse, fingers smoothing the fabric hard over my ribs like the pressure might flatten the anger twisting my expression into something ugly. I need five seconds, maybe three, to lock my face into neutral before whatever comes out of my mouth bites me in the ass. He pokes. He pokes again. He waits for the fracture line to show, then steps back to a safe radius and watches the fallout with that same mild interest. The part that still keeps me awake at three a.m., staring holes in the ceiling, is how completely unaffected he stays once the dust settles. No remorse. No replay. No quiet second thoughts. He drops the match, drifts upward like smoke, while I’m down here stomping out the little fires he started because he was bored.
I lift my chin, force my mouth into the exact professional smile I reserve for the clients who make my skin crawl. The one that says competent, composed, untouchable, even as my heartbeat slams against my sternum and every nerve screams to get out of this room.
“Go to hell.”
He laughs immediately. His shoulders lift with the sound, just enough to pull the already open collar of his shirt wider and reveal another careless sliver of collarbone. “God, you always know exactly what I want to hear.” One large hand flattens over his chest in exaggerated reverence. “Don’t stop now. We’re finally connecting.”
I draw in a breath, lungs filling with every vicious word I’ve been saving just to wipe that serene mask clean off his face, when a low, bone-deep groan drags through the doorway and freezes us both mid-motion. Suguru leans heavy against the frame, like gravity has personally decided today is the day to collect every ounce he owes it. His long black hair is pulled into a loose knot at the base of his neck, but the morning commute already won the war; dark strands have escaped to slide along the sharp edge of his jaw and brush the shadowed hollows under his eyes. Those eyes, deep ink, perpetually half-closed, carrying the kind of exhaustion that looks permanent, sweep the room with the slow, resigned patience of someone who’s walked into this exact disaster too many times to count.
He registers Satoru’s posture, my knuckles white around the mug handle. Then he drags one long hand down his face, pressing so firmly against his closed lids I half expect the skin to bruise darker.
“It’s not even nine,” he rasps. The words scrape out rough, sandpapered thin by forty minutes of packed train cars and strangers breathing down his neck.
Satoru pivots toward him in one smooth motion, grin blooming wider, suddenly all sunshine and harmless charm. “Morning, Suguru. You look radiant today.”
Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He simply exhales through his nose and pushes off the doorframe. Each step into the break room is deliberate, shoulders rolling once in a fluid shrug that sheds the last clinging irritation of public transit like dead skin. He stops at the coffee machine, gives us the broad plane of his back, and starts pouring without a glance, without wasting a single syllable.
The charge between Satoru and me still hums low under the surface, but diluted now, less suffocating than it was a few seconds ago. Someone finally pried open a window after the room filled with smoke.
Satoru tilts his head, studying the rigid line of Suguru’s spine. “You’re late.”
“You’re still breathing,” Suguru answers without turning around. The spoon dips into his mug. “One day that mouth is going to write a check your face can’t cash.”
For several long heartbeats the break room holds perfectly still. Beyond the doorway the office wakes in slow, disjointed pieces: murmured good mornings traded in gravelly voices, the sluggish scrape of chair wheels, a phone ringing distantly down the hall, the first tentative tap-tap-tap of fingers finding their morning rhythm on keyboards. The day is coming whether we’re ready for it or not.
Satoru stares down into his own coffee. Black. Just bitter darkness swirling against pale ceramic. He gives the mug a lazy twist between his fingers. “That reckoning better hurry the hell up,” he murmurs, voice suddenly spun-sugar sweet. His head tilts just enough that his gaze slides sideways and lands directly on me. “Because any second now she’s going to snap and come for me first.”
My eyes narrow to slits. The easy certainty in his tone lights a fresh spark of fury in my chest. I raise one hand and point straight at him, index finger hovering an inch from the center of his sternum.
“You should start sleeping with one eye open,” I tell him softly.
His eyes drop briefly to the finger aimed at him. Just a flicker, long enough to acknowledge the threat, short enough to dismiss it. Then his gaze slides back up to my face.
“Promise?” he says. The word comes out quiet but oh so taunting. “Because I already sleep like absolute shit anyway.”
Suguru chooses that exact moment to turn around. Mug cradled in both hands, he regards us with the flat, unimpressed stare.
“You two need a referee or a therapist?” He pauses, exhales through his nose, then shakes his head. “Because I’m not qualified for either, and my health insurance barely covers the copay for ibuprofen.”
I drop my hand. The motion feels jerky, like my limbs have forgotten how to cooperate. “He started it.”
Satoru snorts. “You love pointing fingers when you’re losing.”
“I’m not losing,” I fire back, and the words bounce off the break-room cabinets sounding exactly as petulant as I feared they would.
“Get it out of your system before the ten o’clock call,” Suguru says, voice so flat it could be used to level concrete. “The client’s already one bad spreadsheet away from a meltdown over the quarterly numbers. They don’t need to log in and hear you two sniping like you’re fighting over who gets to be the bigger child today."
The door swings open with a soft creak, and Utahime stumbles into the breakroom. She doesn't see us at first. Her gaze stays glued to the scuffed linoleum as she weaves toward the table, fingers fumbling for the nearest chair. The metal legs scrape loudly when she drags it out, and she drops into the seat with the careful gracelessness of someone fighting not to collapse.
Satoru tilts his head, long legs stretching as he leans sideways to study her. "Um, good morning?"
Utahime startles. Her head jerks up, dark eyes widening for a split second before recognition settles in. "Oh." The word slips out small and rough. "Hi. Morning."
Up close she looks worse than bad. Her skin has taken on a dull, ashen tone. Sweat beads along her hairline and clings in faint, shiny streaks across her temples. Her fingers twitch against the edge of the table, then drift to her sleeve, tugging the fabric down over her wrist again and again in slow, mindless pulls.
I push away from the counter before I even register deciding to move. I stop beside her chair. "You okay?"
She blinks, lashes fluttering like she's trying to clear fog from her vision. Then her mouth curves into a small, trembling smile. "Yeah. Sorry. I think... I'm coming down with something."
Suguru makes a low sound in his throat and takes one deliberate step backward. "Then why are you here?"
Utahime doesn't flinch, doesn't even glance his way, but I feel the sting of them. My jaw tightens. I shoot him a look that promises we'll talk about this later, sharply, then turn back to her. My palm settles lightly between her shoulder blades. Through the thin cotton of her blouse I can feel the tremor running down her spine, the way her lungs stutter on every inhale.
She exhales a shaky breath that sounds too close to a sob she won't let out. "I'm already behind," she murmurs. Her free hand braces harder against the table. "On everything. I can't... I can't miss anything right now."
"You need anything?" I ask, keeping my tone gentle. "Water? Ibuprofen? Something stronger?"
Her lips part on another weak smile, this one softer. She shakes her head, then seems to reconsider. "I'll be fine. Just... maybe some tea. That might help."
I nod, already cataloging the cabinets in my head, the box of chamomile she keeps stashed on the second shelf because she says it tastes like 'calm'. My hand lingers on her back a second longer than nedeed, thumb brushing a slow, reassuring circle against the fabric. She doesn't pull away. I step toward the counter and flick on the electric kettle with a soft click. The water inside sloshes faintly as it starts to heat, bubbles forming along the bottom in lazy swirls. I grab a mug, her favorite one, the chipped blue ceramic with faded cherry blossoms around the rim, and drop in a chamomile bag from the stash she hides behind the instant coffee packets.
She shifts in her chair behind me, the wood creaking under her slight weight. I glance over my shoulder. She's hunched forward now, elbows propped on the table, forehead resting against her palms. Her breathing sounds ragged, each inhale pulling in with a hitch that makes my stomach twist. Satoru hasn't moved from his spot by the fridge, but his usual playful energy has evaporated.
Suguru uncrosses his arms and clears his throat. "Look, if you're that bad off, maybe head home. We can cover for you." His tone softens a fraction, trying to make up for the earlier snap.
She lifts her head slowly, strands of dark hair sticking to her damp skin. "No, really. It's just a bug. I'll shake it off." Her voice wavers but she forces another smile, lips pressing into a line that looks more like a grimace. I pour the hot water over the tea bag and stir in a spoonful of honey from the jar on the shelf.
"Here." I set it down gently beside her. She wraps her hands around it and nods her thanks. For a moment, our gazes lock, hers hazy, unfocused, mine searching for the spark that's usually there, the fire she hides behind her sharp words and steadfast resolve. It's dim now, buried under whatever storm is raging inside her.
The room falls into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the distant murmur of voices from the hallway outside. Satoru finally pushes off the wall, sauntering closer with that effortless grace. "You sure it's not something worse? Like, flu season's been brutal this year." He tilts his head, trying for lightness, but his fingers drum against his thigh.
Utahime takes a sip. "Positive. Just need a minute." But as she sets the mug down, her hand slips. The ceramic clatters against the table, tea sloshing over the rim in a hot spill that spreads across the surface. She stares at it, unblinking, like the mess doesn't register.
I grab a napkin from the dispenser and mop it up quickly. "Hey, no big deal." My heart picks up pace, though, a subtle thrum of unease that I can't quite place. Her skin feels clammy when my arm brushes hers. She's ice cold.
Time drags as we linger there, Satoru cracking a half-hearted joke about office plagues to lighten the mood, Suguru nodding along but keeping his distance. Utahime responds in murmurs, her color draining further until she's almost translucent under the harsh lights. I watch her closely, that ache in my chest growing sharper by the minute. She insists on powering through, gathering her things with unsteady movements and heading back to her desk down the hall. Hours blur into the afternoon grind, reports stacking up, phones ringing in staccato bursts, the hum of printers churning out endless pages. I steal glances toward her cubicle whenever I pass, seeing her bent over her keyboard, typing with labored focus. By mid-afternoon, whispers start circulating: she's looking rough, maybe she should go home. But she waves them off, determination etched into her posture even as it slumps.
I’m mid-sentence in an email when I hear the familiar rhythm of two sets of footsteps cutting through the low hum of the open floor. Kento rounds the edge of my cubicle first. Gray suit jacket still buttoned all the way up, tie knotted with military precision. Shoko trails half a step behind, her coat folded over one forearm, sleeves dangling. Neither of them sits. Kento plants himself just inside the opening, arms crossed loosely at the chest. Shoko tips one shoulder against the padded wall, close enough that the faint, cool bite of menthol drifts toward me, the ghost of the cigarette she’s probably itching to light the second she hits the parking garage.
I swivel my chair until I’m facing them. “Hey. Everything okay?”
Kento dips his chin the smallest degree. “We were on our way back from the printer room. Thought we’d stop by.”
Shoko arches one brow. “Translation: we caught you staring daggers at Utahime’s empty chair for a solid ten minutes and figured someone should stage an intervention before you chew through your own lip.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It hasn’t been ten minutes.”
“From the hallway it looked closer to twelve,” she counters, voice dry enough to crackle. She flicks her gaze toward the restroom corridor, then slides it back to me. “She still not back?”
“No.” My thumb finds the worn, shiny patch on the mouse where the coating has rubbed away.“She said bathroom. That was… fifteen minutes ago? Maybe closer to twenty.”
Kento’s eyes track the same path Shoko’s just did, lingering on the empty stretch of hallway before returning to my face. “She looked off this morning. I passed her near the elevators around noon. One hand flat against the wall, like the building was tilting under her feet.”
“She told me it was just a bug. But I think stress is eating at her too. I made her chamomile earlier. She sipped maybe half before pushing the mug away.”
Shoko exhales through her nose. “She’d rather gargle broken glass than admit the world’s getting to her.”
Kento shifts his weight from one polished oxford to the other. “If she’s not back in another five minutes, one of us should check the restroom.”
“Agreed,” Shoko says, already straightening off the partition. “Last thing anyone needs is her keeling over in a stall because we were too polite to knock.”
A short, startled breath escapes me. “She’d die of embarrassment. The sheer indignity.”
“She’d die worse if we left her sitting here going gray while we pretended not to notice,” Kento answers. “This isn’t coddling. It’s common sense.”
Shoko pushes off the partition, straightening. “Look, it’s probably nothing dramatic. Some nasty rhinovirus making the rounds, half the accounting team was sniffling last week. She’ll drag herself through the afternoon, go home, sleep it off, come back tomorrow complaining about how everyone’s being dramatic.”
“Or she’ll spike a fever tonight and call in sick for three days,” I mutter.
“Either way,” Kento says, “we keep an eye out. If you see her come back and she looks worse, text us. Both of us. Don’t wait to see if she ‘powers through.’”
Shoko gives one sharp nod. “And drink some actual water, would you? You’ve got that haunted look you wear when guilt and three shots of espresso are the only things keeping you upright.”
I roll my eyes, but I reach for the half-empty bottle on my desk anyway. “Noted.”
Kento uncrosses his arms, already turning slightly toward the aisle. “I’ll be at my desk. Page me if anything changes.”
Shoko gives me a lazy two-finger wave. “Same. Try not to stare at her chair so hard it catches fire. The fire marshal will never let us live it down.”
They turn together and melt around the corner, footsteps swallowed almost instantly by the familiar office drone. Across the aisle, Utahime’s chair remains empty. Pushed back just far enough that the seat still holds the faint ghost of her shape. Her monitor is dark, reflecting nothing but the overhead lights in dull smears. The mug sits abandoned, lipstick mark faded to a pale crescent on the rim. I catch myself staring again, longer this time and force my gaze away. The dread coils tighter, right under my ribs. Not panic, not yet. Just the slow, sick certainty that something small is tipping toward something worse.
I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled.
Five minutes.
If she isn’t back in five minutes, I’m going to check.