Chapter Text
The Guy in The Back Row (Chap 2 of 2)
Pairing: Suguru Geto x Female Reader.
Genre: Fluffy, Fluffy fluff. (Tiny amount of angst)
Word Count: 8k + (in two chapters)
Summary:
You’re a bubbly, friendly college student working part-time at your family’s cozy café, where life is predictable and sweet. Until he walks in.
Suguru Geto, the quiet, mysterious loner from your college, with dark hair, piercing violet eyes, and an allure you can’t resist, becomes a regular. At school, he’s distant, unreadable, and seemingly indifferent, but at the café, he reveals a side of him no one else sees.
...
Saturdays are always hectic, especially when you’re the only one working. The bell over the door never stops ringing, the espresso machine hisses like it’s alive, and you’ve barely had a sip of water since morning. You don’t even have time to anticipate his arrival.
And then, suddenly, he’s there, slipping quietly through the door, scanning the packed line in front of your counter. His eyes land on you, just for a second. You barely manage a breath before he moves, setting his bag down at his usual table… only to grab it again and stride straight toward the back.
You blink, half convinced you’re hallucinating, before mumbling an apology to the customer in front of you and darting into the back.
He’s already got his hoodie hanging neatly on a hook, his sleeves rolled up, washing his hands at the sink.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice half exasperation, half disbelief, eyes flicking nervously toward the doorway and the impatient customers beyond.
“You look…” He pauses, meeting your gaze for a heartbeat. “Frazzled. Let me help.”
You should say no. You really should. But your legs are burning and your brain’s already a few orders behind.
“Okay” you sigh. “Just…help me package the orders and clean up a little.”
He nods once, face set with quiet determination. Together, you step back out into the chaos.
It’s messy, loud, and fast-paced, but somehow, you fall into a comfortable rhythm. He moves around you like he already knows your pattern, grabbing napkins and sliding trays without bumping into you once. You shout orders, he catches them. You laugh at a customer’s joke, he flashes them soft smiles, smiles that nearly send the poor girls waiting at the counter fainting.
He doesn’t even realise what he does to people, and that somehow makes it worse.
By the time the rush dies down, the two of you collapse into the chairs at his usual table, breathless but laughing. The smell of coffee clings to both of you.
“I’m sorry” you manage between breaths, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t imagine this is what you had in mind when you said you wanted to come see me.”
“It’s okay.” His eyes crinkle shut as he smiles, that gentle kind of smile that makes you melt.
You’re a goner.
“Let me get you a coffee” you offer, standing up and heading for the machine.
He follows.
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to use one of these” he mutters, stepping closer, curious eyes fixed on the buttons and levers.
You don’t realise how close he’s gotten until you turn and find yourself almost flush against his chest.
Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. The hum of the coffee machine fills the silence, warm and steady, like it’s keeping the rhythm your heart’s suddenly forgotten.
You glance up, he’s already looking down. His eyes, those soft violets, flicker over your face. You swear your pulse skips when his gaze lingers on your lips, before darting guiltily back up to your eyes.
“Okay, um, so, first you get a shot of coffee.” You lift the espresso handle, slotting it under the dispenser. The machine whirs to life, releasing a neat pile of fragrant grounds into the portafilter. “Then you level it” you say, tapping it gently against the counter. “And tamp it, like this.” You press the tamper down until the surface is flat and firm.
He’s standing so close now, the heat of him brushing against your shoulder. You shift to the espresso machine, trying not to think about how his breath feels against your neck. “Then you lock it in here…” You try to twist the handle into place, but it’s stiff, it always is.
Before you can try again, his hand covers yours. Warm, steady and effortless. He gives a small tug and it slides into position with a soft click.
Your heart somersaults. “Then you press this button, and voilà, coffee” you say quickly, your voice a little too bright. The machine hums, rich amber espresso pouring smoothly into the cup below.
“Now, latte art” you announce, trying to focus on the task instead of your racing pulse.
He laughs softly, the sound like velvet. “Okay, okay, that’s a little advanced for me.”
…
He comes to the shop again on Sunday.
Lucky for you, it’s quiet, the usual morning rush long gone, the soft hum of machinery and clinking dishes the only sounds left. You finally get to sit with him, chatting about everything and nothing, time slipping by unnoticed.
“Did that hurt?” you ask suddenly, leaning forward to gently tap the black ring in his gauged ear.
He turns his head toward you slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Not really” he murmurs. “Throbs a little when you size up, but it goes away after a while.”
“What about this one?” You ask, reaching up to touch the conch piercing glinting in the light.
That earns you a small, genuine laugh, quiet, but warm. “That one? Yeah, that one hurt.”
You grimace instinctively, scrunching your nose. “Ugh, I can imagine.”
He smiles at the face you pull. “I’m used to it, though” he says softly.
You nod thoughtfully, your gaze dipping lower, to the snakebite piercings gleaming against his bottom lip. He notices, laughing again, deep and easy.
“Yes, those hurt a bit too” he says, answering before you can even ask. Then his expression shifts, suddenly unsure. “Do you… not like piercings?”
“I like them” you admit quickly, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. “I’m just scared of needles.” You glance up through your lashes, smiling sheepishly. “They look really good on you though.”
His reaction is immediate. His ears go pink, the colour creeping down his neck as he turns away to stare out the window.
You bite back a grin, pressing your lips together to hide it, feeling that familiar fluttering in your chest.
…
“So, how come you keep to yourself so much?” you ask softly.
It’s another slow afternoon in the café, sunlight spilling through the windows in lazy streaks. Geto had walked with you from college instead of heading home to change, so his hair is tied up messily, half 'college Geto,' half 'café Geto.'
He glances at you, swallowing the bite of cake in his mouth before answering.
“Well… when I was in high school, I got..” he pauses, frowning faintly, searching for the right word. “ill..."
Your breath catches. You lean forward, worry tightening in your chest. He notices, gives you a small, almost reassuring smile.
“I got depression” he says finally. “Severe depression.”
The words hang heavy between you. You nod slowly, your throat tight, encouraging him to go on.
“It got really bad” he murmurs, eyes dropping to the half-eaten cake. “Finally, I went to the doctor, and they gave me medication…”
He trails off again, pushing crumbs around with his fork. You don’t speak, you just wait.
“Some of my friends found the pills in my bag one day” he continues quietly. His voice cracks just slightly. “They laughed. Called me a weirdo. Said I was crazy for needing them.”
Something in your chest aches at that. “Suguru…” you whisper.
Without thinking, you reach out and lay your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, his gaze turning glassy. It still doesn’t feel like enough.
You stand and move to his side, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing his face gently into your chest. He startles, his back goes rigid, then, slowly, he exhales and his arms come up around your waist.
“Those people…” you murmur into his hair, voice trembling, “they were cruel. What you did was brave, so brave. You asked for help when you needed it. That takes strength, Suguru.”
He nods against you, shoulders trembling slightly.
“I’m so proud of you” you whisper.
---
“You know you’re staring, right?” Utahime whispers, leaning close enough that you feel her breath against your ear.
You blink, realising only now that your gaze has been locked across the room far too long. You whip your head away, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t…”
“You totally were.” Her grin is sly. “Why don’t you just go sit with him?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur, twisting a strand of hair between your fingers. “I feel like I’d be invading his quiet space or something. And with Gojo around, I think he’d terrify him.”
Even as you speak, your eyes flick back to where Geto’s sitting. His head lifts, like he felt the weight of your stare, and your heart stutters when amethyst eyes meet yours. You offer a small, shy smile. For a second he looks confused, glancing around like he’s not sure you’re really smiling at him, and then, softly, he smiles back.
“Wow” Utahime breathes, following your line of sight. “He’s actually kinda cute.”
Your head snaps toward her so fast she flinches. “Don’t even think about it” you hiss.
She covers her mouth, laughing into her hand. “Relax, I was just saying—”
“He’s not her type” comes a voice right beside your ear.
You shriek, Utahime shrieks, and the entire room turns to stare, including Geto. Gojo’s standing there, looking far too pleased with himself.
“He’s going to kill me” Utahime groans, collapsing forward on the table, clutching her chest.
“I’m more her type” Gojo says proudly, striking a ridiculous pose.
“No, you are not!” Utahime shouts back.
“I so am!”
Their voices blur into the background, bickering like children, as your focus drifts back to Geto. He’s still looking your way, expression unreadable, a flicker of confusion, maybe curiosity. You wish you were over there, sitting across from him, close enough to see the way his eyes soften when he smiles.
Your chest feels too full, your pulse thundering beneath your skin. The warmth blooming in your chest isn’t something small anymore, it’s bigger, heavier, something that fills every corner of you until you can barely breathe.
You love him.
The thought hits like a spark to kindling, bright and undeniable. The idea of seeing him every day, hearing his voice, being the reason he smiles... it makes your heart ache.
You. love. him.
For some reason, that realisation turns you into a stuttering school girl.
…
“Am I doing this right?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder.
He’s holding the metal milk jug beneath the steaming wand, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Steam curls between you, rising like mist.
You nod without quite meeting his eyes, your throat feeling inexplicably tight. “Yeah, you’re fine” you mumble, chewing at the inside of your cheek.
He tilts the jug, uncertain “I feel like I’m getting this wrong.”
You sigh softly and step toward him, reaching out to take the jug from his hands, careful not to brush his fingers. “It’s like this” you murmur, lowering your gaze to the milk as you submerge the wand and begin to move the jug up and down in smooth, practiced motions. “If you wrap your hand around the metal, you can feel the temperature. Too hot and it scalds, it’ll taste awful.”
He hums softly, curious, and before you can step back he moves in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth of his chest at your back. His hand slides over yours, holding the jug. The contact sends a jolt through you so strong you nearly drop it.
“Like this?” he asks, voice soft, right beside your ear.
Your breath catches. You pull away too quickly. The jug slips, clattering against the counter with a deafening metallic clang as warm milk splashes across both of you.
“Oh my god…” You fumble to turn off the steam, heart pounding.
“I’m sorry” you gasp, though you’re not even sure what you’re apologising for, the mess, or the fact that you panicked. Most of the milk is splattered across your shirt, but some has caught his hand.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, though his voice sounds uncertain. He grabs a nearby cloth and, without thinking, begins gently dabbing at the milk on your shirt. His brows are knit, focused, like he’s trying to fix something he doesn’t understand.
For a moment you can only stare at him, the tenderness of the gesture, the closeness, the confusion in his eyes. Your heart skips painfully in your chest.
“I can do that” you blurt, stepping back and pushing his hand away a little too fast.
His expression flickers, confusion, then something that looks almost like hurt. But you can’t face it.
You turn, wiping at your shirt with shaking hands, your cheeks burning. “I’ll… I’ll clean this up.”
…
“Do you want me to help clean up?” he asks softly.
He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, wringing his hands like he’s afraid to take up space. His eyes search yours, uncertain and worried.
The sight makes your chest ache. You hate that you’re the reason he looks like that, nervous, hesitant, but your pulse won’t slow. It’s as if your heart’s forgotten how to function properly whenever he’s near.
Where his presence used to feel warm and grounding, now it makes your breath catch and your thoughts scatter. You’re terrified he’ll see straight through you, that every glance, every flushed cheek and fumbled word will betray just how much you like him.
“No, you can go” you manage, voice thinner than you intend. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.
He nods once, slow and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make things worse. Gathering his coat, he lingers by the door for a heartbeat too long.
“Goodbye, Y/N” he says gently.
You force a quick smile, a weak dip of your head, but no words come out. The bell above the door chimes softly as he leaves, the click of the latch echoing far too loudly in the quiet that follows.
You sag against the counter, eyes squeezed shut. “You stupid idiot” you groan, dragging your palms down your face. “If you keep this up, you’ll drive him away.”
The thought makes your stomach twist. But what can you do? You can’t control the way your breath catches when he says your name, or the way your heart stumbles when he smiles. You can’t control any of it.
…
He can’t quite figure out what changed.
The air between you feels different now, heavier somehow. Every word he says seems to make you tense, every time he gets close you take a step back. He replays the moment in the café over and over in his head, the milk spilling, the way your hands shook, how you wouldn’t meet his eyes after that.
He can still feel the ghost of your hand under his, warm, small, trembling. He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. He just wanted to help.
Now, walking home through the cool evening air, he keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his thoughts running wild. Maybe he’d crossed a line. Maybe he’d imagined everything, the smiles, the laughter, the easy comfort that once filled the space between you.
He remembers the way you’d hugged him that day, the way you’d held him when he’d told you about his depression, so fiercely, like you wanted to protect him from the world. He remembers your voice, warm and steady against his hair, I’m so proud of you.
So what changed?
He stops walking, staring down at his shoes. The idea strikes like a sudden chill, maybe you’re just being kind. Maybe you were always just being kind.
To him, kindness had started to feel like affection. A mistake.
He swallows hard, forcing a breath. “Stupid” he whispers, trying to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.
But it does.
Still, he tells himself he’ll stop coming by. Give you space. If he really made you uncomfortable, the last thing he wants is to make it worse.
And so, for the first time in weeks, he walks past the café the next day without going inside, pretending not to notice the way his chest aches as he does.
…
You wait.
You thought having him around made you nervous, but not having him around felt worse. The hours drag by, each one slower than the last. Every time the bell over the door rings, your head snaps up instinctively, hope flaring in your chest, only to sink again when it’s not him.
You even pull out your phone at one point, thumb hovering over the screen. You could text him, if you had his number. The realisation stings more than you expect. You know where he sits, how he takes his drink, the exact sound of his laugh, but you don’t even have his number.
So, you wait.
The café’s too quiet tonight. Too cold. His absence hums in the silence like static. You busy yourself cleaning, restocking, rearranging the display case, anything to keep from watching the door again.
By closing time, the weight of disappointment sits heavy in your chest. You’re tired, but not from work, from hoping. You almost want to cry.
Then you see him.
Through the glass, a tall figure walking down the street, hood up, hands buried deep in his pockets. Suguru.
Your heart jumps so violently it hurts. You can’t help it, you smile, wide and unguarded, warmth flooding your chest. You spin around, flicking on the warmer for the hot chocolate, reaching for the heart-shaped strawberry shortcake you’d hidden away just for him.
But when you look up again…
He’s still walking. Right past the window. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even look at you.
You freeze. The plate in your hand feels heavy all of a sudden. Behind you, the hot chocolate begins to hiss softly, forgotten.
He walked right past.
You set the plate down, staring blankly at the spot where he’d been. The smile slips from your face, your brows drawing together as your throat tightens painfully.
Had he figured it out? Had you made him uncomfortable?
You press a trembling hand over your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the only thing you can think, the only thing that hurts, is how easily he walked away.
…
Morning comes slower than usual. You get ready for college, but your mind is somewhere else entirely, replaying yesterday’s image of him walking past the café without so much as a glance.
By the time you arrive, you’re a bundle of nerves, your stomach twisting with anxiety. The classroom feels impossibly bright, the chatter around you blending into white noise. And then you see him.
Suguru Geto. Sitting at his usual spot in the back, hood up, book in hand. Just like every other day. Only today… he doesn’t look up.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to focus on your notes, your hands shaking slightly as you flip through your textbook.
Your chest tightens.
Had you done something wrong? Did he… not want to see you anymore? Your mind races through every interaction, every smile, every laugh. Were you too forward? Too cheerful? Did he notice how much you’d been staring at him?
“Hey, Y/N?” Utahime’s whisper jolts you slightly, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You glance at her, eyes wide. “You okay?”
You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I… I don’t think he wants to talk to me anymore ” you murmur, voice small.
Utahime glances back at him, then at you, her expression softening. “Are you kidding me? Look at him. He’s… he’s just quiet. That’s all. He’s not avoiding you.”
But her words don’t reach you. You can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed, that he’s seen too much of your heart already, and now he’s retreating.
You glance again at the back of the room, hood shadowing his face, book open, fingers lightly tracing the pages. He hasn’t even noticed your gaze.
And in that moment, you realise, you miss him. You miss his soft smile, gentle voice, and the comforting pressure of his presence.
And yet, today, he’s distant. He’s different.
Your chest tightens further. You bury your face in your hands for a moment, forcing yourself to focus on something else, anything else, while the quiet, lonely ache of longing settles heavily in your chest.
…
You don’t run to the café like you had the past few weeks.
You move slowly instead, each motion weighed down by the knot in your chest. Your friends’ laughter barely registers, their voices feel distant, muffled, as though you’re underwater. You smile when they look at you, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
By the time you gather your things, your hands are trembling. The walk feels endless, every step heavier than the last. The closer you get, the louder your heartbeat grows, until it’s all you can hear.
You turn the corner, and there he is.
Suguru.
He’s leaning against the café door, hood down, hair tied up, the late sunlight spilling across his face. The piercings at his ears catch the light like tiny flares, but his expression is tense, uncertain. His hands are buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as though he’s been standing there for a while.
Your breath catches. Then your heart surges so suddenly you almost stumble.
He’s here. He came back.
You nearly break into a run, terrified that if you take too long, he’ll leave before you can reach him.
“Suguru!” you call out, voice breathless.
He looks up.
When you stop in front of him, neither of you speaks. The air between you hums with nerves and unsaid things. You can’t quite meet his eyes, not yet.
“I just wanted to apologise…” he starts, voice soft, gaze fixed somewhere near your shoes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Telling you about…” He trails off, swallowing hard.
“What?” you whisper, confusion flooding your voice.
He shakes his head. “I won’t bother you anymore” he murmurs, pushing off the wall and turning to go.
The words hit like a gut punch.
“No!” You gasp, grabbing his sleeve before he can take another step. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
He stops, turns slightly, eyes flickering with confusion and hurt. “You’ve been avoiding me” he says quietly. “You wouldn’t even look at me the last time I was here.”
Your fingers tighten around his sleeve. You tug him gently back toward you until he’s standing close, so close you can smell the faint scent of soap on him.
Your throat feels tight. The words tremble in your chest, threatening to choke you, but you force them out anyway.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable” you whisper, screwing your eyes shut. “You make me nervous.”
A shaky breath leaves you. “I like you… a lot.”
There’s silence. Then, a soft, incredulous sound — a gasp.
“You… like me?” he breathes.
You open your eyes, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You shake your head weakly.
“No” you whisper. Then, with a trembling voice and tears burning your eyes. “I love you.”
…
For a moment, he doesn’t move. The words hang in the air. Then his eyes widen, the amethyst depths staring straight into yours, and a slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.
“You… love me?” His voice is barely above a whisper, full of disbelief and awe. He steps closer, closing the last bit of space between you.
Your stomach twists, nerves wrangling, but you stand your ground. “Yes” you murmur, voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t hide it anymore.”
He swallows, blinking rapidly, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost vulnerable. Then, carefully, like he’s testing if this is real, he reaches out. His fingers brush against yours, warm and sure, and your heart jumps.
“I… I’ve liked you for so long” he confesses, voice low but steady. “I just didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”
You can’t stop the laugh that escapes you, a mixture of relief and joy, tears pricking at your eyes. “I was scared” you admit softly. “I didn’t want to scare you off…”
He shakes his head, pressing his hand into yours. “Scare me off? No. You’re… perfect.” You feel tears slip down your cheeks.
“I love you,” he repeats, this time with more certainty, his other hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, careful not to break the fragile atmosphere.
“I love you too” you whisper, voice breaking with happiness. “So much.”
For a long moment, you just stand there, foreheads almost touching, hands entwined. The world around you, the café, the late sunlight, the quiet hum of the street, all fades away. There’s only him. Only the warmth of his hands, the soft brush of his lips against yours as he leans in closer.
When he finally kisses you, it’s slow, careful, and utterly consuming. You melt into it, letting go of all the fear, all the hesitation, all the nervous energy that’s been coiled in your chest for weeks. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there gently, like he’s afraid to let go, just for a moment.
When you finally pull back, your breath catches. His smile mirrors your own, eyes bright, lips still trembling from the kiss.
“You’re mine now” he murmurs, voice soft, playful, but carrying a quiet certainty that makes your heart flutter.
“Okay” you giggle, slipping your head beneath his chin, resting your cheek against his chest as your arms circle his waist. The steady thunder of his heart thrums against your ear. “Only if you’re mine as well.”
You feel him nod, his breath ghosting over the top of your head before his arms tighten around you, holding you close.
“I am” He whispers, his voice rumbling through his chest. “Always”.
...
THE END!