Work Text:
Gojo Satoru was twenty-four years, seven months, eight days, three hours, twenty minutes, and one second old as he finished his latest batch of pies.
Four more pies done. Satoru grinned in delight at how perfect they looked.
“Gojo. I told you cherry pies, not strawberry pies.” Shoko stared at his presented masterpieces. “We’re going to lose money.”
“Please. The strawberries taste better!”
“Whatever. Remake them. Also, Suguru is here and said he had a new case for you.”
“Awesome!”
Satoru accidentally touched one of his new pies as he moved to wipe the flour off his hands. He sighed as the fruit wilted back into disgusting, rotting mush.
“That is always so gross,” Shoko murmured. “Whatever. I’m giving those people a discount for these strawberry pies. If they insist on cherry, I’m dragging you back into this kitchen.”
“You’re the best, Shoko!”
Satoru counted himself lucky, to have escaped the notice of the powers of the world. A skill like his was dangerous at best. To have two friends, who not only helped him hide his abilities from the world, but also helped him make good use of them to make a living? Satoru knew he should be grateful.
Suguru was diving into a key lime pie. Satoru frowned, disapproving as always.
“Really? That’s the worst one!”
“So you always say.” Suguru took another bite. “What did you do to piss Shoko off this time?”
“Didn’t listen,” he muttered. “Anyways, doesn’t matter. New case?”
“Yeah.” Suguru shoved over a newspaper article. Satoru rolled his eyes.
“There are online articles, you know,” he informed him. “You’re wasting your time combing through these, as a private investigator.”
“Y’know, I almost don’t need you around,” Suguru mused. “Just have to record the lines you always use and boom, mobile Satoru.”
“That would require you to know how to use your phone,” Satoru shot back. He glanced through the article, expecting the usual description of a grisly death.
He hadn’t expected to see her.
Iori Utahime. Childhood crush. They both had come from old money, old families. Forced to play together, but Satoru had always found himself eager for her visits.
Until he’d managed to ruin everything.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” he forced out.
Suguru didn’t buy it. He paused mid-bite, narrowing his eyes at Satoru. “What?”
“Nothing! Let’s go!”
Iori Utahime was twenty-seven years, eleven months, twenty days, eighteen hours, ten minutes, and thirty seconds old when she was brutally murdered on her first vacation in her entire life.
It had been a surprise. A trip, all-paid, finally outside of her grandfather’s strict eye. The last thing she could remember was a flash of light in the dark, a horrible pain across her face, and then nothing.
And then suddenly, she was awake, staring at a face that was so much older. Shouldn’t’ve been familiar. And yet it was.
“Gojo Satoru,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . .” When Satoru was eight, he’d never shut up. If it weren’t for his distinctive white hair and blue eyes, she might’ve thought it was a different person for the way he was staring at her, open-mouthed and silent.
“I’m—“ Utahime took a moment to look around and froze. She was obviously in a funeral home. She was lying in a coffin, dressed in clothes she hadn’t worn since she was graduating college.
“I’m dead,” she realized. “Is this the afterlife? Are you a ghost?”
“Not exactly.” Satoru finally managed to shake his stupor. “I’m afraid you are dead. But I have a special ability. I woke you up.”
“I see. And . . . it’s permanent?”
The way he wouldn’t meet her eyes told her the answer. Utahime reached up to her face, recoiling at the strange texture that met her fingertips. Harsh stitches were holding pieces of her face together.
“I see,” she said softly. “Why did you wake me up, then?”
“To, uh, to ask you how you died. Me and my friend try and help. Solve murders, that kind of thing.”
“Noble,” she murmured.
Satoru winced. “Well, we do collect rewards for information, so not exactly. But it’s the best way I’ve figured out how to use this ability.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get you your paycheck here,” she said wryly. “I didn’t see anything. A knife in the dark.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Satoru was staring at her, something hungry in his eyes. Utahime took the moment to look over him. He’d grown up, that little boy who had trailed after her.
“Do you have anything you’d like me to do for you?”
“Last wishes?”
“Yeah.”
Utahime considered it. Her life was sadly unremarkable. A weak existence, that probably no one would miss. “I don’t think so,” she said. “How long do I have?”
“We have a minute total. You have . . . only a few seconds left.”
“Understood.” Utahime tried to smile. “It was nice to see you again, Satoru. I’m sorry we lost touch.”
She could count the seconds passing in her mind. Satoru didn’t move, still intense in the way he was looking at her.
“Well? What now? Do I just keel over, or—“
“Maybe you don’t. Maybe you stay . . . alive.”
Utahime stared at him. The countdown in her head ended, and she was still breathing. “What? Satoru, what does this all mean? Was it a chance, for me to die here? Am I going to be some weird hybrid zombie creature?”
“It’ll be fine. Come on, hop out of there, we gotta go. If anyone sees you, there will be a lot of difficult questions.”
“Difficult questions,” she muttered. “I’ll say.”
She reached out a hand, expecting him to help her out, but he took a step away.
She didn’t have zombie limbs, at least. Utahime felt over her body. She seemed mostly intact. There was more stitching above her heart, but the skin looked like it was almost healed. So strange.
“Come on. This way.” Satoru moved ahead of her, too quick to keep up. Utahime sighed. The rude boy she remembered might not have grown up that much after all.
There was a dark-haired man waiting for them outside. At the sight of Utahime, his serious expression went thunderous.
“Satoru! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that we should get back to the Pie Hole.”
Utahime didn’t like the way Satoru was acting. She met the man’s gaze, hoping that the concern she was feeling was also evident to this new man.
The man’s dark eyes softened slightly at her obvious confusion and distress.
“Get in,” he instructed. “We need to get out of here.”
The urgency made Utahime even more shaky and nervous. She slid into the backseat, leaning forward to grab Satoru’s shoulder.
He recoiled from her like she was poison.
“What the—“
“Don’t touch me,” he said sharply.
Utahime sank back, folding her hands under her arms, hugging herself. Whatever rules Satoru wasn’t telling her about his strange ability, she felt like a leper.
The world was no different from when she’d left it. Still bright and sunny.
It was Utahime that was different.
Geto Suguru was twenty-four years, two months, nineteen days, five minutes, and forty-five seconds old.
“You’ve done some stupid things, Satoru, but this has to top the cake.”
“Don’t you mean pie?” Satoru smirked. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.”
Suguru frowned, glancing in the rearview mirror. He’d asked Iori if she needed anything, but had gotten no response. The girl seemed to be in shock.
“You’ve always insisted that you only had a minute. Anything longer and you’d have bad consequences. So what’s changed?” he whispered.
“She didn’t deserve to die. Iori Utahime is an angel.”
“So you lied to me earlier. You did know her.”
“Yeah. As kids.” Satoru’s entire face softened as he looked in the mirror. Suguru wanted to roll his eyes, but it was nice to see actual emotion instead of Satoru’s usual mask. He sighed, looking back at the road.
“What was the consequence?”
“Someone probably died nearby.” Satoru was talking under his breath now.
Suguru whipped his head back around. “Someone? You don’t know who?”
Satoru shrugged. “I think it’s proximity. I resurrect a squirrel, a bird dies on the electrical wire above.”
“You moron! I was in proximity! Are you telling me I could’ve died for your crush?” He hissed.
“You’re fine.”
“Thin ice.” Suguru twisted his hands on the steering wheel. “You know how much harder everything will be? Having a dead girl hiding out with you?”
“I don’t care,” Satoru said stubbornly. “She deserves a second chance.”
The Pie Hole was closing as they got back. Suguru sighed, pulling himself out of the car. He opened the back door, offering Iori a hand.
She took it robotically, and then suddenly recoiled. “Satoru said . . . shouldn’t I not touch anyone?”
“Just me. Touch me again, and you’re dead again,” Satoru said. “Otherwise, you are back to normal. You’ve been reset.”
Her fingers flitted up to the nasty work on her face. “Not completely, though.”
Suguru tilted her chin up, examining her face closer. “It’s actually not too bad. We’ll get those stitches out and it should be fine, just a scar.”
He could sense Satoru bristling at how close he was to Utahime. Suguru let his touch linger, hiding a smirk. The idiot deserved worse for risking Suguru’s life on such a crazy scheme.
“So I can’t touch Satoru. What are the other rules? Do I need to eat human brains to survive?”
Suguru released her, guiding her into the Pie Hole with an arm around her shoulders. Satoru was practically grinding his teeth behind them.
“How ‘bout pie?” Suguru suggested.
“Oh.” She seemed to finally take in her surroundings. “A pie . . . a bakery?”
“This is my business,” Satoru said loudly. “I make all the pies.”
Shoko looked up at their entry from where she’d been cleaning the counters. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Shoko. New friend. Iori Utahime.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ieiri Shoko.”
“I’m going to get everyone a slice. Requests?” Satoru drummed his fingers on the edge of a booth, and Suguru guided Utahime to a seat.
“Lemon meringue,” Suguru said.
“Strawberry,” Utahime said. The smile she turned on Satoru was like sunshine. Suguru could’ve sworn he saw Satoru physically melt. As ridiculous as this situation was, Suguru realized that it might be a lot of fun, to see Satoru acting like an idiot for the girl he’d had a crush on as a kid.
The girl he now couldn’t touch without returning her to her grave.
Suguru shook his head. “Actually, hold on mine, Satoru. I’m going to head home.”
Shoko set silverware down next to Utahime. “I’ll accompany you, Suguru, if you can tell me what on earth is going on.”
“Only if you save me a slice of key lime tomorrow.”
She laughed. “You really need to stop eating pie every day, you’re going to get fat.”
Suguru grinned. “Why do you think I work out so much?”
“You’re both leaving now?” Satoru sounded vaguely panicked.
“You kids have fun,” Shoko said.
Suguru relaxed as Shoko settled into pace next to him. “Poor kids,” he murmured. “It’s tragic, really.”
Gojo Satoru was twenty-four years, seven months, eight days, seventeen hours, three minutes, and five seconds old as he ushered Utahime into his apartment.
Satoru hadn’t felt like this in years. Like everything was brighter, had purpose. Iori Utahime had been a precious memory. His parents had mostly ignored him, leaving him to his own devices. Utahime had appeared, and everything had been wonderful, for an entire year.
Now she was here, before him . . . alive. Alive . . . and untouchable.
Megumi trotted up to her, sniffing suspiciously. Tsumiki meanwhile meowed cheerfully, jumping onto Satoru’s shoulder.
“Aw, aren’t they cute.” Utahime leaned down, petting Megumi’s dark head.
“We’ll have to be careful,” he told her. “Moving through my apartment.” He lived right above his shop. He’d never had company before. Let alone company that he had to make sure he never touched. He made a mental note to put away all of his short-sleeved shirts. Gloves? Yeah, gloves would be good
“What a strange curse,” Utahime murmured. She walked over to his couch. “You’ve always lived with this weird power?”
Now was his chance. He could tell her what he’d inadvertently done.
“Guess I’m just special,” he said blithely.
“Special, sure.”
“Uh, here. You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She snorted. “That’s stupid. Look at you. You’re a beanpole. I can sleep on the couch.”
“Okay.” Satoru rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess we’ll figure out something more permanent. Unless you don’t . . . don’t want to stay.”
Her eyes looked at him sadly. “Where would I go?”
Satoru carefully squatted down in front of her—just far enough away that he could resist the temptation to touch her. “You could restart. Make yourself a new life. Whatever you want to be.”
She held his gaze. He could remember that about Utahime. She never backed away from anything. “Do you want me to go?”
He shook his head.
“Then I’ll stay. You said you try and figure out murders, right? I want to know who was trying to kill me.”
“Yeah.” Satoru gazed up at her. “I want to rip whoever did it apart.”
She flopped back against the couch. “So dramatic, honestly. You haven’t changed at all. I still remember you screaming when you didn’t get your way.”
“I don’t scream anymore.” Satoru tried to put a pout on his face, but it felt weird, so he stopped trying. “Lemme get you some blankets.”
She smiled up at him as he carefully placed the blankets down at the opposite end of the couch. “Maybe a little different, huh?”
“Guess that’s for you to figure out.” He paused. “You know, you were my first kiss.”
Utahime’s cheeks went pink. “You were mine.”
“I wish I could kiss you again now.”
The pink began turning into red and climbing to her ears. “Y-yeah?”
“I’ll suppose I’ll have to be content with imagining it.” Satoru let himself look thoroughly over her.
“Incorrigible,” she murmured. She looked up through her lashes at him. “You won’t mind it? Me being so close, but so . . . untouchable?”
“Mind it?” Satoru blew out a quiet breath. “Utahime, ever since you . . . left. I’ve missed you. I know we were just kids, but you were everything to me. Just to be around you again? It’s more than enough.”
“You’ve become the smooth talker, haven’t you?” She rubbed surreptitiously at her eyes. “No one’s ever thought that about me.”
“It’s a lot to handle.” Satoru realized he might’ve been pressuring her. He quickly took a few steps back.
He only made it a few steps into his room before he returned, needing to see her once more. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“Yeah?”
“We can go to your home tomorrow. Steal your things away. If you want to leave anything for your family . . .”
“If it’s not too much trouble. Or too suspicious.”
“Sure.” Satoru let himself look at her for a long time. “I’m . . . I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” she said softly.
Ieiri Shoko was twenty-three years, three months, seven days, thirty-one minutes, and eighteen seconds as she unlocked the Pie Hole on just another Friday.
A bright smile met her. Shoko stopped, staring.
“New girl,” she greeted.
The girl—Utahime, right?—grinned even wider. “Hello! Shoko?”
“That’s me,” she said dumbly. “Uh, what are you doing?”
“Trying to help out.” Utahime had silverware she was rolling up—incorrectly, but Shoko wasn’t about to tell her that. “Satoru kicked me out of the kitchen. He was worried we’d run into each other, since he says he moves faster than light while he’s baking in his ‘domain’.”
Shoko snorted. “Sounds like him. How are you feeling?”
“Pretty weird,” she said, her bright tone dimming. “Uh, kinda mixed up. I don’t know what to feel.”
“That’s fair. Want me to get rid of those stitches? You’re going to get some weird looks.”
“I thought I’d have to hide all the time,” Utahime said.
“Eh, I saw the news about your death. But that’ll pass pretty quick. And the picture they used was old and grainy. You’ll be fine soon.”
“Right.” Utahime shifted a roll of silverware. “Uh, well, I’d love to get these out, please. They itch.”
Shoko fished her suture kit out of her purse. Utahime’s eyes were wide on her.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Some day. Working on putting myself through school, which is why I put up with the moron.”
She giggled. “That makes sense.”
“And every now and then, I get to tag along to the morgue. That’s a good time.”
Utahime hissed as a stitch eased out of her skin. “I can’t believe this is real. You all seem so matter-of-fact about it all.”
“I mean, it’s definitely super weird. But so is everything in life, I suppose.”
“I like you.”
Shoko blinked. Not many people ever said that to her.
“Now I get why Satoru is so hung up with you,” she murmured. The last stitch eased free.
Utahime’s smile was a little pained. “I’m still not sure about this. Has he ever done anything like this before? Brought back a dead person?”
“Not like this, no.”
Utahime shrank. “I can’t help but wonder, what did—“
“Hey! I don’t pay you to have make-up parties!”
“Sorry for fixing your girlfriend’s face,” Shoko shot back. She patted Utahime on the shoulder. “Gotta get this place opened up. If you ever need anything, let me know, okay? I don’t live far away, either.”
Utahime smiled. Even with the scar crossing her face, she was a pretty girl. “Thank you, Shoko.”
Iori Utahime was twenty-seven years, eleven months, twenty-three days, five hours, thirty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds old when she had been given her second chance at life. Now, twenty-eight hours, ten minutes, and one second later, she was back at her home, accompanied by her childhood best friend.
Gakuganji was in his garden, checking on the eggplants. Utahime couldn’t pin down what she was feeling. Her grandfather had done his best to shelter her. Maybe she should feel grateful. But after her father had died, she hadn’t been allowed to grieve, or grow, or learn how to live in the world. It was no wonder that the first expedition in the outside world, Utahime would get herself killed.
“Okay, got it.” Satoru clambered through the back window, duffel in his arms. “You sure you didn’t want to leave anything?”
Utahime shook her head slowly. “No. Let’s go.”
“Here. You had some gloves in there. They might be a little warm, though, we’ll have to go shopping.”
Utahime took them from him, careful not to let their fingers touch. “Thank you.”
“What now?”
“Why me?”
Satoru’s grin slid away. “Utahime, we should really get somewhere safer if you want to talk.”
She narrowed her eyes. There was something strange about the entire situation—stranger than it already was. “You aren’t telling me something,” she deduced.
He was getting antsy. “What? You need every answer in the universe? Good luck with that, Utahime.”
She slid her gloves on, reaching out to grab his hands. “You gave me a second chance,” she said carefully. “And I appreciate that. But we aren’t going to be able to make this work unless we’re honest with each other. Beyond you having a childhood crush on me, why? Why pick me? Why not resurrect everyone else you believe is worth it?”
Satoru’s false blithe expression disappeared into a heaviness that made Utahime’s heart hurt.
“With my ability, I’ve seen too much to know that pretty much everyone isn’t worth it. It would be so easy, for someone to come along and abuse my abilities. Not to mention the consequences.”
There. That was a flicker of the truth. Utahime leaned closer. “Consequences?”
“One touch alive. Second touch dead again. Or, if there is no second touch after a minute, a different one, dead.”
Utahime inhaled. “You mean someone died for me.” There was a strange buzzing in her ears. “I killed someone.”
Satoru shook his head. His bright blue eyes were clouded. “I killed someone, Utahime. That burden is mine, don’t make it yours.”
Utahime didn’t realize she was swaying until Satoru grasped her covered shoulders. He was wearing gloves as well. Utahime had the wild impulse to pull off her own gloves, touch his face and return to oblivion.
He screwed his face up. “Hate me if you will. I would understand. I just . . . I just couldn’t do it.”
“I need to know,” Utahime said faintly. “Who died for me.”
Satoru looked anguished. “Please, Uta, you don’t.”
“Uta.” She smiled, and realized she was crying. Tears were sliding into her mouth. “No one’s called me that since . . .”
With his gloved thumb, he touched her jaw. “It’s on me,” he said. “My burden.”
Utahime shook her head. “Our burden.”
“Uta . . .”
She strengthened her legs, lifted her chin. “Satoru. You’ve been given this blessing, or curse. You’ve had to hide it, deal with consequences that are too much for any one man to handle. So if you’ve brought me back, let me help you carry that burden. I’ve made nothing of my life, while you’ve done everything with yours. Good or bad consequences, I want to live.”
Satoru made a strangled sound, turning away and shoving his sunglasses onto his face.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said gruffly.
Utahime blinked and then smiled slowly. “You’re crying, aren’t you?”
“Shut up, Uta!”
She tugged on his covered elbow. “Come on. I want to try your apple pie.”
“Fine, fine.”
Geto Suguru was twenty-four years, two months, twenty-six days, nineteen minutes, and nineteen seconds old as he entered the Pie Hole. The cheerful bell rang over his head. He was a glorified errand boy now, and he wasn’t happy about it. A week into this nonsense, and his best friend was still head over heels for this girl. It was fun to see him so ridiculous, but Suguru could also see how something was eating him alive. Some secret, or mistake dealing with Utahime. It was going to drive Suguru nuts, waiting for the fallout.
Suguru wasn’t the kind of guy to beat around the bush.
He handed over the package to Satoru. “You gonna tell her?”
“Tell her what?” He shook it, with a fake grin on his face. “Ooh, these will be perfect, thank you!”
“Don’t deflect.” Suguru grabbed the piece of key lime pie that had been waiting for him at his usual table. “I’m not waiting for the crash and burn. You tell her now, whatever it is you’re hiding, or I’ll tell the police you’re hiding her.”
“Suguru!”
“Don’t try the puppy-dog eyes.” Suguru glanced over at Shoko to back him up, but she was busy with other customers. “You owe me, like, five interviews with stiffs for no charge for all of this.”
“Three.”
“Five. I’ll make it three if you talk to her.”
Satoru stole his slice of pie. “Maybe I won’t make you pie anymore.”
“Three, and I’ll make it one if you talk to her.”
Satoru hid his head in his arms, leaving Suguru to only see his tousled white hair. “Bully.”
“Uh huh.” Suguru stole his pie back. “You want me here? I’ll be moral support.”
Satoru peeked up through his hair. “Really?”
Suguru grimaced. “It’ll be worth it. And that way, if she decides to run or murder you, I can intervene as I see fit.”
“You don’t even know what I did!”
“I know that look in your eyes.”
“I’ll get her.” He slouched his way to his feet. Utahime was working her way through the police report that Suguru had stolen for her at the counter. It didn’t have much that he could tell about who might’ve been Utahime’s killer, but he figured she had an insider perspective.
Utahime looked up with a smile at Satoru’s approach. Suguru chuckled to himself. As ridiculous as everything was, it was fun to see a pair like them in love.
“—telling me you want Suguru to be here to make sure I don’t kill you.” Utahime had a raised eyebrow, made a little more apparent from the way her hair had been cut short and she now had bangs—a slight attempt at disguise.
“Yup!”
She sank down next to Suguru. “And you’ve agreed to this, Suguru?”
“Eh, better than watching Satoru screw up everything on his own.”
Satoru hesitated before he sat down in the booth across from the two of them. He looked as nervous as Suguru had ever seen him.
“Is it about this?” Utahime poked the package in front of them.
“No,” Satoru said. “That’s for if you decide to stay with me.”
“That bad, huh?” she murmured. “Alright. Get it out, Satoru.”
“I didn’t tell you how I learned about my power,” Satoru said. “I never told Suguru, either.”
Actually, he’d tried a couple times when Suguru had pressed, but each time had slid into a mood so dark that Suguru hadn’t pushed.
“It was when I was eight years old.”
Utahime stared at him. “When I . . .” Her dark eyes widened. “Satoru, are you saying—“
“My mother keeled over. Probably a stroke. I dunno. I touched her and there she was, walking and talking again. I thought maybe she had just hit her head and fallen asleep. A minute passed. She was still there. A few minutes later she touched me again and she was gone. And then later, I heard, I heard . . .”
“My father,” Utahime said.
Suguru was desperately regretting being a part of this conversation. He did his best to look out the window and keep himself as innocuous as possible.
“I learned he died near the same time. I still didn’t really get it, until later when I touched a dead bird, and another fell down dead nearby. I experimented with bugs after that, and figured out the time limit. My only other exception I’ve ever made was Megumi. Just a stray puppy, but I couldn’t leave him dead after he’d gotten hit in traffic.”
Utahime was silent for long enough that Suguru’s curiosity overpowered him. He glanced over. She wasn’t crying, to his surprise.
Satoru was practically vibrating, on the other side of the table.
“Say something?” he begged.
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “I want to. I want to be angry. But it’s an old pain, now. For all that, my father could’ve easily been the one to have a stroke in the first place. I’m just sorry that now I have to think about you when I think about him.”
“Yeah.” Satoru was twisting his fingers together. “I wrote to you a thousand times, once I had figured it out. But I didn’t know where you’d gone, and no one knew enough to tell me. And then as I got older, I chickened out.”
“It’s okay, Satoru.” Utahime took a deep breath, shaking her head. “You can let this go.”
“You are too good for him,” Suguru muttered. Both Utahime and Satoru jumped—they’d forgotten he was there.
“I wish I could hug you.” Satoru was looking at Utahime with pining eyes. Suguru made a fake gagging sound and got a scowl from his best friend.
She laughed. “I’ll hug Suguru and you’ll hug Suguru and it’ll count.”
Suguru scowled. “I didn’t agree to this.”
Utahime leaned over, wrapping her arms around Suguru. He grumbled but allowed it. When Satoru made to scoot out of the booth and attack him, he took his pie and left. That was enough of that.
Shoko tossed him a pack of cigarettes on his way out, salvaging his day.
Iori Utahime was twenty-seven years, eleven months, twenty-seven days, eight hours, three minutes, and forty-one seconds old as she considered her old life, and her new life with Satoru.
Utahime kissed the top of Megumi’s head. She could see Satoru pouting across the room.
“He’s very deprived of human touch,” she said. “You should put gloves on and pet him more.”
“He hates me anyways.”
“I doubt that.” Utahime let the wild-haired mutt lick her hand. “I guess I’ll make up for it.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want some food?”
“Sure.” Satoru still seemed a touch fragile from his confession that afternoon. “You okay?”
“Of course.” He poked through the fridge. Utahime shook her wrists, the little bells that Satoru had gotten her gently chiming.
“Bet these will get annoying,” she said. “Hearing them all the time.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it years ago for Megumi. Should get him a bell for his neck.”
“Think he might hate that.” Utahime absently scratched Megumi’s head before she stood, making her way to the kitchen. The bells warned Satoru of her approach. “Can I help?”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.”
Utahime looked over him fondly. A gangly creature who was inadvertently tied to her. She saw the plastic wrap on the counter.
She smiled, taking it and stretching out a piece of the clear thin plastic.
“Satoru,” she murmured. “Turn around.”
He turned, blinking down at her. Utahime didn’t give him time to realize what she was doing—she stretched out her piece right against his face, going up on her tiptoes and kissing him gently through it.
Satoru looked shell-shocked as Utahime stepped back away. It was a little risky, since the plastic wrap could easily rip, but it was worth it to get that look on his face.
“I thought you were making me food,” she teased.
“Uta,” he choked out.
Utahime laughed, every part of her body tingling. A second chance. There would be difficulties—to figure out why she’d died, to find her murderer, to live with her love being untouchable . . . but Utahime knew it would all be worth it. She was alive.