Chapter Text
The Guy in The Back Row (Chap 1 of 2)
Pairing: Suguru Geto x Female Reader.
Genre: Fluffy, Fluffy fluff. (Tiny amount of angst)
Word Count: 8k + (in two chapters)
...
“So, a bunch of us are going out tonight, please tell me you’re coming?” Utahime leans across the desk, hands clasped together in a dramatic plea.
You glance up from your phone, guilt already tugging at your chest. “I’m so sorry, ‘Hime. My dad’s in the hospital again, so I’ve got to cover his shifts after class.”
Her face twists from disappointment to sympathy in seconds. “Oh, crap. Right, I forgot!.” Then, realisation dawns, and dread follows fast. “Wait, that means I have to corral Gojo by myself.”
You can’t help it, a laugh bubbles out of you, loud and unrestrained. “Good luck with that.”
Utahime groans miserably and flops forward, cheek pressed to the desk. “Why does the universe hate me?” she mumbles into the wood.
“Sorry” you say again, still grinning.
“Not your fault” she says, voice muffled by the desk.
You chuckle again, shaking your head, and glance back down at your phone. A message from your dad lights the screen. ’All okay, don’t worry about me. Be safe tonight, kiddo.’
You exhale, shoulders loosening, and type a quick reply before locking the screen. The moment you lean back in your chair, head tipped toward the ceiling, something shifts at the edge of your vision, a flicker of black.
Suguru Geto.
He moves through the lecture hall like a shadow, quiet, unhurried, completely unbothered by the chatter around him. Headphones in, glasses on, hood up, dark hair hanging loose around his face. Even from here, he feels… distant.
He takes his usual seat in the very back, drops his bag to the floor, and pulls a book from it, always the same pattern. The others barely notice him anymore, but your eyes can’t seem to look anywhere else.
You remember induction day, the chaos, the laughter, the cluster of new faces. You’d been introducing yourself to everyone, you’d almost missed him.
He’d been tucked in a corner, hands in his pockets, avoiding the noise. When you’d finally gone over to say hello, he’d looked startled. Wide, wary violet eyes darting around the room, as if waiting for someone to tell him it was a prank. He’d only nodded, before he turned and disappeared.
Since then, you’ve made it your mission to greet him. Every day.
Sometimes you get a nod. Sometimes a small grunt that might have been ‘hey.’ You count either as victories.
“How’s Mr. Mysterious doing today?” Utahime hums, leaning in and following your line of sight.
You nudge her with your elbow, heat rushing to your face. “Stop staring.”
She smirks. “Still ignoring you?”
“Well…” you draw out, pretending to think. “He did nod at me yesterday, so technically, that’s progress.”
“Who’s ignoring who?”
You both jump as a too-loud voice bursts right behind you. Gojo Satoru, in all his chaotic glory, leans between you, sunglasses still on.
Utahime groans audibly, rubbing her temples. “Oh god, not now.”
Gojo grins, unbothered. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Who’s got the mystery admirer?”
The attention turns on you in an instant. You feel it, the stares, the whispers, and then, worse, his gaze.
Your eyes meet Geto’s across the room, just for a moment, but something in your chest stutters violently anyway.
You drop your gaze fast, pretending to fuss with your notebook, praying the flush in your cheeks isn’t obvious.
“Gojo, sit down” Utahime hisses.
“Don’t be mean to me” he whines theatrically, sliding into the chair beside you with a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to make conversation!”
Utahime shoots him a deadpan look, then turns to you with the expression of someone who’s just been handed a life sentence. “I’m going to have to deal with him all day, aren’t I?”
You burst out laughing, bright and unrestrained. Gojo and Utahime’s playful bickering fades into a blur around you, their noise softening into background chatter.
Your gaze drifts instinctively toward the back of the room, to him.
Geto, half-hidden behind the curtain of his dark hair, the afternoon light catching faintly on the silver of his earphones. There’s something grounding about him, something steady and quiet, like he’s the one still point in a room full of motion.
You find yourself wondering what his voice sounds like. You imagine it’s low, soft-spoken, maybe a little hesitant, the kind of voice that could calm a storm if he ever chose to use it.
And for a moment, surrounded by noise and laughter, you wish he would.
...
“Thank you, please enjoy!” you call, voice bright and practiced. You wave as the last customer slips out, a small white box of cakes balanced carefully in their hands.
The bell above the door jingles once, then stills. You exhale hard, your smile falling the instant it clicks shut. Three hours straight on your feet after a full day of classes, your calves ache, your lower back throbs, and the smell of espresso has woven itself into your hair. Another 30 minutes to go.
You start toward the back room to prep for tomorrow’s shift when the bell rings again.
You turn, and freeze.
The guy who walks in looks like he’s stepped out your dreams. Dark hair half tied up, a few strands falling forward to frame his face. A pair of silver snake rings catch the light where they rest against his lower lip. His hoodie hangs loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms. Heavy headphones sit around his neck, the faint buzz of music escaping.
For a second, he looks uncertain, scanning the cozy café like he might’ve wandered in by mistake. Then his gaze lands on you, and something shifts. He straightens, eyes softening, as if this is exactly where he meant to end up.
“H-hello” you manage, a stutter breaking through your usual confidence.
A small smile touches his lips as he gives a slow nod. The motion is so familiar that your stomach flips.
“Hi” he says, voice like chocolate.
And when your eyes finally meet his, you recognise them immediately, those unmistakable violet eyes that always seemed to hide behind dark strands of hair at the back of the room.
Suguru Geto.
Your heart skips, your breath catches. For a second, you realise you’re staring instead of doing your job. You shake your head, forcing on that bright, professional smile.
“What would you like?” you ask, voice cheerful, though a little higher than usual.
He blinks at you once, looking a little lost, before his eyes drop to the display case. Most of the cakes have already sold, but a small selection remains, each one looking perfect under the warm glow of the café lights.
“What’s good?” he asks softly, voice quiet but steady, scanning the pastries with thoughtful eyes.
You laugh, a short, bright sound, and he looks up at you, still blank-faced, which only makes you grin wider.
“Well… they’re all good, but…” you drag the word out, stepping behind the counter and crouching slightly to point at your favourite. “The strawberry shortcake is wonderful.”
He mirrors your crouch, eyes following your finger to the cake, a fluffy sponge layered with whipped cream and crowned with plump, ruby-red strawberries. He smiles softly, meeting your gaze through the glass, and nods once.
“I’ll have that” he says gently.
Your chest warms, a little giddy flutter spreading through you.
“Brilliant!” you chirp, sliding open the glass and lifting the cake carefully onto a plate. “Are you… staying?”
The words slip out more eagerly than intended. You hadn’t wanted him to leave just yet.
“Is it okay if I stay? It’s a little late” he asks hesitantly, glancing at the opening hours posted on the door.
You wave the concern off with a bright grin. “It’s totally fine. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll bring it over.”
He nods once, that same quiet, measured gesture that makes your heart hiccup, and shuffles to a chair by the front window. Golden sunlight spills across his features, catching in his dark hair and glinting off the silver of his piercings.
You turn back to the counter to grab a small serving plate, and notice your hands trembling slightly. “Calm down” you whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath.
You glance over your shoulder to where he’s sat, head propped on one hand, eyes fixed on the hazy sunset. He’s serene in a way that makes you want to know more.
“Do you want something to drink?” you call, heart hammering in your ears. He startles slightly, blinking over at you.
“I’ll make you a hot chocolate” you add quickly, almost a rush, “it’s my favourite.”
He nods once, quietly approving.
You work carefully, measuring chocolate flakes, warming them slowly on the hotplate, whisking until the milk and chocolate blend into a thick, luxuriously smooth liquid. Whipped cream is dolloped on top, and a few marshmallows are placed in the shape of a heart. You arrange everything neatly on a tray, and carry it over, trying not to let your nerves show.
Setting it gently in front of him, you watch as he turns, finally meeting your eyes.
“Thanks” he murmurs, then glances down at the cake. “Wow… looks great.”
“Enjoy!” you chirp, a little too high-pitched, hiding behind a flurry of excitement and nerves.
You linger for a moment, just watching him, before forcing yourself to turn and move away. But your eyes can’t help themselves, they keep drifting back to where he sits, carefully tucking into the cake.
His face is like an open book, each bite brings a new expression, eyes widening in delight, lips parting slightly with surprise, then a slow, contented blink as he sips the hot chocolate. How could someone be so expressive and yet so closed off at the same time? He’s an enigma.
You try not to stare. You straighten plates, rearrange napkins, and wipe down the counter, but your gaze inevitably drifts back. Then a small, catastrophic moment occurs, a stray bit of whipped cream lands on his lip.
You almost squeal.
He pauses, delicately tracing his lip with a fingertip before his tongue flicks out to lick it clean, just like a kitten. Your stomach twists. He’s… he’s just so damn pretty.
Overwhelmed, you slip behind the counter and drop into a crouch, hiding yourself from view. Your hands cover your face as you try to will your racing heart to calm. Minutes pass, or maybe only seconds, before you hear the softest voice.
“Hello?”
You jump, startled, and scramble to your feet, forcing a casual smile that probably doesn’t look casual at all.
“Sorry, I was…” You trail off, trying to come up with an excuse, but nothing fits. Instead, you settle for, “How was everything?”
“It was great, thanks” he says softly, handing you the empty tray. That faint smile lingers, quiet but warm. “See you tomorrow.”
See you tomorrow? Your mind races. Does he mean at school, or here again?
You don’t care. Either way, it’s perfect.
…
You spot him at college the next day, tucked into the back of the lecture hall as always. You summon a warm smile, trying to greet him more personally than usual, but the response is the same, a quiet grunt, almost dismissive, before his hood slides further forward and his attention returns to the book in his hands.
You blink at him, a small pang of disappointment, and turn toward your usual seat.
“Then Gojo gets up on the table, which is insane because he’s so tall he nearly brought down the light fixtures!” Utahime’s hands fly around, painting the chaos in the air as she talks. “And he’s… giving the whole damn bar a strip tease! I swear, I just about stopped him from taking his pants off!”
“I told you not to let him drink,” Nanami interjects flatly, barely glancing up from his notes as you slide into your seat. “He’s a bad drunk. Handsy, too.”
“Oh, I know” Utahime groans, throwing her head back in exasperation. “I had to pull him off a mannequin. It was… exhausting.”
“So… not good?” you ask, letting out a laugh, and her exhausted glare makes it worse. You end up laughing even harder.
“I’m never doing that again” she moans, rubbing her temples with a long-suffering sigh.
You grin, shaking your head at her antics, while in the back of your mind, your thoughts wander, to Geto, across the room still quietly reading.
…
You realise pretty quickly that college Geto and café Geto might as well be two completely different people.
At college, he’s still that distant, hood up, hair down, no piercings, headphones in, speaking only when forced to Geto.
But, in the soft glow of the café, he’s something else entirely. His voice is gentle, his eyes warm, his manner careful but genuine. He answers your questions with quiet politeness, sometimes even smiling.
He always orders the same thing, strawberry shortcake and hot chocolate.
You start adding small touches, just to try and get a reaction. Heart-shaped strawberries, swirls of mocha drawn into hearts on the whipped cream, but he never seems to notice. He just eats quietly, savouring each bite, the faintest sigh escaping him every now and then.
One evening, as you’re setting down his tray, his voice breaks the usual quiet.
“Do you work here every day?”
“Yeah, for now…” you start, pausing when you see his eyes lift to yours expectantly. “My dad’s in the hospital. He had heart surgery, so I’m covering his shifts for a while.”
He looks stricken. “Is he okay?”
The concern in his voice is so sincere it makes your heart flip. “Yeah” you assure him with a soft smile. “He’s recovering well. He just can’t come back to work for some time.”
“So…” he murmurs, gaze dropping to the table. “You’ll be here for a while, then?”
“Yeah” you say, feeling a flutter you can’t quite name.
He smiles faintly, a small, private thing. You want to ask what it means, to hold that moment, but the bell over the door rings as another customer walks in. You turn to greet them, and when you glance back, he’s still smiling.
…
Seeing him every day after college becomes its own little indulgence. You find yourself practically racing to the café, fingers itching to tie on your apron, heart skipping whenever the bell over the door rings.
He’s just so different here.
Your friends start to notice. How you don’t linger when you say goodbye. How your weary sighs after class have turned into content little smiles. Even your dad notices you’ve stopped complaining about your shifts.
Because seeing that door open, seeing him walk in, that soft smile, those gentle eyes, it’s own kind of pain relief.
At school, you still steal glances. Sometimes he catches you, and you both look away too fast, pretending nothing happened. But it always leaves your heart pounding.
“Okay, that’s it, see you all on Monday!” the professor announces, sweeping out the door with his usual flair. Chairs scrape. Conversations spark. The room hums with excited end-of-week energy.
“It’s Friday, baby!” Gojo crows, throwing an arm around you and Utahime at once. Nanami ducks just in time to avoid the chaos.
Utahime wriggles free immediately, face deadpan. “No. I’m not doing it. Absolutely not.”
“Please” Gojo whines, still clinging to you, shaking you dramatically. You just laugh, letting yourself be swung around like a ragdoll.
Then you hear it, the dull thud of something hitting the floor behind you. When you glance back, there’s a book lying open on the ground, right where Geto usually sits.
You look toward the door just in time to catch the hood of his black hoodie disappearing into the hall.
“Hold on” you say, shaking Gojo off. You scoop up the book and dart after him. “Suguru!”
Your voice echoes down the corridor. He freezes instantly. Every head in the hallway turns toward you, but you don’t care, you’re too busy catching your breath as you jog up to him.
“Hey” you say softly, bouncing to a stop in front of him. He lifts his head, hood shadowing most of his face, eyes darting nervously to the people watching.
“You dropped this.” You hold out his book, dusting the cover gently.
He hesitates, reaching for it, but you don’t let go. Your fingers stay wrapped around the spine, keeping him there.
“You coming by the shop tonight?” you ask, grinning up at him, dipping your head so you can meet his eyes under the hood.
There’s a flicker of shock in his face. “You… you recognise me?” he murmurs, voice low, disbelief colouring every word.
You can’t help it, laughter bursts out of you, bright and easy, head thrown back. “You’re so silly! Of course I do.”
You finally release the book, letting him tuck it awkwardly into his bag. But before he can turn to leave, you reach out again, fingers catching his sleeve.
“I saved you your favourite” you say, voice soft. “And I want you to try something new tonight.”
He blinks at you, too stunned to respond.
You let him go with a little twirl, spinning back toward your friends. Before turning the corner, you look back and wave, calling over the noise of the crowd, “Don’t be late!”
For a moment, he just stands there, watching you go, and even through the hood, you swear you can see him smiling.
…
You’re practically buzzing with anticipation, barely able to stand still behind the counter. Every time the bell above the café door jingles, your head snaps up like an eager puppy, only to deflate when it’s not him. A few of your regulars start to notice.
“Oh, that makes me feel super welcome” one of them teases as you as he ambles over, his grin easy and warm.
You laugh sheepishly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, I’m just… waiting for someone.”
“Boyfriend?” he asks, voice full of mischief.
You shake your head quickly, but your blush betrays you.
“Oooh, looks like it is!” he laughs, practically shaking the glass with his booming voice.
“No! Not yet,” you say, hands waving in denial, but the words tumble out too fast, too hopeful.
He chuckles knowingly. “Not yet, huh? You go get him, my girl.”
You smile, secretly slipping an extra pastry into his box before he leaves. As he turns to go, the bell rings again, and there he is.
Suguru Geto.
Your heart leaps before your brain can catch up. The regular catches your expression and, on his way out, shoots you thumbs-up. You can’t help laughing, waving it off.
“Hi!” you greet, far too enthusiastically, nearly bouncing on your heels.
He blinks, hesitant. “You really recognise me?”
You step around the counter to stand in front of him, taking him in properly. His hair’s half-tied in a messy bun, the rest falling loose around his shoulders. The silver of his piercings glints against his skin; his black band tee and hoodie hang comfortably on his frame. He looks completely different from the quiet boy in the lecture hall, but still, undeniably, him.
“How could I not?” you say before you can stop yourself. His brows knit together in confusion. “I’d recognise you from miles away, even in a crowded room.”
His eyes widen. His cheeks flush pink. You realise too late what you’ve said.
“Anyway…!” you blurt, spinning on your heel and ducking into the kitchen before you can make it worse. “I wanted you to try something.”
He follows, his footsteps soft, hesitant, like he’s stepping somewhere he’s not sure he belongs. You turn to face him, holding out a small plate with a pastry glistening under the warm lights.
“Strawberry Choux à la Crème” you announce proudly, your best French accent making him smile.
He takes it gently, setting the plate down to inspect it before taking a big bite. His eyes widen, then soften, a muffled hum of delight slipping from him as he chews.
“Amazing” he manages, mouth still half full of cream and strawberries.
You laugh quietly, reaching up to dab at the powdered sugar on his lips with a napkin.
“Glad you like it” you say softly.
He’s blushing again, chewing slower now. And you can’t help but think that you’d like to make him blush again.
…
“Honestly…” you insist, trying to sound firm even as your voice softens. “I can do this myself. You don’t need to do anything, just drink your hot chocolate.”
“No,” he says simply, tone final but gentle, and lifts another chair and places it upside down on the table.“
You sigh, but you’re smiling. With him helping, closing takes a fraction of the time. He moves quietly but efficiently, sleeves pushed up, hair slipping loose as he works. You find yourself watching him more than wiping, though you do your best to keep your cloth moving in small circles.
It’s strangely comforting, the two of you working side by side, trading small talk about assignments and upcoming tests, his low voice rumbling as you complain about your weekend workload. The café hums quietly around you, the warm scent of coffee and sugar still hanging in the air.
Then, the thought hits you, it’s the weekend. You likely won’t see him until Monday.
You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, he beats you to it.
“Could I come see you tomorrow?”
You freeze. He’s standing across the room now, still as if he’s afraid to take the question back. His fingers are wrapped around his crumpled hoodie, eyes flicking nervously toward you.
“I’d really like that” you answer, far too fast, far too eager. But you don’t care.
His face breaks into the kind of smile that makes your chest ache. He nods once, slipping his hoodie back on, his movements slower now, almost reluctant.
“Okay” he says softly, pulling the hood up over his head. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Suguru.”
He lingers for a heartbeat by the door, the amber light of the café catching in his dark hair. Then he gives you a small, almost shy nod before stepping out. The bell above the door rings quietly in his wake.
And when the sound fades, you realise you’re smiling so hard it hurts.