Chapter Text
Early evening draped itself over Tokyo in a thin veil of early-spring rain—the kind that wasn’t dramatic enough to justify an umbrella but persistent enough to seep through sleeves and patience. The sky had the washed-out look of dark denim left too long in the weather, softened by time and water. Everything felt muted, tired. The sounds of the city jumbled together drowning the thoughts in an annoying unintelligible whisper.
The taxi rolled to a stop in front of Mei Mei’s high-rise building—one of those luxury suburban complexes where even the hedges looked like they’d been interviewed for the job. Pale stone façade. Sleek lighting. A lobby meant to smell faintly of yuzu, wealth, and quiet exclusivity.
Utahime stepped out and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
She felt like a wet cat looking into a warm home, hoping to be taken in. She was painfully aware she did not look like she belonged here.
But she was also too tired to care.
She slung her bag over the shoulder, pushed the suitcase and closed the door of the car as the driver still looked at her wondering if she was in fact at the right place – not even she was sure she was but she was running out of options.
Utahime heaved a sigh, feeling the humidity clinging to her hair.
Oversized oatmeal sweater. Charcoal joggers. Sneakers that had seen better years. Hair in a messy bun that said I’ve officially given up, and dark circles under her eyes like ink smudges she hadn’t bothered to hide.
The universe had found its strongest warrior and was putting her through every test. At least it seemed like it, since it had chosen to immediately reaffirm its stance.
One of the suitcase wheels caught on a manhole cover and refused to move, like this was her final warning not to enter someplace so pristine.
Are you sure, Utahime?
She tugged, lost, then dragged the suitcase behind her with a sound like someone filing down stone—until the wheel cracked and the whole thing wobbled pitifully. The doorman bowed politely, offering a faintly confused Are you sure you’re in the right place? look.
She didn’t blame him.
Inside, the lobby gleamed—reflective marble, warm lighting, the soft hum of expensive air conditioning. Utahime felt like a smudge someone would want to buff out. But she bowed back and made for the elevator with the last scraps of dignity the creaking suitcase wheels didn’t steal.
On her floor, she found what Mei Mei had promised: a black lockbox attached to the wall with a neon pink sticky note.
“Don’t break anything, don’t snoop, and water the monstera.
Don’t bring in strays.
Rent: zero yen. You’re welcome.
— M.”
Utahime snorted—barely—but even that felt like effort. The line about strays didn’t make sense at first; her brain, dulled from three weeks of emotional wreckage, couldn’t process until later, before falling asleep, that Mei Mei meant men, not cats.
The apartment was exactly what she expected.
Actually, worse.
Gorgeous. Minimalist. Expensive. Immaculate.
It was like stepping into a lifestyle magazine spread she’d never subscribe to. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the city was blurred by gentle rain, as if the world was politely averting its eyes. The twinkling like Christmas lights without the lulling music.
The suitcase tipped over behind her with a defeated thud.
The universe is mocking me, she thought.
This is clearly not my life.
She slipped off her sneakers in the genkan, shuffled inside, and dropped her messenger bag. Her only real prized possession—the laptop with her unfinished novel—had sat untouched for weeks.
She changed into even frumpier clothes: a shirt two sizes too big, loose joggers, socks with smiley sushi pieces. Her hair was even frizzier now with the static.
She found leftover rice in the fridge, microwaved it, and ate standing at the counter, listening to the hum of appliances that didn’t belong to her.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t sigh.
She didn’t let herself feel anything.
Not grief. Not anger. Not hope.
Only silence—and the soft rain bathing the city, its pit patter gentle on the balcony.
Morning arrived as a pale smear of washed-out light through Mei Mei’s expensive curtains. Utahime slept the way people sleep after emotional freefall—too hard, too deep, and still not nearly enough.
The guest room felt too hotel-like for her liking: expensive sheets, muted colors, heavy curtains. A place meant for visitors, not for living.
The doorbell dragged her out of her fog. Her head throbbed like sleep clinging to her by the ankles, refusing to let go.
She shuffled to the entryway in an old college t-shirt, hair vaguely vertical and stubborn against gravity, and pink fuzzy socks that clashed aggressively with the apartment’s aesthetic. The shirt had a suspicious stain near the hem – soy sauce? pizza? Who knew. She ignored it.
She cracked open the door. Her eyelids felt too heavy to be fully open.
A delivery man stood there holding a pristine white pastry box tied with a black ribbon, like it had been hand-selected for a luxury commercial.
He checked his clipboard.
“Gojo Satoru-san?”
Utahime blinked.
“…Eh— no?”
He frowned, double-checked the unit number, and frowned even harder. On paper, the 1 looked like a 2.
Of course.
Of course the universe couldn’t even deliver pastries without inconveniencing her.
She exhaled.
“I’ll give it to him.”
The delivery man looked relieved and vanished down the hall—clearly glad to avoid the inconvenience of figuring out who “Gojo Satoru” actually was.
Utahime shut the door, pastry box in hand—only to hear another lock click open behind her. She hurriedly opened the door again and stepped out, in fuzzy sock glory.
She turned—and froze.
There he was.
Apartment 1701. Gojo Satoru.
Tall. Too tall.
Unreasonably striking—like someone had designed him with high-end lighting in mind. UHD. Filters on. From a romantasy book.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, an overcoat draped over his arm, and a single silver cufflink catching the morning light like wealth showing off.
He looked like he lived in a different tax bracket and possibly a different reality.
Oh great, she thought.
He’s beautiful. And rich. And probably annoying.
He gave her a bright, morning-person smile.
“Good morning, neighbor~. I think those are mine.”
She thrusted the pastry box toward him without ceremony.
“Then label your orders properly.”
Gojo blinked—then laughed, genuinely delighted.
Not mocking.
Not condescending.
Just amused, like her bluntness was refreshingly off-script. And he was already too caffeinated.
“Well,” he said, grin widening, “this building is already more fun than I thought.” He rubbed his chin theatrically. “I wonder if they’ll charge this entertainment in my utility bills.”
Utahime stared, deadpan, half-asleep, wearing fuzzy sakura socks and mild resentment.
Not how she planned to start her morning.
“You are definitely not Mei Mei,” he added as he untied the ribbon from the box with graceful fingers.
“Iori Utahime,” she muttered. “I’m house-sitting.”
The less she had to explain, the better.
“Ahh.” Gojo plucked out an éclair and bit into it with indecent enjoyment before offering her the open box. “Take one, Iori-san. A welcome gift from your favorite new neighbor.”
She hesitated.
He smiled like he knew she’d cave.
“My advice,” he added, “is the lemon choux. Sour like you.”
She scowled—but stole a pastry anyway, mumbled a thank you, and shut the door with more force than necessary.
He cackled behind it.
The lobby of Y&G Associates buzzed with early-morning ambition: polished shoes, low voices, the scent of fresh coffee, and too much drive in too small a space—even though the firm owned this floor, the one above, and the one below. Egos in this world were bigger than any property could hold.
Gojo stepped through the glass doors like he owned the building—or at least like he’d had a very good pastry for breakfast and wanted the world to be aware.
Nanami intercepted him near the elevators, immaculate as always. Crisp lines, beige neutrals, hair neat, glasses pristine and a jaw sharp enough to cut someone’s excuses in half.
“You’re late,” Nanami said, not looking up from his tablet.
Gojo flashed him a grin.
“I was bonding with my new neighbor. Sharing pastries, philosophies about life, kind and motivational words.”
Nanami pressed the elevator button with the long-suffering precision of a man who refused to rise to bait.
“If you are attempting to brag about your tryst or sexual partners, I remind you it constitutes sexual harassment in the workplace.”
Gojo gasped, expression utterly appalled and overly dramatic.
“Nanamin! You dirty-minded boy.”
He chuckled, winking.
“I wasn’t. I was an innocent dove, almost scratched by an alley cat.”
The elevator doors slid open. They stepped outside into the floor for the firms’ associates where Gojo’s office was situated though everyone knew he was the first in line to become partner—which was why he was granted so much leeway.
Gojo swirled dramatically while still walking backward.
“But I’ll keep in mind you like naughty bits.”
Nanami’s groan was instant and soul-deep.
Strolling into his office, Gojo winked at his secretary—an older woman who didn’t even blink at his theatrics and who technically had been hired to serve a group of three associates but with Gojo, she had her hands full. She followed him in with a tall, sugary coffee and promptly summarized his morning agenda.
“Getou-san is waiting,” she added before leaving.
Gojo looked up from his mug, foam clinging to his upper lip like he was a misbehaving child. He motioned for her to let Getou in as he licked his lip and pulled a thick file from his briefcase.
Getou Suguru walked in with as much dignity as a public defender could muster. His hair was tied loosely at the back of his neck, but the dark circles under his eyes said he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours—possibly more.
“Please tell me you brought the Saitama case file, Satoru.”
Gojo tossed the folder onto the table.
“You should really start emailing this stuff.”
Both of them knew he couldn’t. Emailing case materials to a lawyer at another firm was traceable—and illegal. But the jab was tradition at this point.
“I’ll take it,” Gojo added. “For free.” He kept sipping his coffee with childish joy and wide eyes.
Getou’s sigh was gentle, but resigned.
A blend of affection and you absolute idiot.
“You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm,” Getou muttered, flipping the file open. “I was asking for advice, not for you to take over.”
Gojo leaned back on his expensive executive chair.
“Too late for that,” he said with a bright, careless smile.
Shoko passed by the office just then, sharp suit, unimpressed expression. She paused in the doorway.
“What are you two scheming about?”
Getou brightened a little. “Shoko.”
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth tilting up. Barely.
“You’re not that cute, Suguru. You need time off or a better job. Preferably both.”
Then her eyes slid to Gojo.
“And you? I give you three months before burnout crashes through that glass wall you call a coping mechanism.”
Getou made a noise of agreement.
Gojo waved them off with all the confidence of a man who had never once taken good advice.
“I am thriving,” he announced grandly.
They looked at him—pristine suit, immaculate cufflinks, easy charm—but they knew the truth better than he did.
Satoru Gojo wore money, talent, and humor like armor.
Underneath, he cared too much.
Way, way too much.
Utahime hadn’t realized how noisy her old neighborhood had been until she moved into Mei Mei’s luxury unit.
Not penthouse luxury—no rooftop pools, no concierge in white gloves—just a quiet that money bought without announcing itself.
Clean halls. Polished stone floors. A plant so big and glossy she’d named it Monstera-sama, because it radiated the kind of leafy arrogance that suggested it paid more taxes than she did.
Her mornings began with soft light spilling through sheer curtains, a warm gold that thawed her brain just enough to pretend she was functional.
She padded across the wooden floor, still adjusting to a place where no neighbor screamed at 3 a.m., no pipes groaned like haunted ghosts, and no one’s bass shook her furniture.
Just her, her laptop, and Monstera-sama judging her from the corner for owning mismatched pajamas.
By the third morning, she had a routine:
Wake up.
Stretch.
Coffee.
(It took three entire days to learn the top-of-the-line coffee machine Mei Mei swore was intuitive.)
Stare at her manuscript cursor until she questioned her life choices.
Water Monstera-sama.
Stare at the plot hole like it personally offended her.
Evenings were for escaping her thoughts. She wandered quiet streets, bought a bento or ramen and a cheap beer, and returned to the balcony—her favorite part of the apartment.
From up here, Tokyo didn’t roar. It hummed. A steady pulse of river, lights, and early sakura blooms—soon to be disgustingly romantic, she was sure, with couples walking together, giggling and whispering.
She’d sit, crack open her beer, and let the breeze steal the day’s frustrations.
Tonight was no different.
She sipped, exhaled, and—
A voice drifted from her right. Low. Warm. Slightly amused.
“Mm, no. Tell Uraume to email me the draft before noon. And to please stop using double spaces.”
She glanced—or tried to. Really, it was barely a glance.
But there he was.
Gojo Satoru.
Her next-door neighbor in a completely different form than the power-suit man she’d met.
Gone was the lawyer sheen.
Tonight he wore a soft grey sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, exposing elegant forearms; dark joggers; and messy white hair that looked like it had opinions about humidity. He paced his balcony, phone in hand, gesturing lazily—serious in a way that made him look painfully human.
Utahime blinked.
Oh.
He had modes.
She didn’t mean to stare.
It just… happened.
Watching him was oddly soothing, like observing a very beautiful, mildly chaotic crane attempting human business tasks. Confusing. Hypnotic.
He ended the call with a sigh and leaned on the railing, elbows propped, shoulders relaxed. For the first time since she’d moved in, he looked genuinely tired.
Maybe he hadn’t seen her.
Which gave her endless bravery.
She let her eyes linger on the soft fall of his hair, the clean line of his profile, the way the light gentled his sharpness.
Ridiculous, she thought.
He was rich. Pretty. Charming. A warning label disguised as a man.
She finished her beer, flicked the can inside, and decided it was bedtime. Before sliding the balcony door shut, she gave him one last glance—still leaning, still quiet, still criminally scenic.
Utahime exhaled.
She truly hoped he wouldn’t turn out annoying.
(Statistically impossible.)
Gojo had noticed her. Not the way he noticed new associates or clients with shady morals.
No—Iori Utahime had slipped into his awareness without permission or explanation, like a small, determined woodland creature in a nature documentary. Probably a chipmunk collecting acorns for winter.
You rooted for them even though you knew the odds.
Every evening, she appeared on her balcony with a konbini bento or instant ramen and exactly one cheap beer.
Never two.
Never none.
A perfect ritual:
Sit.
Sigh.
Glare at the city.
Sip beer.
Eat with the vibes of a person confronting destiny.
Sigh again.
Gojo didn’t mean to watch.
Some things were just constants, like gravity.
Or taxes.
Now, Utahime-on-the-balcony.
And perhaps it said something bleak about his life that this had become a highlight: stepping onto his balcony, pretending to stretch or take a call, and catching a glimpse of the writer next door living her chaotic little routine.
Tonight she was already there. Oversized cardigan, hair tied back, fuzzy socks with sandals, aggressively slurping noodles like they owed her money.
Gojo winced.
A full-body, dramatic, Oscar-worthy wince.
“That’s tragic,” he muttered.
She didn’t hear him.
Unfortunate. That would’ve been comedic gold.
He watched another moment, something tugging warm and unfamiliar in his chest, then made a decision.
A stupid one.
A very Gojo Satoru decision.
Thirty minutes later, Utahime was toweling her hair after her shower when someone knocked.
She froze.
She was wearing her unofficial residency uniform: an oversized Saitama Seibu Lions tee, loose pants, and Gudetama socks that radiated I did not plan for witnesses.
Maybe she imagined it. So she took a deep breath and kept at it. But…
Knock.
Cheerful.
Persistent.
Impossible to ignore.
She opened the door—and blinked. Up.
Gojo Satoru stood there, hair wind-tousled and smug, holding a takeout bag from one of the most offensively expensive tempura places within walking distance. A thick file rested under his other arm. And he wore a grin that should’ve been illegal inside residential buildings.
“Well, lucky for you,” he said, lifting the bag, “I overordered.”
Her cheeks warmed. She glared harder to compensate.
“You did not,” she muttered like an angry child who’d been caught craving snacks.
He gasped. A dramatic, expertly fake, performance-grade gasp.
“Utahime-chan, I am hurt. Deeply. Right in my very soul.” He shook the bag, eyes going wide and tragic. “Are you really going to let perfectly good tempura die in my fridge? Are you that proud?”
She sighed.
The kind of sigh made of 10% annoyance, 15% amusement, and 75% exhaustion from eating sad noodles all week.
And fine—she didn’t care what he thought. She was leaving in a few weeks anyway.
“…Fine.”
His entire face lit up in victorious sunshine.
Monstera-sama judged her from the corner. Utahime ignored it.
They ended up at Mei Mei’s glossy dining table—a table built for people who wore designer loungewear and said things like “pairing notes,” not for a lawyer and his damp-haired neighbor in a giant sports tee.
Utahime unwrapped the meal with reverence she refused to show on her face. She almost bowed to the crispy meal. The smell alone could convert the faithless. Her mouth watered at the sight of perfectly golden tempura.
Gojo set his file aside and leaned one elbow on the table.
“So,” he said casually, “how’s the novel?”
She froze mid-bite. The shrimp was too crispy to pause, so she finished it first.
“…How do you know I’m writing a novel?”
He pointed toward her balcony with his chopsticks.
“You argue with your laptop sometimes.”
Her face flushed to her ears.
“Shut up.”
He laughed—softly this time. Not his showman laugh. Something warmer.
They ate.
She learned he liked anago with pickles because it made the sweetness pop.
He learned she could weaponize sarcasm like a martial art.
Their humor bounced back and forth like conversational ping-pong, sharp and quick, lighting her brain up in a way she didn’t expect.
He teased her tragic konbini dinners.
She mocked his luxury taste buds.
He choked on the spicy sauce.
She informed him he had the tolerance of a toddler.
He looked wounded.
She did not care.
Outside, the city lights shimmered—loud, distant, indifferent.
Inside, it was still.
Too still.
Too nice.
Utahime realized it first: This was dangerous.
Soft, warm, quietly slippery danger. The type that crept up on you and made itself at home.
She set down her chopsticks a little too firmly. Cleared her throat.
“Well. Thanks for the food. You can… go back to whatever you were doing.”
Gojo raised an eyebrow. Just one.
But he nodded.
He collected his untouched file—he’d claimed he always reviewed documents during dinner, yet hadn’t even opened it—and stood.
At the doorway, he glanced back. A low, knowing smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll bring dinner again sometime.”
Not a question. Not even pretending to be one.
She didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
When the door clicked shut, Utahime let out a breath she didn’t remember holding.
This was getting complicated.
Far, far too fast.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, brushing past Monstera-sama.
Utahime tried.
She really tried.
After several days of enduring Gojo’s teasing about her “tragic” eating habits, she decided she should cook something normal. Something befitting a respectable aspiring writer rather than a college student fuelled by caffeine and video games.
A proper meal.
Healthy.
Adult.
Responsible.
The universe, however, had other plans. Of course it did. The universe was her number one antagonist after all.
The stir-fry went wrong first—oil popping like matsuri fireworks.
Then the noodles clumped into a single glutenous blob of despair. A shapeless, grayish lump that matched her life a little too poetically.
Then the soy sauce spilled.
Everywhere.
How? She had no answers. None.
Smoke began curling from the pan like it was trying to escape its mortal vessel.
And then the fire alarm screamed to life.
Monstera-sama absolutely would’ve cackled if it could.
Panicking, Utahime grabbed a towel and began flapping it at the smoke detector with all the grace of a startled chicken. The alarm shrieked louder. She coughed. The pan hissed in judgment.
And then—
BANG BANG BANG.
“Utahime?!”
The door flew open before she even reached for it.
Gojo Satoru barreled in wearing a white t-shirt, joggers, and an expression hovering somewhere between concern and “dear God, why.”
“…Did you summon a demon?”
She glared. “I was cooking.” She blinked at him like the clueless heroine of a shoujo anime.
He surveyed the disaster:
Smoke.
A single pathetic shriveled shiitake mushroom on the floor.
Soy sauce dripping down the cabinets like the apartment was bleeding. A cursed place.
Utahime wielding a towel like a medieval weapon.
“I can see that,” he deadpanned. “The question is why.”
Before she could respond, he strode to the stove, turned everything off, slid open the floor-to-ceiling windows, and gently relieved her of the towel.
“There,” he said warmly. “No more kitchen apocalypse.”
She crossed her arms tightly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be nice and smug. It’s annoying.” She was being petulant but she didn’t care.
He grinned, bright and wicked.
“Come on. You’re officially banned from cooking. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“My place,” he said, tapping her forehead lightly. “I’m ordering sushi anyway. And you clearly need sustenance after trying to burn down the building. Being this messy is exhausting. Trust me—I’m an expert.”
She muttered curses the entire walk across the hallway.
He heard all of them.
Laughed at every single one.
His apartment was the opposite of Mei Mei’s sleek, curated space.
Warmer. Lived-in.
Soft lighting, a stack of law books on the coffee table with a faint mug ring, a slightly tangled blanket on the couch, a citrus candle burning low, music playing quietly in the background—something hip-hop, she guessed.
Gojo handed her a glass of water.
“To calm the adrenaline,” he said.
She sat at his dining table, cheeks still burning, trying not to gawk at him in his natural habitat. This was Gojo off guard—domestic, relaxed, oddly comforting.
He plopped down across from her and started rambling.
Court delays.
A judge who mispronounced his client’s name.
A coworker who wouldn’t stop hitting “reply all.”
Against her will, she relaxed.
Then she noticed the open folder next to his elbow. Pages half-read, notes scribbled in hurried handwriting.
Her eyes drifted to it out of instinct—reader’s instinct, writer’s instinct, human instinct.
Her brow furrowed.
“You missed something.”
Gojo stopped mid-ramble.
“…Huh?”
She reached over, swiped the file like she owned it, and pointed.
“Motivation isn’t money—it’s shame. Look. He hid the receipts. If he wanted to simply steal, he’d use cash. These are online purchases he’s embarrassed to buy in person and under his name, which is why he used the company card. He’s hiding something, but it’s not fraud.”
Gojo blinked at her.
Once.
Twice.
His brain clicked audibly.
“That…” he said slowly, dramatically, “…makes so much sense it’s terrifying.”
She shrugged. “I write novels. People hide things in plain sight. It’s not hard to catch if you pay attention.”
He stared at her—really stared—and then—
He grinned.
Bright. Delighted.
Like she’d just handed him a brand-new universe.
“My next-door counsel,” he declared.
She threw a napkin at his face.
“Don’t call me that.”
He caught it without breaking eye contact.
Still smiling.
She left his apartment with miso warmth in her stomach and a strange warmth in her chest. She hadn’t smiled like that in weeks—maybe months.
Behind her, Gojo leaned against the doorframe as it closed, humming. Actually humming. Like someone had poured sunlight straight into his bloodstream.
That night, they both fell asleep thinking about each other without meaning to.
Two lonely people, unknowingly cracking each other open.
The next morning came with a decisive ring of the doorbell.
Utahime shuffled over, hair a mess, eyes half-open, groaning like the undead.
It was the same delivery man from the pastry incident.
She sighed. “I am not Gojo Satoru.”
But the man smiled and held out a pristine white box—smaller this time, tied with a pale blue ribbon.
“Iori Utahime-san?”
“…Yes?”
He handed it to her.
“There’s a note.”
Inside, in elegant handwriting:
In case you don’t get my pastries, enjoy these.
— Satoru
Utahime groaned, blushing so hard it felt like a fever.
“This cannot be happening.”
But it was.
And it was only the beginning.