Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was 3:42 AM when Senku got the call.

The screen lit up against his cluttered desk, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Just stared. His study lamp cast long shadows across open textbooks and half-scribbled formulas, but none of it held his attention now.

Your name blinked on the screen. Again.
Again.

Again.

The first time it rang, he thought about letting it go.
The second time, he muted it.
By the third, his throat was tight.

He pressed the phone to his ear.

All he heard was static, unsteady breathing, then your voice—warped by alcohol and something deeper, something cracked:

“Senkuu… I’m—hah—s’dumb. I can’t find my keys—I dunno. I was just—I didn’t mean to call you. Wait. Did I call you?”

And then the sound of you laughing.
Sloppy. Hysterical. Hollow.

He swallowed, his hand already reaching for his coat. “Where are you?”

Your apartment was a mess when he got there—front door propped open by a shoe, the faint hum of the heater barely masking the sound of your sobbing. The lights were all off, save for the kitchen, where the fridge door was open like you’d tried to get something and forgot halfway through.

You were on the floor.

Knees tucked in. One sock missing. A puddle of something on the tile—maybe water, maybe vodka. Probably both. Your phone lay a few feet away, buzzing silently with low battery. The sleeve of your hoodie was soaked where you’d wiped your face too many times. You didn’t even look up when he stepped in.

“Senku…” you slurred, head lolling slightly as you tried to sit up straighter, “You came.”

He knelt beside you, slow. Careful. Like you were made of something breakable.

You were, these days.

“Don’t talk. You’re gonna throw up if you keep talking,” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your face with clinical precision—like it didn’t ache just to touch you. “Where’s the bucket?”

You pointed vaguely toward the bathroom. Wrong direction.

He found it anyway.

You gagged so hard it sounded like your lungs might give out. And when the wave passed and you were just slumped forward, hair stuck to your cheek and breath shuddering, Senku stayed there. Kneeling. Silent. Thumb pressing gently to the back of your neck to steady you.

“…I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said. And not unkindly.

You tilted your head, blinking slow and glassy. “You’re not supposed to come anymore.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. “You’re not supposed to call me.”

“…I didn’t mean to.”

“You never do.”

Your breath hitched. A fresh set of tears welled up and slid sideways across your cheeks as you swayed, dizzy and pale. “Why’d you come?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood and filled a glass of water, kneeling again to hold it to your lips. His hands were steady even though yours weren’t.

“Because if I didn’t,” he said, finally, softly, “you’d be doing this alone.”

You took a sip. Barely.

“…I am alone.”

Senku exhaled—sharp, tired. Not angry. Just… hollow.

“You weren’t supposed to get like this.”

“Well. You shouldn’t’ve taught me how to love you, then left.”

He froze. Just for a second. Then shifted to press the back of his hand to your forehead, as if checking your temperature would give him an excuse not to answer.

You leaned into the touch anyway.

The first time you almost passed out, Senku caught you.

Not in some grand, romantic way. Not like a movie. Just—quietly. Instinctively. One hand behind your back, the other catching your arm before your skull could meet tile. You were heavy and boneless in his grip, mumbling something he couldn’t make out.

He lowered you gently to the floor and stayed there.

“Sit up,” he said, voice low.

You groaned.

“Hey. You’ll choke if you lie down like that.”

You grumbled something slurred and unintelligible. He pressed two fingers to your wrist to check your pulse. Not too fast. Not irregular. You were okay. Physically.

Emotionally?

You were wrecked.
And you did this to yourself.
Again.

Senku stood and moved around your apartment like he still knew where everything was. And he did. Your bathroom cabinet still had the same expired Advil. Your kitchen still had the same crooked drawer. Your bed still had that same threadbare blanket he used to throw over your legs when you fell asleep studying.

He brought back a wet towel and a clean shirt—one of yours. Black. Oversized. The one you used to steal from him, before it started smelling like you instead.

He crouched beside you again.

“Can you lift your arms?”

You stared at him blearily. “Wha…?”

“You threw up on yourself,” he said flatly. “Your shirt smells like shit. Arms up.”

You obeyed sluggishly, and he pulled your shirt over your head with practiced gentleness. Eyes averted. Movements clinical. But his hands were careful—always careful. Always respectful, like he still remembered the shape of you when you weren’t like this.

You slurred something.

“What?”

“I said you’re pretty,” you hiccupped. “For a bastard.”

Senku huffed a laugh. Dry. Tired. “Sure. Thanks.”

You touched his face with clumsy fingers. “Why’d you leave?”

He didn’t answer. Just guided your hand away and slipped the clean shirt over your head.

“I would’ve gotten better,” you murmured, breath fogging against his neck.

“I know,” he said.

“I would’ve changed.”

“I didn’t want you to change.”

“Then why—”

“You were already killing yourself trying to make me happy.” His voice cracked, so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “I didn’t want to be something else you had to survive.”

Your lower lip trembled. He wiped your face with the towel, even though fresh tears were already spilling.

“You don’t love me anymore.”

He didn’t move.

“I can feel it,” you whispered, drunk and broken. “You stopped.”

His hands paused on your face. Just for a second.

Then he stood.

“You need water.”

He helped you to your bed like he’d done it a hundred times before. Let you lean against him, legs barely working, your head lolled against his shoulder like it belonged there. He tucked you in. Sat beside you. Watched your eyes flutter, half-closed and feverish.

“You still smell like my old hoodie,” you mumbled, voice syrup-thick with sleep. “I bet you still sleep on my side of the bed.”

His jaw clenched.

“You do,” you said, eyes slipping shut. “You do.”

He looked at you for a long time. So long the clock on your nightstand clicked past 4:30 AM. His fingers hovered at your hairline, brushing a strand behind your ear with the kind of touch that said I shouldn’t be here.

But he was.

You were almost asleep when he whispered it.

“…I never stopped.”

Then he stood. Was gone before you could open your eyes.

The door clicked shut behind him.

5:03 AM.

Senku’s hands were steady, but his notes weren’t making sense.

He sat hunched over his desk, shoulders stiff beneath a hoodie he hadn’t changed out of since leaving your apartment. The soft click of glass against glass filled the small space—pipettes, beakers, the faint bubble of a slow reaction—but everything felt… muted. Off. Like the air itself was too thick, and even the fluorescents above him were too quiet.

He adjusted the flame on the Bunsen burner. It hissed in protest. So did he.

The solution wasn’t separating properly. His measurements were off. He was off.

Senku muttered something under his breath, reached for a pipette, missed it, and knocked over a half-full flask instead.

Glass hit the table. Liquid spread across his notes.

“Fuck—”

He shoved back from the desk, hard enough that the stool screeched against the floor. He stood in the middle of his lab, fingers twitching, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

He stared at the spill for a moment. Then at his hands.

Why were they still shaking?

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like the pain might ground him. It didn’t. He walked to the window instead, pushed it open. The cold air hit him sharp in the lungs.

Across campus, the sky was starting to lighten. A weak blue-gray creeping over the rooftops.

He thought of you.

Slumped over your bed, tear-streaked and hiccuping, whispering things you wouldn’t remember in the morning.

You still smell like my old hoodie.

He was still wearing it.

Senku pressed a fist against his mouth and exhaled hard through his nose. Didn’t let the sound out. Not really. Not the way it wanted to come out—ugly and cracked and fucking honest.

You don’t love me anymore.

He swallowed.

You were drunk. Out of your mind. You wouldn't remember. You never did.

And yet.

“I never stopped,” he whispered to no one.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

He went back to the desk eventually. Cleaned the spill with practiced motions, rewrote the notes. Tried again. The same simple reaction. A yield he could predict with his eyes closed. Something—anything—he could control.

But even then, all he could think about was your voice.
Your tears.
Your hands in his hair.

Why’d you leave?
I would’ve changed.

He gritted his teeth and turned up the flame.

The solution boiled over. Another failure.

He didn’t move.

Just stared at the bubbles fizzing out like they meant something. Like they could burn the memory out of him if he watched long enough.

Your head was pounding.

Not the dull ache kind. The sharp, hot kind. Like someone had wedged a chisel between your temples and twisted it for fun.

The light bleeding through your window made you groan. You pulled the blanket over your face. Your mouth tasted like cotton soaked in regret. Your stomach turned once, then again—lightly threatening mutiny.

You sat up.

Bad idea.

The room tilted like it wanted to slap you for existing. You pressed your palms to your eyes and tried to remember how much you’d drunk.

Vodka. Straight. Stupid.

You remembered crying.

You remembered laughing too loud at something that wasn’t funny.

You remembered—

...no. That was it. Just static after that. Like someone had blacked out the reel halfway through.

You staggered out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, hand against the wall for balance. You could still taste bile at the back of your throat, and your hoodie—your favorite one—reeked of sweat and cheap alcohol.

When you reached the fridge, you opened it out of instinct.

And paused.

Because sitting neatly on the top shelf was:

• A sealed water bottle.

• A piece of toast wrapped in a napkin.

• A cold pack.

• And—

• A note.

Your stomach sank before your eyes could even focus on the handwriting.

It was neat. All caps. Too precise to be anyone else’s.

“DRINK THE WATER FIRST. TAKE SMALL SIPS.
EAT. THEN SLEEP AGAIN.
– S.”

Your breath hitched.

You stared at it like it might explain everything. It didn’t. It just sat there. In his handwriting. On your fridge. Like a ghost with edges.

You touched the paper gently. It felt real.

And now the gaps in your memory started filling in.

Slowly. Disjointed.

Him wiping your face. His hands pulling your shirt over your head with careful fingers. His voice—low, worn out, telling you to sit up so you wouldn’t choke. The press of something cool against your forehead.

You covered your mouth.

Senku had been here.

The toast was dry, but you ate it anyway. The water was lukewarm, but you drank every drop. You sat at your kitchen table in silence, staring at the note like it might change.

Like it might say something more if you looked long enough.

You tried not to think about what you’d said.
What he might’ve heard.

You don’t love me anymore.
I would’ve gotten better.
Why’d you leave?

God. You felt sick all over again.

You stared down at the glass in your hands and whispered, just once, to no one:

“…Why did you come?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was raining when you got to campus. Not dramatically—just enough to soak your backpack straps and make your hair cling annoyingly to your neck.

You were late.

Not “show-up-at-the-end-of-class” late. Just late enough that walking in would be noticed. That everyone would already be seated. That your usual quiet spot in the middle row would be—
Gone.

You shoved open the lecture hall doors with a breathless mutter of shit, scanning for any open seat.

And that’s when you saw him.

Senku.

Also late. Also pausing in the doorway. His hood was still half up, damp hair sticking to his forehead in pale strands. He looked up the same moment you did.

Your eyes met.

Everything stilled.

Just for a beat.

No nod. No smile. Just that awful shared stillness—the one you’d perfected since the breakup. The one that said I see you. I remember everything. And I don’t know what to do about it.

The room was full.

Except—

Two seats.

End row. Right side. Together.

Of course.

You hesitated. He did too.

Then, wordlessly, like you both hated yourselves just a little bit more than usual, you made your way down. Sat without speaking.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then you glanced sideways.

He was taking out his notebook. Mechanical pencil between his fingers. Same posture, same steady composure.

Except.

Your heart stuttered.

The ring.

On his pinky.

Your ring.

The one with the scratched edge and the faint engraving you never told anyone about. The one you swore you lost during a move. The one you’d convinced yourself he threw out.

But it was there.

On him.

Now.

You turned to him, mouth parting, breath catching in your throat.

And before you could say anything—

“Alright, everyone,” the professor called from the front, clapping her hands together. “Settle in. I hope you’ve done the reading because today we’re starting the midterm project—”

You blinked, distracted.

She continued.

“You’ll be working with the person beside you.”

Your soul left your body.

Senku’s pencil paused mid-sentence. Slowly—like someone operating dangerous machinery—he turned his head to glance at you.

Your eyes met again.

The professor kept talking—details, guidelines, timelines—but it all sounded like static.

You were going to spend three weeks working beside him.

In close proximity.

In collaboration.

And he was wearing your ring.

The lecture ended ten minutes ago.

Everyone else had already filtered out—laughing, chatting, tapping out texts as they filed into the hallway and left you behind. The room had emptied fast, save for the two of you.

You sat in the back row, still as stone, staring blankly at your closed notebook.

Senku hadn’t moved either.

Your backpack was still on the floor beside you, untouched. Your hands rested in your lap, clenched slightly like you were bracing for something, anything, everything—but nothing came.

He was next to you, two feet away.

Two feet that used to feel like nothing. That used to vanish when his thigh leaned against yours or when your fingers brushed under the table. But now—

Now they felt like a goddamn canyon.

You could feel his presence beside you, stiff and quiet, like he was debating whether to speak or run.

You could feel your own heart pounding in your ears.

You glanced sideways. So did he.

Your eyes met.

Again.

Neither of you spoke.

Your gaze flicked down.

To his hand.

The ring. Still there. Shining faintly in the overhead lights. Your ring, on his hand.

It burned.

You swallowed hard.

He didn’t move. Just… looked at you. With that unreadable, unreadable expression.

And just as your lips parted, breath caught, ready to whisper something—anything—

“Hey, lovebirds,” your professor called from the front of the room, not looking up from her laptop. “Class ended ten minutes ago. Don’t make me turn off the lights on you.”

You flinched. So did he.

Senku stood up in one smooth motion, slinging his bag over one shoulder. You scrambled for your own, fingers slipping once, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to make a run for it first.

You both stepped out into the aisle at the same time.

Both paused.

Both stared.

You opened your mouth.

He said nothing.

And then—just like that—he turned and walked away.

You weren’t following him.

You were just… walking.

At the same time. In the same direction. Toward the same place.

The path from lecture to the library was familiar. Muscle memory. You used to make this walk together on Mondays and Wednesdays—swing by the café for shit coffee and half-assed croissants before planting yourselves at the same quiet table near the back.

You never changed your routine.

Apparently, neither did he.

So now here you were.

Walking side-by-side in excruciating silence.

The rain from earlier had stopped, but the air still felt heavy. Damp. Like the sky was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

You opened the library doors together. Didn’t speak. Didn’t make eye contact. You both knew exactly where you were going.

Same table.

Back left corner.

Away from the windows.

Quiet. Safe. Familiar.

Familiar felt like a weapon now.

You dropped your bag into the chair across from him and sat slowly, staring at the table like it had betrayed you.

He was already pulling out his laptop.

Click. Open. Scroll.

You couldn’t take it. The silence. The ring. The absence of what used to be so effortless.

But still—you said nothing.

You busied yourself with your own laptop. Opened a document. Highlighted random lines of text. Pretended not to steal glances at the way his fingers moved. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t sigh. Just kept reading.

And then—

“So.”

You looked up.

Senku didn’t glance at you. His eyes stayed on his screen, but his voice was quieter than usual. Lower. Like even he didn’t know if this was the right thing to say.

“The rubric says we need to identify a real-world aerospace issue and design a multi-phase solution.”

Your stomach twisted. He was doing that voice. His neutral, calculated, “this is just about the assignment” voice.

He kept going.

“We can split the deliverables evenly. You want the structural engineering portion, or propulsion systems?”

You blinked.

There was no snark. No teasing. No us. Just two exes sharing oxygen and a project outline.

You cleared your throat.

“You always handled propulsion before.” Your voice came out a little hoarse, and you hated that it did.

Senku paused.

“Right.”

Then, softer: “Okay.”

The silence that followed felt louder than before. He clicked something. You highlighted more text. And even though neither of you said it—

You both knew this wasn’t going to stay just about the project.

The table was silent.

Utterly, oppressively silent.

The only sounds were the low hum of fluorescent lights above, the occasional flip of a page, and the soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Senku typing on his laptop.

Your laptop, by comparison, had gone untouched for three minutes. Maybe four. You were staring at the blinking cursor in a blank document, the title—“Midterm Project: Multi-Phase Aerospace Proposal”—mocking you in Times New Roman.

Across from you, Senku didn’t look up once.

His posture was impeccable, as always—elbows off the table, back straight, eyes scanning between his screen and the blueprint sketches he’d printed out earlier. He held a pencil between his fingers like he was solving an equation for NASA, occasionally scribbling notes in the margins or adjusting data models with subtle frowns.

You used to love watching him work.

Now?

It was unbearable.

Every time his fingers moved, every time he adjusted his glasses, every time he exhaled through his nose—you remembered.

The way he used to lean across the table and whisper dumb space puns in your ear.

The way his fingers used to trace absent circles on your wrist while you brainstormed.

The way he used to laugh when you’d mess up and blame the gravity in the room.

None of that existed now.

Just silence. Calculations. Drafting. Distance.

“Hey.”

His voice was quiet, but it still startled you.

You looked up too fast. “What?”

Senku glanced at his screen. Didn’t look at you. “The altitude adjustment calculations you did... They’re off.”

You felt heat rise in your chest. “Sorry.”

“I corrected them,” he added, and slid a printout across the table to you.

You took it with numb fingers. Your handwriting stared back at you—clumsy, rushed, mismatched numbers now circled in red pencil.

His red pencil. The one he used to lend you.

You still had another one of his somewhere in your drawer. You meant to give it back.

You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect you to.

Thirty minutes passed.

You typed. He typed. You wrote. He clicked. You accidentally tapped your pen against the table in a steady rhythm, and when he glanced up at the sound, your eyes met—and you both looked away immediately.

Your knee brushed his under the table.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

But suddenly your pulse was in your ears.

An hour later, the table was cluttered with open textbooks, notepads, your laptop charger snaking across to the outlet between you. You both reached for the same engineering reference book at once.

Your hands touched.

Senku jerked his hand back like the book was on fire.

You didn’t say anything. Just handed it to him wordlessly and resumed typing, though your fingers felt like static and your eyes burned.

He cleared his throat softly, shifting in his seat.

The ring was still there.

Still on his pinky.

Still catching the light every time he turned a page.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why are you wearing that?” you asked, too quiet.

Senku froze. Completely. Mid-scroll.

Then slowly lowered his hand.

He didn’t look up. Not yet. Just let the silence expand again until you hated it more than his answer.

And then, quietly:

“Because I didn’t want to forget how it felt.”

Your breath hitched.

He still didn’t look at you.

Back to silence.

Back to calculations.

Back to pretending you were just partners on a project and not two people actively bleeding in real time.

The rhythm becomes a routine.

A miserable, suffocating, predictable routine.

You and Senku meet in the library three times a week.

You don’t plan it.

You just… show up. At the same time. At the same table.

Neither of you ever say why.

You speak only when necessary.

Project deadlines. Page numbers. Metric conversions. Flight patterns.

The rest?

Silence.

It’s not peaceful silence. Not the kind you used to share in the quiet hours of the night, legs tangled on his dorm bed, working under dim lamplight while his hand rested against your ankle like it belonged there.

No.

This silence is violent.

Like your hearts are screaming behind glass.

He still wears the ring.

Every time you look up, it’s there. A flash of silver against skin. Mocking you.

And he never explains it. Never brings it up again.

Just wears it like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t leave. Like you didn’t shatter.

It makes you want to scream.

Sometimes, you find yourself watching him when he isn’t looking. Studying the crease between his brows. The way he pushes his hair back when he’s frustrated. The way he still mouths numbers when he’s deep in thought.

God, you hate that you still remember how he tastes.

How he sounds when he’s laughing.

How he used to say your name like it meant something holy.

You hate that you still love him.

The overhead lights buzz softly. The air in the lecture hall is too still, too sharp. The kind that clings to your clothes and makes every cough echo tenfold.

You’re sitting next to Senku again.

Of course you are.

Third row from the front, center section—same side, same posture, same space you’ve shared with him for the last year, back when you’d bump knees and whisper half-distracted notes into his ear and he’d mutter some smug reply that made you snort-laugh through your nose like an idiot.

But now?

Now your laptops glow coldly between you.

Now the space between your chairs is measured. Deliberate.

Now, it’s just stiff air, not static.

He doesn’t say a word.

Neither do you.

He’s been working on the final edits of the report for the past twenty minutes, eyes scanning, pen occasionally scratching a note on the side margin—flawless, fast, impossible.

You’re pretending to review your half of the slide deck, but you’re not really reading. Not when your whole body feels like it’s vibrating just from sitting beside him.

You can feel him breathing.

You glance sideways.

He’s so composed. He always is. Lips pressed in that same line, hair messier than usual, hands steady as hell. That damn ring still on his pinky. Like he doesn’t even realize it’s there. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

Like it didn’t used to sit on your nightstand with your rings, next to his watch and your hoodie, in that life you both pretended didn’t exist anymore.

You look away fast. The heat crawling up your throat makes your stomach churn.

You hate this.

You hate how easy it is to remember what it was like to love him.

One week later, The Presentation Check-In.

“Alright!” your professor calls from the front of the room, voice a little too chipper for the emotional dread simmering in your chest. “Let’s get into today’s check-ins. I want clarity, technical depth, and a real idea of how far along you are.”

She scrolls through her list. You pray for time.

And then:

“Senku and Y/N?”

Your heart skips.

He exhales beside you—barely audible—and then closes his laptop in one smooth motion.

You follow suit. Your legs feel like concrete as you rise.

He walks first. You follow. The walk to the front feels like crossing a battlefield.

You don’t speak.

You connect his laptop to the projector. He opens the presentation.

Slide one. Title screen. Your names in clean font.

You avoid looking at it too long.

He begins. Of course he does. Senku always starts with the technical breakdown.

His voice is the same low, even tone you’ve always known—confident, focused. He moves through the first few slides like second nature, explaining the propulsion optimization model with one hand in his pocket, the other lazily holding the remote.

He’s not even reading the slides. He never does. It’s all in his head.

You watch him with this dull, hollow ache forming in your chest. You used to be so in awe of him. Still are. But now there’s something bitter curling around the edges of that awe.

Then it’s your turn.

You clear your throat. Click to the next slide.

“We handled structural reinforcement through phase-based load distribution. I applied a variable-mass compensation model to ensure launch viability at stage two...”

You keep talking, but your voice is too tight. You’re too aware of him beside you. Too aware of how it used to be easy. Natural. Collaborative.

Yours.

Now it just feels like a performance.

You get through the slides.

People clap. Your professor seems pleased.

You exhale.

You think it’s over.

Until someone calls out:

“Damn, that was smooth. You two work together, like, weirdly well.”

Laughter. A few murmurs.

And then, because fate is cruel:

“Weren’t you guys dating or something?”

Everything freezes.

Your spine straightens. Your heart lurches.

Senku doesn’t move.

Someone snickers. You don’t even know who—it doesn’t matter. You feel like every molecule of oxygen has vanished from the room.

And then, after a long pause—

A voice. Low. Hoarse. Controlled.

“Yeah.”

Everyone turns.

Senku’s eyes are still on the screen, but his expression is twisted. Barely composed. There’s a tiny crack in the armor.

You feel it before you see it.

“I left.”

The words hang there like they’ve been pulled out of him by force. Like he’s only just now realizing he said them aloud.

Your breath stutters.

The silence is deafening.

Senku blinks. Slowly. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His voice drops lower, almost like he’s speaking just to you now. Only to you.

“I thought it’d be better if I wasn’t part of the things weighing you down.”

“I thought—if I left—you’d stop compromising for me.”

“But I think all I did was ruin something good.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic.

But it breaks you anyway.

There are people watching, eyes darting between the two of you like it’s a car crash they can’t look away from. But none of it registers. You can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in your ears.

He turns. Grabs his laptop. Unplugs the cord without looking at you.

And walks out.

Gone again.

Just like that.

Chapter Text

You didn’t think.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

By the time you reached the hall outside the lecture room, the door was still slowly closing behind Senku’s retreating figure, and you barely slipped through before it shut completely.

The air was heavy. Not just from what had happened, but from the weather—thick, warm pressure clinging to your skin like a second layer. You barely registered the roll of thunder overhead, distant but rumbling close. The building’s lights flickered slightly as if the universe itself were holding its breath.

You spotted him just past the quad.

Walking fast. Hoodie up. Shoulders hunched like he could fold into himself and disappear.

You ran.

You didn’t care that your shoes were slipping in the wet grass. That you’d left your bag behind. That people might see. Might talk.

You just needed to reach him.

“Senku!” you shouted, breath catching.

He didn’t stop.

Not until your hand caught his wrist—half-stumbling, half-collapsing into his side, rain already beginning to spatter your arms like cold fingertips.

He jerked away out of instinct, not cruelty. His eyes wild and unsure when they landed on yours.

His voice came out rough. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t think there was one that wouldn’t sound like a sob.

But still—your fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Please,” you whispered. “Just… come somewhere we can talk.”

He hesitated.

Then nodded once.

The storm hit harder as you ducked into the side stairwell of the science building—a back exit no one really used, half-forgotten, filled with concrete walls and a single flickering fluorescent overhead. It smelled faintly of metal and old dust. The kind of place that felt out of time.

Senku stood by the door, arms crossed. His hair was damp, strands sticking to his forehead, and his hoodie clung to him, soaked at the edges. You were drenched too, water dripping from your sleeves, but neither of you moved to fix it.

The silence was worse than the rain.

It stretched.

Tight.

Ugly.

Unforgiving.

Finally, you spoke.

Voice small. Tired.

“What the fuck was that?”

Senku didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. His gaze didn’t meet yours.

You stepped closer.

“Why would you say that? In front of everyone. Like that.”

He let out a bitter laugh—short and humorless. “Because if I didn’t, I was going to lie. And I’m so fucking tired of lying like everything’s fine.”

Your chest caved in on itself.

“So you tell the truth now? After everything? After leaving like I was a to-do list you finally finished?”

That made him look at you. Sharp. Hurt.

“Don’t,” he said. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I don’t know what it was for you,” you snapped. “You never told me anything. You shut down. You shut me out.”

“I was drowning,” he shouted, sudden and sharp. “And you kept asking me to swim faster.”

The silence returned, but this time it hurt.

You blinked through the burn in your eyes.

“Is that really what you think I did?”

He didn’t answer.

You took a step back. Then another. Like his silence was toxic. Like it stung.

“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect, Senku,” you whispered. “I just wanted you to try. With me. For us.”

He let out a breath, unsteady. Like something inside him cracked just a little.

“I was trying,” he said. “So hard I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating on days I knew I had to show up for you. I put every last scrap of energy into being what I thought you needed.”

“I never asked for that,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know. But I thought… if I just held everything together, we’d make it.”

You stared at him.

“You could’ve told me. You could’ve let me carry some of it.”

He laughed again—this time smaller. Sadder.

“I didn’t want you to carry the parts of me I hate.”

And there it was.

The real reason.

You let the words sink in. Let them twist and bruise and settle deep.

He hadn’t left because he didn’t love you.

He left because he didn’t believe you could love the version of him he was becoming.

“I thought we were building something together,” you said. Your voice barely more than a breath. “Even when it was hard. Even when we were fucked up and tired and scared. I thought—”

You cut yourself off.

Senku was looking at you now. Not with calculation. Not with defensiveness.

But with something raw. Something broken.

“I did too,” he said. “I think I still do.”

That silenced you.

Rain pattered hard against the emergency exit. Somewhere above, thunder cracked.

You wiped your sleeve under your nose. You weren’t even trying to be composed anymore.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate not knowing how to talk to you.”

He stepped forward. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I hate that I still think about calling you every night,” he said. “And then don’t. Because I think maybe you’re better off not hearing from me.”

You looked at him.

“Do I look better off?”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“No.”

You sat down on the bottom step, because standing hurt too much.

He sat next to you.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The rain was the only sound.

You could hear your own breathing. His.

And then, softly:

“I don’t think we ever stopped caring,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “We just stopped showing it.”

You looked down at his hand.

The ring was gone now.

But you didn’t ask why.

You both knew the answer.

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter.

“What now?”

He looked at you. Really looked. No masks. No walls.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Me neither.”

You realized your backpack was missing halfway back to your dorm.

You’d left it behind in the lecture hall after the presentation. In the turmoil. In the hurt. After chasing Senku down in the rain like your ribs were cracked open.

And now, of course, it was gone.

Of course.

You texted a class group chat. Checked with the professor. Nothing. Probably picked up by someone else or locked away until morning.

You stood in the hallway, drenched again—colder this time—with nothing but your phone and a rising, bitter laugh in your throat. Your jacket was in the bag. Your keys. Your charger. Your ID. And your roommate, because fate was hilarious, had just posted an Instagram story from three states away, smiling in front of some national park sign with the caption “no cell service, don’t die lol!”

Perfect.

Your options were to sleep in a stairwell or text him.

And you hated that you didn’t even hesitate.

Senku’s reply was instant.

come over.
i’ll leave the door cracked.

And that was it.

No follow-up. No questions.

Like he knew you wouldn’t ask unless it was serious. Like he’d been expecting it, somehow.

You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You just walked. Fast.

The sky had darkened into a heavy navy blue, stars swallowed by the city’s dim light pollution. Your shoes were soaked. Your fingers were freezing. But your chest ached worst of all.

His dorm looked the same.

Still too clean.

Still organized to a fault. Still lit with that warm, soft overhead bulb that made the space feel smaller. Quieter.

He looked up from where he sat at his desk, eyes darting toward the door as you stepped in and shut it quietly behind you.

His expression didn’t shift.

Not visibly.

But you saw the tension in his shoulders. The way he stood too straight. Like he was bracing for something.

“Thanks,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “I just need to crash for the night. I’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

Senku nodded. “You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I’ve got work to do anyway.”

He turned back to his desk like the conversation was over. Like the closeness of you standing in his room again wasn’t suffocating.

You stepped further in. Slowly.

The air between you was thick with things left unsaid. Still carrying the weight of earlier—of every unspilled word, every breath held too long in that stairwell.

You glanced at the bed. His sheets were the same. The pillow you used to steal was still there.

You sat down. Gingerly. On the edge.

He kept working. Or pretending to.

The quiet dragged.

It hurt more than shouting would’ve.

He didn’t ask about your bag. He didn’t ask how you were.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

You think it’s because he already knew you weren’t.

It was an hour before either of you spoke again.

You were curled under his blanket now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the quiet clicking of his keyboard, the shifting of his chair. You could feel how stiff he was even from across the room.

Not tense like he was angry.

Restrained.

Like sitting in the same room as you took effort. Like he was holding himself in place with sheer force of will.

“Senku,” you murmured finally.

He stopped typing.

Didn’t turn.

But he was listening.

You turned your head against the pillow, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to act like I’m not here.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’m not.”

He turned in his chair, finally facing you.

His eyes were tired. Not from work. Not from the day.

From everything.

“You being here is... hard,” he admitted. “Not because I don’t want you here. But because I do.”

Your breath caught.

The room stilled.

“I keep thinking,” he continued, quietly, like confessing to the dark, “about how many times we slept in that bed after staying up too late. Working. Fighting. Kissing. I keep remembering what it felt like to wake up next to you. And now you’re here again and it feels like someone’s pressing a bruise.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling hard at the ends. “I told myself I could do this. That I could give you space and act like everything’s normal and just... be your partner for the project and pretend this wasn’t still killing me.”

Your throat burned.

“I’m not over you,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

And then, softer:

“But I also don’t know how to be with you without hurting you again.”

You sat up slowly.

The blanket slipped from your shoulders.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” you whispered. “Just to try. With me. Not for me.”

He looked at you. Fully. Raw.

You crossed the room before either of you realized it was happening. Sat on the floor beside his chair.

“I’m still in love with you,” you said. “Even when I’m furious. Even when I hate how we got here. Even when I think maybe we weren’t good for each other at the end. I still—”

Your voice cracked.

“I still wake up and wish it was your shoulder I was curled against.”

He let out a shaky breath. Like the words hit too hard.

You didn’t ask to stay in his bed that night.

He didn’t ask to hold your hand when you fell asleep.

But both happened anyway.

Not because it fixed anything.

But because some part of you was still trying.

Chapter Text

You woke up to the sound of his keyboard again.

Soft, rhythmic taps.

The early kind—before the world was fully awake. Before anything was expected of anyone. You could tell it was just past sunrise by the watery light bleeding through the edge of the curtains.

You were still in his bed.

Still wrapped in the same blanket. Still on your side. His side, technically. The one you used to steal because the sheets were cooler and the lamp wasn’t in your eyes.

You blinked, slowly.

Senku sat at his desk, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, hair still wild from sleep. There was a mug next to his laptop—steam curling up from it lazily. He hadn’t showered yet. Neither had you. You weren’t sure how long he’d been awake.

But when you stirred—just a slight shift under the blanket—he paused.

Not in a dramatic, startled way. Just long enough to acknowledge the sound. Then he glanced back over his shoulder.

Your eyes met.

And something in your chest tightened.

He looked at you like he’d been waiting for you to wake up. Like he'd already cycled through twenty different ways to pretend things were normal—and none of them felt right.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft. A little rough.

You sat up, blanket falling away from your shoulders. The room smelled like instant coffee and rain-dampened clothes. Something about it made you feel seventeen again.

“Hey,” you echoed.

A long silence followed.

It wasn’t bad.

Just… fragile.

You sat with it.

Let it breathe.

Senku turned back to his screen, adjusted something, then closed the laptop with a quiet click. His shoulders dropped a little. Tension easing. Maybe because you hadn’t left yet.

“Wanna get food?” he asked.

You blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah.” He reached for the hoodie slung over the back of his chair, tugging it on properly. “That Vietnamese place off campus opens early. You used to like their egg rolls.”

You hesitated.

He didn’t push.

But when you nodded, the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The walk was quiet.

Not the suffocating kind from a week ago. Not stiff or strained.

Just soft.

Tentative.

The pavement was still wet from the night’s rain, and the cold made the city feel cleaner somehow—like everything had been rinsed down to its bones. You walked side by side, hands buried in your sleeves, sneakers scuffing in that lazy way that said we’re not rushing this.

Neither of you spoke until you reached the restaurant.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped in. Same narrow space. Same handwritten menu taped to the counter. Same grumpy guy in a beanie taking orders with one headphone in.

“Number six?” Senku asked, already pulling his wallet out.

You blinked.

“You still remember my order?”

He glanced at you, then away.

“Course I do.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped closer.

He ordered for both of you. Paid without asking. You watched his hands. The way they moved. The way they trembled just barely when he handed over the cash.

He was still anxious.

You were too.

You sat in the back, by the window. Same spot as always. Plastic chairs. Table slightly sticky. A pair of chopsticks already set between you, still in their paper sleeve.

The food came fast.

Steam rose from the bowls, fogging up the window behind your shoulders. You cradled your soup between your palms, letting the heat sink into your fingers. He passed you your egg rolls without a word.

And for a moment—just a moment—it felt like you were dating again.

Like nothing had cracked.

Like the last few months never happened.

But then your knees touched under the table, and both of you pulled back. Not harshly. Not startled.

Just aware.

A reminder: this was different now.

You ate in silence for a while. Let the warmth soften the edges of the ache still lodged in your chest.

Senku broke it first.

“You remember the night we came here after pulling that all-nighter in chem lab?”

You nodded around a bite of rice.

“Yeah. You fell asleep in your soup.”

He rolled his eyes. “It was one second.”

“It was five. And I have a photo.”

Senku cracked a smile. Brief. Beautiful.

And it made your chest ache worse.

Because it was too easy to fall back into this.

Too easy to pretend.

But pretending wouldn’t save you this time.

“Senku,” you said.

He looked up, chopsticks pausing mid-air.

“We can’t just keep... doing this.”

His smile faded.

“I know.”

You stirred your noodles. “I don’t know what we are anymore.”

“Me neither.”

The honesty stung more than a lie would’ve.

“But I don’t want to stop seeing you,” he added.

You looked at him.

His voice was low. Careful. Like if he said it too loudly, it’d shatter.

“I don’t want to go back to not talking. Not being near you. Even if it’s not what it was.”

You stared at your food.

Then nodded.

Because same.

You didn’t know how to fix it.

You didn’t know what this was now.

But you weren’t ready to let go either.

When you left, he held the door open for you.

When you walked side by side again, it felt easier.

He didn’t reach for your hand.

You didn’t reach for his.

But you walked in sync.

And that was something.

The walk after breakfast stretched longer than it should’ve.

The clouds had finally parted, pale sun filtering through like it was scared to be too bright. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and pine mulch—somewhere between fresh and too sharp, like spring hadn’t decided whether it wanted to stay or not.

You didn’t talk much at first.

It wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just... careful. Like neither of you wanted to say something too heavy after the tentative quiet of that Vietnamese place.

Senku walked with his hands in his hoodie pocket, head slightly tilted, like he was calculating the wind speed or mapping star charts in his head. You could see the way his fingers fidgeted occasionally—barely moving, but tense. He used to hold your hand with those fingers. Thumb brushing circles against your knuckles.

Now they were folded into his palms like he didn’t trust himself.

You hugged your arms around your chest. Not cold. Just—self-contained.

The two of you crossed through campus in silence, the trees casting shifting shadows on the path. Birds chattered overhead. A bike passed with a squeaky wheel. Everything else felt still.

Eventually, you found yourselves near the promenade—the long stretch of pavement that curved gently around the edge of campus, overlooking the small artificial lake. It was quiet this early. Empty. Just the wind moving across the surface of the water.

Senku slowed.

So did you.

No one said, Let’s stop here.

You just did.

You stood at the railing, side by side. Not touching.

Looking out at the water.

“I didn’t think we’d end up here again,” you said quietly.

Senku exhaled slowly. “Neither did I.”

You glanced over.

He looked tired. Not in a physical way. Tired like someone who’d been carrying something too long. You wondered if you looked the same.

Your voice came softer this time.

“I keep thinking about how we used to walk this path after labs. When we were so burnt out we couldn’t even string words together.”

Senku nodded. “You used to lean into me when your feet hurt.”

You smiled. “You used to let me.”

Another silence.

Then:

“I think I knew we weren’t okay way before the breakup,” you said. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

His fingers twitched. “Same.”

You looked back at the water.

The breeze brushed against your cheek.

You weren’t sure how to say what was clawing at your chest. You weren’t even sure if you should. It felt too soon. Too fragile. But it also felt like the right moment, somehow—quiet and open and real.

So you asked.

“I know we can’t go back to what we were, Senku.”

He turned toward you.

“But... do you think maybe we could start again?”

His eyes widened slightly. Not shocked. Just—caught off guard. Like he hadn’t let himself think about that. Like it had been buried under too many walls.

You kept going. Slowly. Cautiously.

“Not pretend nothing happened. Not erase the shit we’ve been through. Just… start over. As who we are now. Not who we were.”

Senku was quiet for a long time.

He didn’t give you a quick answer.

He didn’t reach for your hand.

He just looked at you. Looked into you, really. Like he was reading every flicker in your expression.

Finally, his voice came—low, fragile, honest.

“I want to.”

You felt your heart thud against your ribs.

“I do,” he said. “I want to start again. But I’m scared.”

You nodded.

“I am too.”

He swallowed. “What if we mess it up again?”

“We might.”

Another breath passed.

“But maybe this time,” you said, voice softer, “we talk sooner. Tell each other when it’s too heavy. Don’t try to carry everything in silence.”

Senku let out a shaky breath. His shoulders dropped. Just a little.

“I can’t promise I’ll be good at it.”

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you said. “Just present.”

He gave a faint smile. Sad and hopeful at the same time.

Then he stepped just slightly closer.

Not touching. But closer.

The space between you buzzed with something familiar. Not the intensity of before. Something gentler. Quieter. Like the beginning of something careful and true.

“We could... take it slow,” he offered.

You nodded. “Slow sounds good.”

And for the first time in a long while, you both stood in the stillness—not as strangers. Not as the aftermath.

But as maybe, just maybe, something beginning again.

Chapter Text

The morning light bled through Senku’s dorm window in watery gold streaks, cutting across the cluttered desk, the stack of textbooks by the bed, the hoodie crumpled on the chair. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep like that—head buried in the crook of his arm, half-sitting, half-sprawled across the mattress.

His body felt like lead.

Heavy. Achy.

He hadn’t slept well in weeks. Even now, after seeing you again, after hearing those impossible words—maybe we could start again—his body hadn't quite remembered how to rest.

Everything inside him still buzzed too much.

Still ached too much.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

Just kept his forehead pressed into the blanket, breathing slow and shallow, feeling the stiff pull of his joints and the hollow ache between his ribs.

It was easier not to think when he stayed still.

It was easier to pretend there was no world beyond the four walls of his room.

No exams.

No project deadlines.

No second chances he was terrified he didn’t deserve.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He ignored it at first.

Probably Chrome, sending some god-awful meme. Or Ukyo, reminding him to submit the lab report. Or Gen, poking at the raw edges of last night with a smirk and a joke Senku didn’t have the energy to laugh at.

But then—

Another buzz.

He grunted. Forced himself to roll onto his back, eyes squinting against the light, and reached blindly for the phone.

The screen glowed.

One notification.

From you.

Just two words.

good morning.

He stared at it.

For a long time.

Long enough for the screen to dim again, darkening his reflection into something unfamiliar. Someone tired. Someone worn thin.

He blinked. Clicked the power button to light it back up again. Like he didn’t trust what he saw the first time.

But it was still there.

Small. Simple. No punctuation. No emojis.

Real.

A thread. Thin but strong.

You hadn’t sent something like that in months.

Not since before things started cracking.

Not since before the silence set in like frost on a window.

And now—after everything, after the fight, after the weeks of pretending not to see each other—

You reached out first.

Senku exhaled slowly, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead.

The bed smelled faintly of you. That mix of your shampoo and rain and something he could never name but always recognized.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Let the feeling swell in his chest—too big, too raw, too dangerous.

The aching relief of it.

The terrified gratitude.

He almost didn’t know what to do with it.

Because this wasn’t a fix.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It wasn’t I want you back.

It was just good morning.

But god, it felt like everything.

He unlocked the phone.

Stared at the message again.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

Finally, after too many drafts, he sent back:

morning.
you sleep okay?

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

His heart climbed painfully into his throat.

You replied:

kinda.
thinking too much. you?

Senku let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh.

yeah. same.

He paused.

Finger hovering.

Then added:

want to meet up later?

The dots appeared again.

For a second, he thought you’d disappeared. That you were changing your mind. That the tiny thread between you would snap under the weight of everything still unsaid.

But then your message came through:

yeah. i’d like that.

Simple.

Honest.

And somehow it felt more powerful than any apology could’ve been.

Senku dropped the phone onto his chest.

Stared up at the ceiling.

And for the first time in a long time—

he let himself hope.

Senku sat there for a long time after your messages stopped.

Phone screen gone dark again. Heavy silence settling over his dorm room.

The bed beneath him was still warm, covers rumpled and half-kicked to the side. He could feel how the mattress dipped under his weight, how it sagged slightly where you’d slept beside him just hours ago. He hadn’t touched that part of the bed. Hadn’t smoothed it. Hadn’t dared.

The clock on his desk blinked past 8:00 AM.

Slowly, like something mechanical winding up after years of disuse, he swung his legs off the mattress. Sat at the edge for a moment, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced tight between them.

The floor was cold against his bare feet.

He stayed like that for a long beat—breathing in the stillness, feeling the stiffness in his back, the weight in his chest. He was used to pushing through physical exhaustion. Lab nights. Field experiments. Pulling thirty-hour work stretches just to prove he could.

But this?

This was different.

This was a different kind of heavy. One he couldn’t outwork. One he had to live through.

Senku pushed up from the bed and crossed the room to his dresser.

Every step felt heavier than it should’ve.

He opened the top drawer.

There was a neat stack of shirts—grays, blacks, the occasional deep green—folded with the precise, absent-minded efficiency he applied to everything outside his research. His hands hovered over them for a moment longer than necessary.

He didn’t reach for his usual shirt.

Instead, he grabbed the dark gray one tucked second from the bottom. A little worn at the collar. Softer than the others.

You used to steal it sometimes, back when it had still smelled more like him than detergent.

He pulled it over his head.

The fabric clung slightly to his shoulders, the familiar cotton weight settling against his skin like memory.

He moved next to his closet. Slid the door open. Fingered through the hoodies—each one nearly identical—until he found the navy one with the frayed sleeve cuff you used to absently twist between your fingers during late nights.

The one you probably didn’t even realize you touched, over and over, like a tether to him.

He shrugged it on without thinking.

The hood sagged heavy against the back of his neck. The zipper stuck halfway up, as always.

Senku stood in front of the mirror for a second.

Not studying himself.

Just… existing.

His hair was a mess. His eyes were bruised with sleep he didn’t really get. There was a faint red mark along his cheekbone where the pillow seam had pressed too hard against his skin.

He didn’t fix any of it.

He just stared.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the compulsive need to harden. To armor up. To look sharper, colder, less reachable.

Because maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Maybe you knew how frayed he was.

Maybe you loved him anyway.

Senku turned away from the mirror.

Bent to lace up his boots with the same practiced motions he used for delicate chemical setups—tight, sure, methodical. His fingers worked fast, precise knots, even though his brain felt thick with fog.

The boots hit the floor with two solid thuds when he stood.

Heavy. Grounding.

He grabbed his keys, his battered satchel, stuffed his notes inside without double-checking them. His hands moved on autopilot. Habit and muscle memory. The same way he’d handled dangerous materials in the lab: steady hands even when the heart rattled.

He shrugged the satchel strap over one shoulder.

Paused by the door.

Looked back once.

At the bed. At the slumped blanket. At the faint dent in the mattress where you’d slept.

Senku tightened his grip on the door handle.

Not because he regretted it.

Because he didn’t know how to trust the aching hope unfurling in his chest.

He pulled the door open.

Stepped out into the morning sun.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

he let himself move forward.

Senku's first class dragged.

Thermodynamics at nine AM was punishment enough on a normal day, but today it felt like someone had sandpapered his brain and told him to calculate entropy anyway.

He slouched in the back corner, legs stretched under the seat in front of him, sketching half-finished formulas into the margins of his notes. The professor's voice buzzed through the room in slow, droning waves. Equations clicked onto the projector screen. Units canceled. Variables dissolved.

He heard none of it.

His mind kept tripping back to your text.

Your voice last night.

The way your hair clung to your cheeks in the rain.

The way you said start over like it wasn't a promise—just a hope.

His foot jiggled restlessly under the table.

He glanced to the side without meaning to.

You were there.

Two rows ahead, off to the left.

Your head was bowed, scribbling something furiously into your notebook. You kept tapping your pen against your lip. A nervous tic. One he'd memorized back when you first met. One he used to tease you about. One he realized, with a jolt, he hadn't seen in months.

Your sleeve slipped back slightly as you wrote. He caught a glimpse of your wrist—the one he used to absently brush his thumb across when you sat too close.

His chest squeezed, sudden and stupid and sharp.

He forced himself to look away.

He was not going to breakdown in the middle of Thermo.

Not again.

Between classes, he caught Chrome loitering near the engineering quad, halfway dismantling some poor cafeteria vending machine with a butter knife.

“What the hell are you doing?” Senku asked, dead-eyed.

Chrome looked up, bright as ever. "Trying to see if I can reroute the snack code inputs! If it works, we could get unlimited KitKats!"

Senku sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that aged him twenty years in one breath.

"You realize that's illegal, right?"

Chrome shrugged. "Only if you get caught."

Senku shook his head, too tired to argue.

"Whatever. If you fry yourself trying to hack into a Skittles machine, don't call me for CPR."

Chrome grinned like he absolutely would.

By the time he hit his third class of the day—English 101—Senku was running on fumes.

He sat down heavily in the lecture hall just as Gen slinked into the seat beside him, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something else.

Something... sweet?

Senku squinted at him.

Gen leaned in, stage-whispering, “Want an edible?”

He held out his palm. Two suspiciously homemade-looking gummies sat there, bright green and menacing.

Senku stared at them.

For a split second—a real second—he considered it.

Anything to dull the relentless spin of his brain. The weight under his ribs. The smell of your shampoo that he kept hallucinating whenever you shifted in your seat two rows over.

He actually reached out.

Fingers brushing the edge of Gen’s palm.

And then—

“NOOOOOOO!”

Taiju appeared like the wrath of God himself, smacking Gen’s hand so hard the gummies went flying across the floor.

Gen yelped, clutching his wrist dramatically.

Senku groaned loudly, dragging a hand over his face.

"For fuck’s sake, Taiju."

“You guys!!" Taiju wailed, legitimately emotional. "Drug safety is so important!! I saw a video once where a guy thought he could fly after eating one gummy and he jumped out a window!!!"

“Taiju," Senku muttered, tone flatter than the moon, "this is the second floor.”

Taiju wasn’t listening. He was now full-on pacing beside the row, hands on his head like he was fighting for your eternal souls.

Gen looked half-amused, half-murderous. "Jesus Christ, big guy. I wasn’t trying to summon Satan. It’s just weed."

“IT'S A SLIPPERY SLOPE!” Taiju bellowed.

The entire back half of the lecture hall turned to stare.

Senku dropped his forehead onto the cool surface of his desk with a thud.

Next to him, Gen patted his back sympathetically.

"College life, huh?" he said, grinning.

Senku lifted his head just enough to glare.

Gen’s grin widened. "Or maybe…" He waggled his eyebrows, glancing toward where you were sitting, oblivious. "Love life, hm?"

Senku kicked him in the shin under the table.

Gen yelped again but didn’t stop smiling.

Senku tuned him out.

Because even through the chaos—even with Taiju still muttering about gateway drugs and poor decision-making—his gaze drifted back to you.

You sat three rows ahead, laptop open, hair tucked behind one ear. You were chewing your pen cap again. Eyes laser-focused.

You didn’t know he was watching.

But it didn’t matter.

Because somehow—despite everything, despite the wreckage, despite the bruises both of you were still carrying—you were here.

Still here.

And for once, Senku let himself believe:

Maybe that was enough to keep going.

The lecture dragged.

Senku didn’t bother taking notes after the first twenty minutes.

His pen twirled loosely between his fingers, half an automatic motion, half a defense mechanism against the way his brain kept drifting—pulling sideways toward you.

You were still sitting a few rows ahead, leaning on one elbow, blinking slow and tired like the weight of the day was starting to settle on you too.

He let himself look.

Just for a second.

And maybe that was why he didn’t hear the professor dismiss class at first.

The scrape of chairs and shuffle of backpacks snapped him out of it.

Senku leaned back in his seat, stretching until his joints popped, then glanced down at his phone.

Still dark. Still quiet.

He sighed. Braced for another afternoon of trying—and failing—to stay in his own head.

And then—

buzz.

The screen lit up.

A new message. From you.

He blinked. Thumb hesitating before unlocking it.

you wanna check out that chicken sandwich place? saw it on yelp.

Simple. No overthinking. No pressure. Just—an invitation.

An invitation from you.

Senku stared at the message for a beat longer than necessary.

Something in his chest twisted sharply, then softened.

He was halfway to typing a response when Gen leaned over with a shit-eating grin.

“Well, well, well,” Gen sing-songed. “You gonna tell the class who’s got you smiling at your phone like a lovesick chemical accident?”

Senku deadpanned, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize my personal life was open for peer review.”

Gen snickered.

Taiju, still lingering with a suspicious squint from the earlier drug fiasco, chimed in earnestly, “IS IT SOMEONE NICE, SENKU?! THEY HAVE TO BE NICE!”

Senku stood up, slinging his bag over one shoulder with a groan so theatrical it could’ve gotten him cast in a student play.

“Bye-bye, sausage fest,” he muttered.

And without waiting for their reactions, he turned—

—and headed toward you.

You were standing by the doorway now, shifting your weight onto one foot, your bag slung casually over your shoulder. You caught sight of him approaching and smiled.

Small. Careful.

Hopeful.

Senku’s chest tightened painfully.

He adjusted his bag strap. Let a small breath slip out through his nose.

And for the first time in a long while,

he kept walking forward.

Toward you.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was warmer than it looked from the outside.

Overhead lightbulbs buzzed quietly above a row of cracked vinyl booths. The walls were cluttered with faded photos of customers holding up greasy sandwiches, most of them laughing or giving a thumbs-up. The air was thick with the smell of garlic oil and hot batter, and the steady hiss of the fryers didn’t leave much room for silence.

Senku stepped in behind you, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie. His shoulders rose slightly, like he was tucking into himself.

You stood just ahead of him in line, pretending to study the menu, though you’d already made up your mind.

Neither of you spoke at first.

The space between you felt measured. Cautious.

When the cashier waved you forward, you both moved at once, and like some poorly choreographed dance, you reached for your wallets in near-perfect sync.

You hesitated.

He did too.

The cashier blinked.

Senku tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking to your hand, then back to his own. His fingers were already around his card.

“I got it,” he said, voice quiet, unreadable.

You didn’t argue. Just eased your wallet back into your coat pocket.

But something in his jaw shifted—like he’d expected you to protest. Or wanted you to. You couldn’t tell.

He paid without looking at you, then took the receipt with one hand while the other tapped idly on the counter. You both slid down toward the pickup area, still not saying much.

“I went medium this time,” you said eventually, your voice light, trying. “Figured I’d spare myself the emotional damage.”

Senku didn’t look over. “Coward.”

You huffed through your nose. “Says the man who drank all my water the last time he ordered spicy.”

“That was resource management. I was going to pass out.”

You raised a brow. “You were tearing up, not convulsing.”

He finally looked over. Just for a second.

The faintest curve of a smirk tugged at his mouth. Not his usual sharp one. Something smaller. Quieter.

The number was called. He picked up the tray.

You followed him to a booth near the window—sticky corner of the table wiped down but still faintly shiny with cleaner.

You slid into the seat across from him.

For a while, it was just the sound of wrappers unfolding. Fries shifting in their baskets. Paper napkins brushing against the tabletop.

You took a bite.

Careful.

The heat bloomed slow—manageable, but still hot enough to make your scalp tingle.

Senku ate more methodically, wiping his fingers after every bite, chewing like he was analyzing something more than just food. His eyes stayed on his sandwich, not you.

You glanced at him once. He didn’t notice.

Or pretended not to.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just... new. Like walking into a room you used to live in and finding that someone had rearranged the furniture.

Halfway through the meal, he said, “You got sauce on your face.”

You froze, mid-chew.

Swallowed.

“Where?”

He pointed vaguely at his own cheek. “Left side. No, your left. Other left.”

You wiped it quickly, awkwardly.

He didn’t comment. Just took another bite.

Another minute passed.

Then—

“This place is alright,” he muttered, half into his water bottle.

You looked at him.

“Not good?” you asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

You raised a brow, waiting.

He exhaled.

“It’s not bad.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s practically a rave review coming from you.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

That earned a quiet laugh out of you.

Something loosened, just a little, between you.

You started picking fries out of your basket, one by one. Less guarded. He stopped wiping his fingers so obsessively. His shoulders dropped a few millimeters.

Conversation drifted back in. Small stuff. Safe.

Classes. Lab updates. A mutual professor who couldn’t manage technology to save his life. You teased Senku about the coffee machine incident in the physics lounge; he accused you of dramatizing it. Somewhere in the middle of all that, he forgot to keep looking at the clock.

You noticed the moment his hand bumped yours while reaching for the napkins. He paused. You both did.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

He slid the napkins toward you and kept eating.

The light outside had dimmed a little by the time you stood up to leave. He held the door open for you again. You didn’t make a joke about it this time.

Outside, the air had cooled. Your breath curled faintly as you stepped into it.

You walked side by side down the sidewalk, hands tucked into your sleeves, steps falling into rhythm without needing to match them.

Still not touching.

Still careful.

But it wasn’t silence this time.

Not really.

It was space.

A little more yours, a little more his.

A little more shared.

And somehow—

that was enough.

The walk back was quiet. But not the kind of quiet that begged to be filled.

Your steps fell into rhythm again, the soles of your shoes brushing gravel and wet concrete. The air had cooled even further— light wind curling through the bare branches overhead, rustling leaves still clinging to gutters and fence corners.

Senku hadn’t said much since the restaurant, but his posture was looser now. Less guarded. His hands had drifted back into his hoodie pocket, and every few paces, you caught him glancing sideways at storefronts like he was stalling.

You didn’t call him out on it.

You were stalling too.

As you rounded the block near campus, Senku slowed slightly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He held it at arm’s length, thumb swiping the lock screen once. The brightness flared against his face.

He frowned.

Tapped it again.

Then gave a noncommittal, “Oh—uh. I wanna stop by the shopping mall real quick.”

You raised a brow. “Now?”

He shrugged. “It’s on the way. I need something.”

You didn’t ask what. Just blinked at him.

“You coming?” he asked, already pivoting toward the streetlight path that veered off campus.

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

The sidewalk narrowed near the overpass, and the closer you got to the mall, the louder everything became—groups of students laughing too loudly behind you, cars honking at the light, someone riding an electric scooter far too recklessly for the foot traffic.

By the time you passed through the glass front doors, it was clear the place was still buzzing.

Senku led the way—shoulders slightly stiff, navigating between clusters of people standing around holding pretzel cups and bubble tea. You walked behind him, close enough to keep up, but the crowd kept pressing in from either side, pulling at the edge of your comfort.

A tall guy swung his backpack around too fast. Someone with a stroller blocked the middle of the hallway. Another person with a bluetooth speaker blared music over everyone’s voices.

You reached forward, instinctively—

—and caught the back hem of Senku’s jacket.

Just lightly.

Just enough to keep from being separated.

You didn’t think about it.

Didn’t mean for him to notice.

But he did.

He stopped.

Not fully. Just a step too early, like he felt the pull and froze before he could overthink it.

You started to let go—

but before you could—

He reached back.

Fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.

Then sliding down.

Slow.

His hand closed around yours.

Not tightly. Not with force.

Just enough.

Your breath caught.

Senku didn’t look back at you.

He just stepped forward again. Walking now with you beside him. Holding your hand like it was something he was still figuring out how to do. Like this was new again. And he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but he was doing it anyway.

Neither of you said anything.

The mall lights flickered overhead, reflecting off the glass storefronts around you.

People kept moving past in a blur. But for a moment, it didn’t matter.

His hand was warm.

Yours didn’t pull away.

And that was all the conversation either of you needed.

Senku tugged you off the main walkway with barely a word—just a slight pull to the side and a low, “This place’ll do,” before stepping through the open glass doors of a store that smelled faintly of incense and dust.

The lighting inside was soft, filtered through overhead bulbs wrapped in wicker baskets. The walls were cluttered—lined with cheap shelves holding tiny ceramics, glass paperweights shaped like galaxies, faux-vintage posters, solar-powered dancing cats, plushies of random animals with disproportionately large eyes. A gentle chime sounded above the entrance as you stepped in.

You looked around, slowly.

A girl near the back was browsing zodiac necklaces. A couple stood shoulder-to-shoulder flipping through a stack of mini sketchbooks by the register.

Senku didn’t let go of your hand.

He just kept walking like nothing was strange about it at all.

You followed in silence, your fingers still lightly curled in his.

He didn’t acknowledge it. Not directly.

Instead, he picked up a novelty hourglass and flipped it once, twice, watching the slow fall of the grains. “Too fast,” he muttered. “What’s the point if it only lasts twenty seconds?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s for aesthetics, not measurement.”

“That’s not science.”

You smiled. “Not everything needs to be.”

Senku huffed lightly. Moved on.

Still didn’t let go.

You kept glancing at your joined hands, unsure when it had gone from a hold-for-navigation to... this. The casualness of it was too deliberate. Too carefully ignored.

He picked up a pack of glow-in-the-dark stars. Rolled his eyes. Put it back.

“Remember when we stuck these to your dorm ceiling freshman year?” you asked.

“You got one stuck in the vents.”

“And you tried to vacuum it with your mouth.”

“I was calibrating airflow,” he said flatly.

You snorted.

He smirked. Just briefly. Then turned toward a shelf filled with tiny glass figurines—animals, mostly. Foxes and frogs, curled cats, awkwardly blown turtles. You stepped beside him, scanning the cluttered display. A small ceramic mushroom caught your eye.

It was dumb. Cartoonish. Red-capped with little white spots. Barely the size of your thumb.

Still, you pointed at it. “That’s kind of cute.”

Senku glanced at it.

Then, without hesitation: “Want it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll get it for you,” he said simply. Already reaching for it.

You stared at him.

Not because of the object—just a dumb knick-knack in a sea of dumb knick-knacks.

But because of him.

His tone.

The casual way he said it. Like he hadn’t spent the past month avoiding any and all moments of affection. Like the fight hadn’t happened. Like you weren’t still trying to piece together what this was.

You pulled your hand away—gently, but firmly—stepping back half a foot.

Senku paused.

Didn’t chase. Just looked at you for a beat, then shifted slightly like he hadn’t noticed the absence at all. His fingers flexed once, then returned to his pocket.

You swallowed. Looked back at the mushroom.

“I don’t need it.”

“I know.”

“But you offered.”

“I did.”

You studied him.

His expression was unreadable, in that way only Senku could manage—eyes sharp, mouth neutral, but something behind his gaze that tugged sideways. Something restless.

You didn’t know what to say to it.

So you didn’t.

The mushroom sat on the shelf, untouched.

You left it there.

And Senku, as if nothing had just passed between you, was already drifting toward another display—a rack of build-it-yourself paper models that looked like a nightmare of tabs and folded patience. He lifted one shaped like the Eiffel Tower, squinted at the fine print, then set it down again.

You followed, slower now.

His hands stayed in his pockets this time, thumbs fidgeting near the hem.

You didn’t say anything. You just walked behind him as he idled past the faux-leather journals, the solar-powered desk toys, the LED jellyfish lamp.

Every so often, he'd comment—quietly, like he was speaking more to fill space than to spark conversation.

“That design’s inefficient.”

“Why are all these notebooks blank? No grid?”

“Who actually buys plasma balls anymore?”

You half-listened, watching him skim shelf after shelf. Not really browsing. Not really looking.

It started to click.

He was stalling.

You stopped pretending to browse a minute later.

Senku paused near the corner of the store, right beside a bin of overstock clearance pens shaped like birds and whales. He shifted on his feet. Looked at the ceiling. Then, with comically obvious intent, he tugged out his phone.

You watched him swipe once, twice.

His brow furrowed. “Ah.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What.”

“I was wrong,” he said, completely unbothered. “This isn’t the right store.”

You stared at him.

“Seriously?”

He didn’t blink. “Yup. Can’t find the thing I came for. Must’ve been the other place.”

You gave him a flat look. “The thing you never mentioned?”

Senku hummed. “Must’ve gotten my wires crossed.”

You crossed your arms. “So what now, genius?”

He glanced out the store’s glass doors, toward the darkening street. The crowds had thinned slightly. “It’s getting late. You can come with, if you want. I’ll get dinner after.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Bribing me with food?”

“I’d call it strategic hospitality.”

You stared him down. “You are so full of shit.”

That earned you a grin—quick and self-satisfied, like he was relieved to be caught.

Senku shrugged, easy. “Never claimed otherwise.”

You huffed.

But your feet were already turning toward the door.

Streetlights flickered on above like slow blinking eyes, the sky already shifting into that soft indigo blur where day gives up the fight.

Senku didn’t walk ahead this time. He stayed beside you.

Hands back in his pockets.

Footsteps matching yours.

You passed a quiet bus stop. A girl was leaning against the glass, whispering into her phone with the kind of urgency that only existed in late-night drama. Somewhere, a crosswalk signal ticked down from twelve.

After a block or two, you glanced at him sideways.

“So,” you said, deliberately casual. “This mythical ‘thing’ you need to buy. Let me guess.”

Senku didn’t look over. “Don’t start.”

“Pocket microscope?”

“No.”

“Another whiteboard?”

“No.”

“A new ego to replace the one that shattered when I beat you at Smash Bros that one time—?”

He cut in dryly. “That didn’t happen.”

“It did, and you refused to play again after I won. That’s what we call a psychological tell.”

He side-eyed you. “That’s what we call deeply incorrect.”

You grinned. “I’m just saying, if you’re dragging me all over downtown for some imaginary errand, you could at least be honest about the part where you clearly just wanted to hang out with me again.”

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

You watched the way his jaw tensed — not annoyed, just caught. Like he’d walked straight into a net he hadn’t expected.

You bumped your shoulder lightly against his. “Relax. I think it’s kinda cute.”

Senku snorted. “You would.”

“And you’re not denying it.”

“Didn’t say I would.”

“But you didn’t deny it.”

He let out a low groan, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “regret is a chemical process.”

You laughed softly.

And then neither of you said anything else.

But you didn’t need to.

You just walked.

Side by side.

Hands no longer touching—but the distance didn’t feel quite so wide anymore.