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Megumi really thought you would’ve noticed by now.
Okay, maybe that’s on him.
Maybe it’s his fault for being subtle. But in his defense, he didn’t think it would fly completely over your head. You’re not that dense. At least, not normally.
He couldn't say the same for Itadori or Nobara, but you? Out of all his classmates and even including Gojo-sensei, unfortunately—it was your intelligence and quick wit he trusted the most.
You were the one who could identify the origins of a curse from fragments of folklore and figure out a strategy faster than anyone else. He always admired that about you. The way your mind worked. The way you were both fast and precise—like a blade drawn only halfway, never wasted.
But apparently when he lends you his scarf since you always forget to pack one, or when he orders your favorite drink during a late mission debrief, or when he instinctively shields you with his cursed energy even when you’re more than capable of defending yourself—
You give him that annoyingly cute, soft smile, pat his arm, and say, “You’re such a good friend, Gumi.”
He grits his teeth.
It was already a confusing enough process to even realize he had feelings for you. Months of awkward silences and overthinking on his end and giving himself tiny mental slaps in the face every time his heart fluttered when you said his name.
But this? This was worse.
Because now he knows you like him too.
The problem is—you don’t think he likes you.
Apparently, offering you his last piece of mochi after a 14-hour exorcism shift isn’t “obvious enough.” Neither is remembering that you hate raw fish and silently swapping meals with you during team dinners. He even brought you that ugly little pufferfish keychain last week—the one you joked about wanting from a claw machine back in March and said that it looked like him.
You’d stared at it like he handed you a bomb. Then smiled. Said thanks. And once again that dreaded word: friend.
He snorts under his breath.
It’s not that he doesn’t love being your friend. He does. But he wants to be that—and more.
He wondered if he’d spent so long waiting that the chance had already slipped past without him noticing.
You’re sitting beside him now on the train, going over the mission briefing that was sent out this morning, finger trailing along the paper like you're trying to trace the arc of a cursed spirit’s movement. His eyes are on you, of course.
He knows it’s dumb. Staring won’t help.
It finally tips over during a rainy walk back from the convenience store.
[18:02] You:
heading to the store!! do u want anything?
[18:02] Gumi Bear 🐟:
No check the weather
[18:03] You:
bruh ur so boring
[18:03] Gumi Bear 🐟:
“Bruh” it’s going to rain
Don’t come crying to me if your dumb self gets soaked
[18:03] You:
i’m not gonna get soaked :(
also rude. i’m not dumb.
[18:04] Gumi Bear 🐟:
Debatable
[18:04] You:
:////
[18:17] You:
ok i may be a little teeny bit soaked
BUT i got the good melon bread for us
[18:17] You:
also can you open the door
i forgot your code again LOL
[18:18] Gumi Bear 🐟:
Coming
Don’t drip on my floor
[18:18] You:
ok mom
The door swings open just as the sky really lets loose.
You’re half-soaked and giggling, wind whipping your hoodie strings across your face as you try to shield the ramen and melon bread in your arms from the rain like they’re priceless artifacts.
Megumi stares at you from the doorway, hair damp and sticking up a little at the ends, wearing a soft white tee that clings faintly to his collarbones. He smells warm—like he just stepped out of the shower—and good, like cedar soap and something clean and familiar you can’t place your finger on. He always smells like that. It’s distracting.
“You idiot,” he says, yanking at your sleeve and stepping aside so you can stumble in, your socks already squelching uncomfortably. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”
You huff, brushing water off your sleeves. “Because someone said it was going to rain, not it is raining!”
Megumi snorts, softly shutting the door behind you. “You could’ve just gone back to get one.”
“I was already soggy by then,” you mutter, clutching the food tighter. “So there’s no point.”
Then, like fate wants to rub it in, you trip a little on the entryway rug and nearly topple over, screeching like a wet cat as you flail to protect the instant noodles.
That’s what does it.
He actually laughs. Really laughs. It’s soft and breathy and sounds like it came out by accident.
And you, still dripping, still cold, can’t stop looking at him.
“What?” Megumi says, still half-smiling, as he flicks a raindrop off your nose like it personally offended him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
You swallow. Shrug.
“You laughed.”
“So?”
“I like it.” I like you.
That’s all you say. No teasing this time. Just that, dropped quietly into the space between you like a penny into a wishing well.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches forward, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, and tugs you the rest of the way in.
And then, softer, almost under his breath, “Go change. You know where my clothes are, right?”
You nod, heart thumping, already headed to the drawer with the oversized black shirt that smells like him.
The ramen sits forgotten on the counter. The silence stretches long, warm, quiet. And this time, you don’t mind it at all.
When you reach his dorm, you’re still damp and flushed and a little breathless from running. Your socks squish in your shoes. His hair is sticking up funny, and yours is plastered to your cheeks. You don’t say anything else when he tosses you a towel and turns a blind eye when you steal the hoodie he sleeps in.
It’s only when you're both settled, when your ramen sits forgotten on the counter and the flickering warmth of his desk lamp paints everything soft amber, that it all feels too much and not enough at once.
The quiet between you feels different now. Lighter, like a breath finally exhaled after holding it for too long. The small dorm room, with its cramped shelves and posters peeling slightly at the edges, feels like the safest place in the world.
He pulls out a worn board game from his shelf, that one you always joked you could beat him at if you tried hard enough. Tonight, though, he lets you win every round without complaint, smirking with quiet amusement.
“You’re terrible at this,” he says, shaking his head. “But somehow, you always win.”
He pokes your cheek.
Not hard, just enough to make you blink.
“Stop that,” he says, voice low and blunt—but the tiny flicker of amusement in his eyes gives him away.
You blink up at him, startled. “Stop what?”
“That.” He tilts his head, hand still midair like he might poke you again. “You always chew your cheek when you’re nervous.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he says easily, and then adds, “You did it before the dorm ramen cook-off last month, remember? When you thought Kugisaki was going to dump hot sauce in your pot as a prank.”
You open your mouth, ready to argue, then pause. “That doesn’t count!”
Megumi snorts. “Never before missions, though. You’re always weirdly calm before those.”
“I’m not calm,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “I just hide it better.”
His fingers brush yours for a second, quick, barely-there contact, like he’s checking you’re still grounded.
“You don’t have to hide it with me,” he says quietly.
And just like that, you’re chewing your cheek again.
He pokes it a second time.
“Quit it.”
The silence returns, but this time it’s comfortable. Drowsy, even. Your hands find each other, fingers curling together without thought. Megumi squeezes yours and clears his throat, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.
“You always fall asleep first.” There’s a teasing edge in his voice.
“'Cause I’m smarter,” you retort, and he chuckles softly.
As you settle under the blanket, the space between you narrows. His shoulder brushes yours, sending a quiet thrill through your spine. He’s so warm.
Your eyelids grow heavy, but just before sleep claims you, you feel his fingers tighten around yours.
When you wake, the room is darker, but he’s awake, watching you with those steady eyes that seem to see everything, know more than they let on. That know you.
“You’re really here,” he says, voice softer than you expected. There’s a delicious rasp to it that you’ve only heard in your dreams.
You squeeze his hand. “Always.”
He doesn’t say anything right away.
Just brushes his thumb over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. It's soft. Full. Like the space between heartbeats.
His gaze lingers on you, like he’s still not sure you’re real.
You smile, barely. “Stop staring.”
“Can’t,” he murmurs.
You let out a quiet breath. Shift a little closer. Feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours. His arm finds its way around you, steady and careful, and you let your head rest just under his chin.
The rain outside has slowed to a whisper.
And in the stillness, with the air smelling faintly of his shampoo and your matcha he must’ve woken up early to make—somehow escaping your vice-like bear hug to do it—the quiet between you finally settles. Whatever’s been hanging between the two of you for months, like morning dew on spring grass, it’s been there all along. You just hadn’t noticed it catching the light.
You used to go out of your way to look pretty whenever he was around—careful hair, subtle makeup, a little more effort in the way you dressed—before you really got to know each other. Like you were trying to impress someone you weren’t sure would even notice, which he definitely did, but not because of all that. You were a magnet for people because of who you were.
And not that he didn’t think you looked radiant then. But now, after all these months, watching you snuggled up close beside him with your hair tangled in a bedhead mess and a little drool at the corner of your mouth, his breath catches.
You’ve never looked more beautiful.
This is the boy who’s held you crying with your makeup smudged, the one who knows the exact face you make when you get a little too adventurous ordering food at a new restaurant as he switches his plate for yours. The one who holds all those small, imperfect moments close, without judgment, because to him, they’re part of you.
This is real.
And you’re not going anywhere.