I’VE GOT YOU, BABY Jjk Men

I’VE GOT YOU, BABY jjk men

feat. gojo geto nanami toji sukuna shiu higuruma

sum. they thought it would be a normal night. playful bickering, eat dinner together, maybe makeout session while you two are giggling like a lovesick fool. but heart cancer? stage 3? yeah, not on their bingo cards.

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men! 23 you & 31 them, established relationships, heart cancer, death mentioned, bit angst to comfort, fluff, and not very heart warming.

GOJO SATORU

he was supposed to be in meeting.

supposed to be.

but instead he was dramatically sprawled on the couch in your apartment, shirt half-buttoned, socks mismatched, one leg hanging off the edge like he was modeling for an early 2000s teen magazine. blue eyes flicked up from your coffee table, where your textbooks were open and your laptop screen glowed with your thesis draft. he had the attention span of a goldfish, and you were used to it by now. what you weren’t used to was the man pausing mid-ramble about how coffee shops should have loyalty programs that give hugs instead of free drinks, the moment you slid the envelope across the table toward him.

“what’s this? did you finally write me a love letter?” he grinned, picking it up and waving it. “wait—let me guess, you’ve confessed your undying love for my devastatingly good looks and impeccable fashion sense. i knew the mismatched socks would win you over.”

you smirked, resting your chin in your hand. “close,” you said. “just my medical results. fun lil update from my body.”

he blinked. the paper unfolded in his hands, and for once, he was quiet. his eyes moved faster than usual. you could feel the shift in the air. from playful to something dense. cold. heavy.

he read the words again.

“stage 3, heart cancer… twenty-four percent chance to live…”

“i know, right? guess my cells just got bored of behaving,” you laughed. it was too loud. too sudden. too wrong. “could be 24% chance or survival. maybe 50%. depending on how charming i am in the oncology department.”

you force a shaky laugh. “guess i must’ve loved you too much. my heart couldn’t take it.”

for a beat, there’s nothing. nothing.

it’s a joke. a bad one. a last-ditch attempt to soften the punch. your eyes betray you anyway — tears sparkle at the corners like broken glass, and the tremble in your fingers doesn’t go unnoticed.

“shut up,” he whispered. not in his usual joking way. his voice cracked at the edge, like he’d bitten into something sour and was trying not to spit it out.

you shrugged, crossing your legs like you were just talking about the weather. “i’m still hot though, right? at least if i kick the bucket, i’m going down with great cheekbones.”

“no. nope. return to sender. i don’t accept this bullshit,” he murmurs, voice cracking through the sarcasm. “you don’t get to pull the tragic heroine card on me. that’s my thing.”

you try to laugh. “so dramatic…”

“i’m the drama. not you. you’re the soft, pretty, sunshine type who cries during dog movies and hogs the bed. you’re not allowed to die. i won’t allow it. i’ll— i’ll—”

“you’ll what, kiss it better?” you tease.

“why the fuck would you joke about this?” his voice rose. panic behind the volume. the paper in his hand crumpled a little.

“because if i don’t, i’ll start crying,” you replied, softer now. looking at him with tired eyes. “and i really, really don’t wanna cry in front of you. you’d never let me live it down.”

“you idiot,” he breathed out, standing up so fast the coffee table shook. his hands were trembling. he paced once. twice. then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you like gravity had yanked him down.

“you’re not going to die,” he said. like a promise. like a threat to the universe. “i’ll fight death himself. with my sunglasses. and sarcasm. and maybe a bazooka.”

you blinked. “you don’t know that.”

he grabbed your hands, clutching them so tightly you could feel how cold his were. “you think you can drop something like this on me and then just—laugh about it? you think that’s fair? i love you, you dumbass.”

you looked down at him. this ridiculous, beautiful man kneeling like you’d just proposed marriage instead of dropped a medical bombshell.

you sniff, smile crookedly. “i love you too.”

he grins, forehead pressed to yours. “good. you’ll fit right in with the chaos i’ve got planned for your recovery. step one: we replace your heart with mine. step two: we break into a hospital and demand glitter IVs. step three: we live. got it? we’re gonna fight this. i don’t care if i have to bribe, blackmail, or bend space-time — you’re staying with me. you’re not allowed to leave.”

you choke out a laugh against his shoulder. “that’s a pretty bold threat to make to the universe.”

“you think i won’t square up with the universe?” he pulls back, eyes shining with something wild and terrified and real. “i’ll fight fate with one hand and spoon-feed you pudding with the other.”

you look at him, tears falling freely now, and he smiles — a little broken, a little soft.

“besides,” he adds, voice trembling as he kisses the corner of your mouth, “you still owe me like, twenty dates. and my hoodies back.”

he stared at you.

you smiled. a little cracked. a little crooked. “worth it.”

“i swear to god,” he growled, burying his face in your lap. “if you die, i’m haunting your ghost just to yell at you.”

you ran your fingers through his hair. soft. familiar. he was shaking. he didn’t want you to see. “you’re not going to die,” he whispered again, like if he repeated it enough times, it would rewrite your diagnosis.

“but if i do,” you said gently, voice steady for both of you, “please keep wearing mismatched socks for me. preferably ugly ones. the uglier, the better.”

he lifted his head and kissed your knuckles. then your palm. then your wrist. like he could map your pulse, hold onto it, anchor it. i’m gonna annoy every doctor on this planet if that’s what it takes,” he muttered. “i’m gonna sit in every waiting room and argue with every nurse and—”

“you’re already annoying,” you smiled, brushing tears off his cheek. “just keep being you, toru. okay?”

he choked out a laugh. a real one. raw and messy and breaking. “yeah,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “okay. but just so you know—if you think i’m gonna let you go without a fight, you’re really underestimating how stubborn i am.”

and you believed him.

because it was satoru gojo.

and he was chaos and comfort and love in human form.

GETO SUGURU

you didn’t expect him to come over tonight.

he had been buried in work lately—endless stacks of logistics and community events and trying to solve the world’s problems like he didn’t already carry the weight of it on his shoulders. so when he texted you “omw. bring that pouty face I like,” you assumed he was just being his usual flirty self. nothing serious.

you didn’t expect to be sitting on your bedroom floor in an oversized hoodie with a manila envelope on your lap, legs tucked beneath you, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you heard the familiar knock-knock-knock. two beats, then one. his rhythm.

he walked in with a drink carrier balanced in one hand and a bouquet of flowers that looked like they were arranged by a man who walked into the shop and said “whatever she’ll like, just make it look expensive.” his eyes lit up the second they saw you, and he gave you that half-lidded smile that made it look like he knew every secret about you.

“what’s with the envelope, babe?” he asked as he kicked his shoes off and slid beside you on the floor. “you trying to sue me for being too good-looking? because guilty as charged.”

you snorted. “nah, i’d win that case against gojo way faster.”

“mm, true.” he nudged your knee with his. “what is it then?”

you clear your throat and drop the letter dramatically on the floor next to him like it’s a bomb. “got a broken heart. me. officially. medically. romantically tragic.”

geto raises a brow, gaze drifting from the letter to you. “did i forget an anniversary again? that sounds serious.”

giving him a lazy smile. “worse. i’m in a love triangle with death and a statistics chart.”

you handed it over. said nothing after.

he cocked an eyebrow but took it. slid the letter out like he was opening one of your essays. started reading.

his smile dropped.

his breath caught.

and for once—suguru geto didn’t say anything.

he finished the page. eyes moving over the last line again. and again. his fingers curled around the edge of the letter so tightly it crinkled.

you felt like vomiting.

“stage 3, heart cancer,” you said lightly. like it was the weather. like you’d just found out the vending machine was out of your favorite chips. “only twenty-five percent chance of making it. which is still, like, a quarter! that’s one out of four. i’ve played worse odds at those arcade claw machines. like flipping a coin with feelings.”

“don’t—” his voice was hoarse. “don’t joke about this.”

“why not?” you forced a grin. “i thought you liked my dark humor.”

he turned to you so fast, your smile faltered.

“i do,” he said, barely a whisper. “but not when it’s hiding how scared you are.”

and that was the worst part. the way he saw through you. you looked away. bit your tongue. tried to force another joke but your throat closed up and it never made it out. “you should be crying,” he said softly. “you should be screaming. you should be throwing things or cursing god or making me carry you everywhere like a princess.”

“yeah well,” you mumbled. “you’ve always liked me better when i’m quiet.”

“don’t say that.” his hand cupped your cheek, turning your face toward him. “don’t ever say that.”

you blinked. his thumb wiped away something you didn’t realize had fallen.

“baby—”

“i’m going to be here for all of it,” he said firmly. his voice steady, even if his hands trembled. “chemo. surgeries. crying fits. mood swings. i’ll buy you every stupid snack craving you have, i’ll hold your hair back if you puke, i’ll even let satoru come over if you’re bored enough to tolerate him.”

“wow,” you said, voice thick. “must really love me if you’re willing to suffer through that.”

he laughed, but it cracked halfway through. he leaned in and kissed your forehead. your nose. your cheeks. slow. deliberate. like he was memorizing your face before the world dared to change it.

“you’re the love of my life,” he murmured against your skin. “and i don’t care what percentage the doctors give. you’re not leaving me.”

you tried to joke again. to keep it light. but when he pulled you into his arms and held you like you were made of glass and might disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough—

you broke.

and he just let you.

silent. steady. his hand rubbing circles into your back. his voice a whisper. “i’ve got you, baby. every step. every breath. we’re fighting this. together.”

NANAMI KENTO

he was never one for surprises.

nanami lived his life in clean lines and structured time—an adult in every sense of the word. the kind of man who folded his clothes before bed, who ironed your uniforms when you were too tired, who always had a clock running in his head. you were chaos in comparison. soft blankets thrown over chairs, tea mugs with lipstick smudges left by your bedside, textbooks covered in doodles. yet somehow, you and him had always fit together like an odd, unlikely pair.

tonight, he showed up exactly at 7:00 p.m.

punctual, like always.

“i brought you dinner,” he said, holding up two paper bags. “i made sure it’s from that place you like with the spicy tofu you claim doesn’t make you cry but always does.”

you smiled, opening the door wider for him. “ah, you remembered. see? you do love me.”

he gave you a flat look, setting the bags on your kitchen counter. “i tell you every day. if you need evidence beyond that, i can start writing it down in your planner.”

“ooh, planner declarations of love? sounds sexy.”

he gave a soft, almost-smile. you could tell he’d had a long day. the way he rolled his sleeves up, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and sighed like he was finally somewhere safe. you wanted so badly to keep it peaceful. to let him enjoy one evening without—

but the envelope sat on the kitchen table. taunting you.

“ken,” you said softly, “before we eat… can you read something?”

his brow furrowed. “is this another one of your thesis drafts? i told you i am not proofreading any more literary analyses about how tragic men are secretly hot—”

“it’s not,” you said, quieter this time.

he walked over. saw the envelope. took it wordlessly.

you watched him read. nanami read carefully—line by line. never skimmed. never rushed. so it took longer. you could hear the second his breath changed. shallow. barely audible. then it stopped altogether.

he didn’t speak. didn’t ask questions. he simply folded the letter back up and set it down with precision. like it was something sacred. dangerous.

“why didn’t you call me when you got this?” he asked, voice low. serious. his control was razor sharp, but you could hear the grief pressing against his throat.

“i… didn’t want you to leave work in the middle of a meeting,” you muttered. “and i didn’t wanna cry about it either. figured i’d tell you in person. like a grown-up.”

“stage 3, heart cancer is not something you break like a casual news update,” he snapped—then immediately closed his eyes, sighing. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“it’s okay,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “i figured you’d be mad.”

“i’m not mad,” he said, walking around the table toward you. “i’m terrified.”

“it’s still there,” you whispered. “it’s just… fuzzy now. like a dream i can’t quite remember when i wake up.”

you looked up at him. that composed, unshakable man. and for the first time in a long time, nanami looked lost. “you’re young,” he said, almost to himself. “you’re in college. you have plans. you talk about the future like it’s something guaranteed.”

“you really mean that?” your voice cracked.

his jaw clenched. he pulled you into his chest, his hands pressing against your back, like he could physically hold you together. you could feel how hard he was trying not to fall apart. “then i’ll remember it for you,” he said quietly. “your future. your dreams. if you forget them… i’ll carry them until you can take them back.”

“of course,” he said, resting his chin on your head. “you’re the love of my life. i didn’t choose you for convenience. i chose you because i wanted every part of your life—good and bad. if this is what we’re facing now… then we face it. together.”

you buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar scent of bergamot and black tea. the comfort of his heartbeat. the way he was always so steady, even when the world wasn’t.

“but just so we’re clear,” he said, pulling back slightly to look at you, “you’re not going to die. not anytime soon. not before i make you my wife.”

you blinked. “wait—what?”

“i’m not proposing,” he said flatly. “not while you’re crying. but you should know… that’s where this was always headed.”

your tears doubled. “ken—”

“shh,” he kissed your temple. “we’ll talk about it after dinner. and after you stop pretending tofu doesn’t make you sob like a child.”

you laughed. you couldn’t help it.

and for the first time since getting the diagnosis, you let yourself feel safe.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji was already lounging on your couch when you got home.

shirt half unbuttoned, legs spread like he owned the place—which, okay, he kind of did at this point, considering how often he crashed here. one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other nursing a can of beer he probably picked up on the way over. he didn’t look up when you walked in, just tilted his head slightly and smirked like he could smell the anxiety radiating off you.

“you look like shit,” he said casually, eyes still on the muted TV.

“thanks, baby,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door. “your romantic side is really showing today.”

“you want romance, go read a damn poem.” he finally looked at you. eyes narrowing. “you okay?”

you shrugged and walked into the kitchen, not answering. you knew that tone in his voice. low. suspicious. the kind he only used when he felt something off and didn’t like it one bit.

you took your time. poured a glass of water. leaned against the counter. stared at the envelope in your hand like it might explode if you set it down.

“toji,” you called.

“hm?”

“can you come here?”

he groaned dramatically but stood, beer in hand, and sauntered into the kitchen. he leaned against the counter across from you, expression unreadable. he scanned your face like he was piecing something together.

you handed him the envelope without a word.

he took it. read it.

you watched every flicker of emotion pass through his face. confusion. stillness. a furrowed brow. the tightening of his jaw. and then—rage. not loud. not messy. quiet. slow-burning. the kind that sat in his chest like a bomb with no timer.

he didn’t say anything at first.

just set the envelope down and looked at you. dead in the eye.

“how long have you known?”

“just a few days.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” his voice was low. flat.

you sighed. “i didn’t want to see your face like this.”

“like what?”

“like the world ended.”

he stepped closer. his voice dropped even lower.

“you think i give a fuck about the world?” he said slowly. “i care about you. you think you can just carry this shit alone and joke your way through it? you think that’s cute?”

“i didn’t want you to panic,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze. “i didn’t want to cry. or make it real. if i said it out loud—”

“then i’ll say it for you,” he interrupted. “you have heart cancer. stage 3. twenty-four percent odds. and guess what?”

you finally looked at him.

“we’re beating the shit outta those odds.”

you blinked. “what?”

he crossed the distance between you and pulled you into him. his grip wasn’t gentle—it was grounding. like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his chest to believe you were still here.

“you’re not dying on me,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? i’ve lost enough people. you’re not going to be one of them. i’ll chain you to the damn bed if i have to. feed you. fight the doctors. i don’t care.”

“toji—”

“nah, shut up. you’re not allowed to talk until you admit i’m right and that i’m hotter than your oncologist.”

you choked out a laugh. “okay. you’re right. you’re hotter than any man with a medical license.”

“damn straight,” he muttered, lips brushing your forehead. “we’re getting through this. and i don’t care if you lose your hair or your strength or your mind a little bit along the way. you’ll still be mine. all of you.”

you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. you just stood there with his arms around you, the only place that felt like home when everything else felt like hell.

he kissed the side of your head and sighed. “fuck. now i gotta start acting like a responsible adult.”

“guess you better start taking your vitamins, old man.”

“if i die before you, i’m haunting your ass. every time you try to pee, i’ll slam a cabinet door.”

you burst out laughing. crying. something in between. he held you tighter.

“that’s better,” he muttered. “cry in my arms like a normal person, not in the shower like a movie heroine.”

and just like that, you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you found him in the bedroom, stretched across your bed like a damn king—which, technically, he insisted he was. shirtless, as usual. arms behind his head, eyes closed, expression too calm for a man with a bloodstained past and a mouth as foul as his reputation. the room smelled faintly like sandalwood and your shampoo, which he secretly used but would never admit to.

you stood in the doorway with the envelope clenched in your hand.

“oi, sukuna.”

his eyes cracked open, one brow lazily lifting. “what, brat? come to beg for kisses or annoy me until i carry you to class again?”

you forced a grin, walking in slowly. “tempting, but no. i’ve got something for you.”

“better be food or something perverted.”

you sat beside him, the envelope now shaking a little in your fingers. you hated how that tremor betrayed you. sukuna didn’t miss it. his eyes shifted to your hand, narrowing.

“what the hell is that?”

“diagnosis,” you said simply, tossing it onto his chest.

he caught it midair, scoffing. “what, did they finally diagnose you with being insufferable?”

“close. heart cancer. stage three. they gave me a twenty-four percent chance of living.” you tried to say it lightly. like it was a weather report. “cloudy with a chance of death, haha.”

sukuna didn’t laugh.

his eyes scanned the page. slower than usual. and his silence—it wasn’t dramatic, it was dangerous. the air felt like it thickened. you could almost hear his jaw clench.

“tch,” he scoffed. “twenty-four percent? what a bunch of weaklings. you don’t need their odds. you’ve got me.”

you blinked at him. “...you?”

“yeah. i’m keeping you alive. i’m not letting you leave me over some pathetic little tumor.”

you tried to keep the smile on your face, tried to keep the mood light like you always did. “damn. here i was thinking i’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

he sat up then—so suddenly the bed shifted with the force. his hand gripped your chin, tilting your face toward him, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing.

“don’t you dare joke about dying,” he growled. “not to me. not when you know what it would do to me.“

you tried to look away, but his fingers held you still. “sukuna…”

“do you know what i’ve done to people who’ve left me?” he whispered, and for once his voice wasn’t teasing—it was trembling.

“terrible things,” you murmured. “you’ve told me.”

“and yet, you’re the only one i’ve ever let touch me without blood on your hands,” he hissed. “the only one i’d share my bed with. laugh with. let sleep on my chest like some damn lovesick fool.”

you bit your lip. your bravado cracked. “...i’m scared.”

and that was all it took for him to pull you into his lap, arms winding around you with the kind of desperation he rarely ever let surface.

“good,” he muttered into your shoulder. “you should be. but not because of death. because if you think i’ll let you go through this alone, you clearly don’t know who the hell you’re dating.”

you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his warmth, his scent, the familiar thrum of something ancient and furious living in his chest.

“you’ll lose your hair?” he murmured. “i don’t care. you’ll puke every day? i’ll hold the damn bucket. cry at three a.m.? i’ll cuss out the moon for looking at you wrong.”

you choked out a laugh. “the moon, huh?”

“fucking moon thinks it’s allowed to shine on you while you’re in pain? not on my watch.”

he leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek now with uncharacteristic softness. “you don’t need to act strong for me, you little brat. cry. scream. sleep for days. whatever you need. i’ll be here.”

“...even when i look like a zombie?”

“you already look half-dead when you wake up. won’t be much of a change.”

you smacked his chest. he grinned.

and then he pressed his forehead against yours, a rare show of intimacy, his voice dropping so low you barely caught it:

“you’re mine. and i don’t give a fuck if it takes all my strength, my fury, my everything. you will survive this. not because the doctors said so. but because i won’t let you die.”

and for once, even with your heart breaking and your future uncertain, you believed him.

because when a monster like sukuna swore something, the universe listened.

SHIU KONG

the sun was already setting by the time you made it to his office.

you found him exactly how you expected: sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly wrinkled, tie loosened like he’d been too busy all day to care about appearances. he was hunched over his desk, fingers typing something sharp, probably threatening someone with policy violations and scary legal jargon. a half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside his monitor, untouched for hours. the room smelled like cologne and stress.

you stood in the doorway, clutching the envelope.

“shiu.”

his eyes didn’t lift right away—just one flick of them toward you, annoyed, until he saw your face. that was all it took.

he straightened. “what happened?”

“nothing,” you said too quickly. “or, i mean... something. yeah. i brought you something.”

you walked in, trying to act normal. like this wasn’t going to detonate his whole night. you placed the envelope on top of a stack of case files like it was a stupid postcard or a coupon for pizza.

he picked it up, his frown deepening with every line he read.

“you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“i wish.”

he looked at you. hard. no emotion at first—just that sharp, calculating gaze that made grown men fold. but you knew him too well. you saw the cracks right away: his fingers tightening around the paper. the twitch in his jaw. the breath he held too long before letting it out.

“stage three?” he said. “twenty-four percent survival?”

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to keep it light.

“well, if i was a stock, you probably wouldn't invest in me, huh?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped.

you blinked.

“jesus, shiu, calm down—”

“no. i’m not calming down. you walk into my office with this,” he shook the letter, “and joke about it? you think this is funny? you think i can just read this and go back to work?”

you stayed quiet.

he stood up, pacing now. one hand dragging through his hair, the other still holding the paper like it was covered in blood. his voice dropped low. rough.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“i didn’t want to ruin your week.”

he turned slowly. "you think any of this matters if you’re not in it?"

that one hit harder than you expected. your throat tightened.

he sighed harshly and stepped toward you, eyes dark, voice steadier now but no less intense. “look at me.”

you did.

he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was trying to memorize every inch.

"you don’t get to carry this alone,” he said. “not with me around. not for a second."

you bit your lip. “i didn’t want you to treat me like i was dying.”

“i’m not treating you like you’re dying. i’m treating you like you’re mine. and you are. and i don’t care how brutal this fight gets, how many appointments we sit through, how sick you get, how tired—i’m staying.”

you exhaled shakily, and his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you against him like he could keep the sickness away just by holding you tighter.

“you’re not allowed to go before me,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m the old one here, remember?”

you smiled weakly. “so what, you’re giving me permission to outlive you?”

“i’m giving you orders. and you always listen to your boss.”

“you’re not my boss, shiu.”

“wanna bet?”

you leaned your head against his chest, finally letting your tears soak into his shirt. his arms stayed locked around you like a shield.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

he kissed your temple, voice rough and sure.

“then be scared. just don’t be alone.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he always stayed up too late when he was working. piles of case files, half-drunk cups of green tea gone cold, classical music humming low in the background like it could drown out the weight of the world. the desk lamp lit his tired eyes in soft gold, his brows furrowed in that focused way you knew meant he hadn’t even noticed the time—or eaten.

you hovered at the doorway for a second, gripping the envelope. stage 3. 24%. ugly numbers typed in a clinical font that suddenly felt louder than the damn music.

“hiromi.”

he glanced up, his features instantly softening the second he saw you. “you’re still up. what’s wrong?”

you tried to smirk. “well. i’m about to ruin your night. so buckle in, counselor.”

he frowned and pushed his chair back, straightening. “what happened?”

you crossed the room, placed the envelope down in front of him like you were handing in an assignment. “that’s my diagnosis.”

he didn’t move for a few seconds. just stared at it. like touching it would confirm the dread blooming in his chest. but he opened it, scanned the words, and then—

his shoulders stiffened. just slightly. like a man being sentenced.

“heart cancer,” he murmured, voice almost too calm. “stage three. twenty-four percent survival rate.”

“yeah,” you said with a dry chuckle. “bit dramatic, right? could’ve given me a 30% for optimism.”

his eyes snapped up to yours, unreadable.

“you’re making jokes?”

“if i don’t, i’ll cry. and i figured one of us should hold it together.”

his jaw tensed, and he stood slowly, walking around the desk with a kind of methodical grace that always made your heart skip. he stopped in front of you, one hand resting on your cheek like he was scared you’d vanish.

“you’ve known… how long?”

“got the results a few days ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?”

you looked down. “i didn’t want to be the reason you stopped working. you’ve got enough to deal with. i didn’t want to be another case file on your desk.”

he flinched like you slapped him.

“you’re not a case file,” he said firmly. “you’re not just another name. you’re—” his voice broke, just a little. “you’re everything.”

you couldn’t hold it anymore. your voice cracked. “i’m scared.”

his arms were around you instantly, firm and grounding. his hand cupped the back of your head, pressing you into his chest like you belonged there and only there.

“then be scared,” he whispered into your hair. “and i’ll be scared with you. but don’t think for a second i’ll let you go through this alone.”

you held onto his blazer, gripping the fabric like it could anchor you. “i don’t want you to see me fall apart.”

“i’ve seen people fall apart,” he said. “i know what that looks like. this isn’t that. this is you being brave. this is you still showing up, still standing, even when you're hurting.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy. “what if i die?”

his hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “then i’ll have spent every last day making sure you knew you were loved. and if you live—and you will, because you’re stronger than any verdict—they’ll write books about how you told death to wait.”

you laughed through the tears. “that’s a little dramatic, even for a lawyer.”

he smiled, just barely. “i learned from the best.”

and then he kissed you—soft, reverent, like a man clinging to hope.

“we’ll fight this,” he whispered. “and i’ll be with you every step of the way. suits and all.”

i made this after re-watch now is good and just can’t help myself. i know, i know it was basic, classic drama, the girl is sick, has cancer, everyone wrote about it, i know. but i enjoy writing this so much, i may or may not make a mini series about them, do you guys will enjoy it if i make this longer? please let me know! 🫣