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"Mommy, meet Daddy!"
That sentence flies over your head when you instead focus on Haru's feet that create light pitter-patters against the concrete.
You are surprised to see your son race out of a bakery right when you were on your way to pick him up.
Did his afterschool class head here? you wondered.
"Hey, little buddy," you smile when the boy reaches you, squatting to welcome Haru with a hug. "Are you here on a trip on your favorite rocketship?"
To your disappointment, Haru does not answer.
Instead, he squirms out of your embrace and grabs firmly at your hand, dragging you toward the shop's entrance as he mumbles incoherently about something he's been meaning to show you.
"He looks just like me too, Mommy!" are the last words you catch before you two disappear into the bakery.
Wait a minute.
This isn't some random cupcake flavor that Haru had discovered.
It's someone. It's a person.
With your head tilted downward, the running steadies to a stop, allowing his earlier words to finally sink into you.
Haru wants you to meet his what?
Just as your terrible luck would have it, of course, your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a quiet cough.
The subtle huff is deep, too deep to be the afterschool teacher that you have met several times in the past months.
But the voice is familiar.
So, your gaze remains stuck on the floor.
Please not him, anything but him, you silently pray with squeezed-shut eyes before cautiously turning to the polished black boots that enter your field of vision.
"Oh? It's you again!" the incomer exclaims.
Slowly raising your head, you feel your breath stolen from your defeated lungs in a flood of disappointment.
In front of you, Gojo stands confidently in his uniform, the dark fabric taut in all the right places such that you could easily remember the muscled outline of his arms and torso.
His face hovers well above yours.
Despite your resentment, you can't deny that Gojo is still absolutely stunning.
Five years later, and he is perhaps more handsome than what you remember.
Above the sunglasses, his pale brows raise from a combination of something, something like both nervousness and sheer surprise, as he deflects your growing glare.
When he begins to take slow steps in your direction, your mouth immediately dries at the proximity.
You shuffle away a bit and opt to grab Haru's Minions backpack, hoping to collect yourself even as you sense him looming behind you.
Why is he looking at you like that?
Why is he obviously checking out your behind as he finishes the last of an oatmeal raisin cookie?
It makes your body feel wanted, feel touchable.
Yet, because this is Gojo, his gaze is starting to make you uncomfortable, really.
Turning to finally confront him, your eyelid twitches and you are amazed at how his presence annoyed you.
Three minutes in, and this is already too much for you.
You finally hiss, "Will you stop looking at me like I'm your next meal?"
"Maybe that's exactly what I want you to be."
Gojo stuffs his hands in his pockets as he tilts his head to the side, even having the audacity to wink at you behind his shades.
Did he think was smooth by flirting with you so casually?
Scoffing, you slide Haru's backpack into the crook of your elbow, anxiety dissipating but replaced with anger the longer you look at him.
"What the hell are you doing with my son?" you snarl.
"Hold up, Barbie. Haruto's my son, too."
Irritation seeps further into your bones.
This man knows next to nothing about Haru, yet he speaks as if he'd also raised the boy during the last five years.
"Listen," you warn, tone rising with every breath. "I don't know how you located his school, I don't know why you are pretending like you're his dad when you certainly do not deserve the title, but leave us alone."
Just when you are about to retaliate further, he approaches your frozen figure, placing his massive and veiny hands on your hips.
Leaning in, Gojo lets his smooth lips brush the shell of your ear so that his breath brushes you warmly.
You want to sink into this again, the warmth and tension that you are familiar with.
The sensation sends shivers down your spine, and suddenly, you are trapped again in a flurry of emotions.
You are stuck between the desire to kiss him and fuck him, and then go ballistic to let him know he should stop playing with your feelings like a fiddle.
When your fingers involuntarily brush against the side of his body, though, a smirk tugs at his lips when your thighs squeeze at the contact.
But his words are enough to fling your thoughts away from the heat between your legs and the hurt in your heart.
"He's still watching, princess."
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Classes are slowly draining my life away. But, what are your favorite subjects?
