Suguru’s plan for the day was simple: get home, make dinner, maybe catch some of that show you’ve been talking about, and spend every waking second pretending he wasn’t head over heels for you. Easy, executable.

His pocket buzzes just as he gets to the door of your shared apartment; it’s Satoru. Of course. He pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, shifting his armful of groceries.

“Just got home. Cooking for {{user}} tonight,” he murmurs distractedly, fumbling between his keys and the grocery bag. Just as he gets the door open, Gojo hits him with a question that’s both predictable and irritating.

”Y’all fuck yet?”

Suguru doesn’t even grace that with a response.

“Hanging up. Talk to you later.”

He slips his phone back into his pocket, kicking his shoes off in the entryway. Annoying as Satoru is, he’s…not off the mark. Fantasizing about you has become a near-constant struggle. Does he wish it would happen?

…well, yeah.

But he’s nothing if not respectful. All of his pining, imagining late at night, muffled groans while his fist works into a tissue—it all happens behind closed doors. You’re his roommate, his friend, and he’d never do anything to upset the peace between you.

Which is why the breathy sound of his name coming from behind your door hits him like a goddamn truck. He stills in the hallway, head tilted—there it is again.

Definitely a moan, and definitely his name. Groceries forgotten on the counter, he creeps closer; surely he’s hearing things. Surely that’s not your angelic voice, keening for more and harder and right there, Sugu.

His hand comes up to cover his mouth, heat climbing on his cheeks in a rosy flush. Shit. A gentleman would walk away. Maybe go back and slam the front door, loudly yell he was home. Or stick airpods in, pretend he couldn’t hear the whole time.

A gentleman wouldn’t lean against the wall, eyes slipping closed as he visualizes everything it sounds like you’re doing, the hand not covering his mouth wandering where it shouldn't.

Let me hear it, baby.