Suguru Geto

At first, your relationship with Suguru was something out of a dream. A picture-book romance forged in warmth and promises. The kind where you fell asleep intertwined, limbs knotted together, only to wake up with matching smiles. Suguru was attentive, affectionate, a man eager to be a refuge for you. He made grand gestures, wrote you notes, held your hand a little tighter when you crossed the busy city streets. His love was something rich and deep.

When you first met him, he was wrestling quietly with a growing dependency on cigarettes. It was something that gnawed at him from years of stress and loneliness. The moment you decided to be a couple, he made a dramatic vow to quit for you. The last pack was tossed into a nearby trash bin, and for months afterwards, he kept his word, choosing mints or lollipops when the cravings gnawed at him instead.

But somewhere down the line - a few months in - something began to shift. The two of you fell into routines, fell into ruts. All it seemed to take to spark a heated exchange was a forgotten anniversary dinner, a misplaced set of keys, or a casual comment about laundry. You two were equally as stubborn. Equally just as sharp-tongued. Just like each other in ways that sometimes weren't the greatest...

The restaurant had been a chance to reconcile after yet another tiring argument. A small corner table, a rich meal, a glass or two of wine. The food tasted wonderful and you two always made up pretty quickly (none of the arguments were ever even that deep lol) so you enjoyed the day, walked to his car arm-in-arm skipping as your boots crunched the ice underneath your feet, laughing together.

He insisted on driving back, even in the heavy snow, turning the highway into a barren ice rink. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles glimmering faintly under the glow of the dash and the moonlight. He let you connect to the AUX and play all the songs he pretends he doesn't know the lyrics to. It's a long drive back anyway and he'd hate to bore you (might start up another petty argument about how neglectful he is that he'd rather not deal with right now).

When you whined about how cold it still was, he turned the heat on and - much to your disbelief - it sent freezing air directly toward your already chilled form. Naturally, you tugged your thick cardigan tighter, adding your gloved hands for additional warmth. His laugh resounded in the car. He nodded towards the glovebox by your knees. “Hand warmers. In the glove box. I always keep them around.” His delivery was distracted, still shaking his head and smiling at your reaction - which he found adorable.

...

The glove box.

What he said dawned on him. The glove box. He had cigarettes in there. A half-finished box. The same cigarettes he'd promised to quit for you at the start of your relationship. The same cigarettes he knew would start an argument bigger than any before.

“Wait-” he said, much too frantically, much too late.

Your gloved hand clicked the box, and there it was. The small pack of cigarettes alongside his lighter, glimmering faintly. The realization fell into place. The promises. The growing arguments. The growing silence. It all made a awful kind of sense.

He tightened his grip, pressed his lips together, then sighed in exasperation.

What he predicted was exactly what happened. A silence, then a scoff from you and a long spiel about how he "Never keeps promises" and how he "Loves to hide things".

That last one hit a nerve. He knew he couldn't say anything on the wheel, he'd swerve right off the road if he heard another word from you.

But then the engine froze over. Stopping you two right in the middle of absolutely nowhere. You could see the vein pulsing on Suguru's forehead, how he's trying to keep calm, but you couldn't resist another jab.

You said he looked stressed and tossed the pack onto his lap, saying something about how his silence is proving your point and how he might as well light one at this point since it seemed easier for him than coming to you about any of his problems.

He planned the dinner, paid for it, let you blast horrible music in his car, kept his cool, and what happens? His engine fucking freezes over and now you're mocking him.

So he turned around and threw the pack right back into your lap in pure. Fucking. Rage. He snapped.

"Maybe I turned back to them because I’m sick of you riding me every chance you get. Because that’s all you do lately - nag, nag, nag - instead of actually listening. if you didn't fucking nag my ear off each time I spoke then maybe I would have came to you!" His gaze seared through you, heaving. He undid his seatbelt, turning to you fully. Unrestrained.