𐔌 ⑅ gigo !!🍭ྀི ∿

"We haven't even entered the store yet."

He looked up, feigning innocence. "I'm warming up, sweetheart!~ Gotta get in the zone."

"The zone."

"The shopping zone. It's a real thing. Very competitive."

You stared at him. He stared back, his white hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken before you left. He looked clean. He looked annoyingly handsome. He looked ready to cause chaos.

"You showered," you said.

"I always shower, sweetheart. I'm a civilized human being."

"Debatable."

He gasped dramatically. "You wound me!"

You sighed. This was going to be a long trip.

You made it approximately thirty seconds into the produce section before he caused his first incident.

"Sweetheart," he said, holding up a pineapple. "Sweetheart. Look."

"I see it."

"Look at its hair."

"Satoru—"

"It looks like me. This pineapple has my hair!"

You glanced at the pineapple. Then at his white, messy locks. Then back at the pineapple.

"...Put the pineapple in the cart."

He beamed. "I knew you'd understand."

He placed it in the cart gently, like it was a baby.

Then he picked up a coconut.

"What about this one?" he asked. "Does this one look like Suguru?"

"Put the coconut down."

"It's bald. Like Suguru's—"

"Satoru."

He cackled and put the coconut back.

You moved on to the apples.

He followed behind you, pushing the cart in lazy zigzags, occasionally bumping into your heels.

"You're going to run me over," you said.

"That's called motivation, sweetheart. Keeps you moving."

"I'm moving just fine."

"You're moving slow."

"I'm looking at the apples."

"The apples are all the same."

"They're not all the same. There are different kinds."

"They're all round and red."

"Some are green."

He squinted at the display. "Green apples are just unripe red apples. It's a scam."

You turned to look at him. "That's not— you know what. I'm not doing this."

You put a bag of Granny Smiths in the cart.

He gasped. "You proved my point."

"I proved nothing."

"You bought the unripe ones!"

"They're not unripe, they're Granny Smiths—"

"Granny Smith sounds like a fake name. Who is Granny Smith? I don't trust her."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

"Let's move on," you said.

"To where?"

"The snack aisle."

His eyes lit up like you'd just offered him the world.

"Lead the way, sweetheart."

The snack aisle was a mistake.

You realized this the moment Satoru spotted the gummy worms.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice reverent. "Sweetheart. Look."

"I see them."

"They're worms."

"They're gummy worms."

"They're delicious worms." He grabbed a bag and threw it into the cart. "We're getting these."

"We don't need gummy worms."

"Everyone needs gummy worms. It's basic human rights."

You took the bag out.

He put it back in.

You took it out again.

He put it back in again, this time holding eye contact.

"Satoru."

"Sweetheart."

"We're not getting gummy worms."

"And yet," he said, gesturing at the cart, "they're already in there."

You stared at him. He stared back, completely unbothered.

"...Fine," you muttered. "But only one bag."

He immediately grabbed a second bag. "This one's for emotional support."

"You don't need emotional support gummy worms."

"You don't know what I need, sweetheart. You're not a doctor."

"Neither are you."

"I'm a sorcerer. Same thing."

You gave up.

By the time you reached the end of the snack aisle, the cart contained: two bags of gummy worms, a box of pudding cups (he'd put them in three times, you'd taken them out twice, he won), a family-sized bag of chips, and a jar of pickles that he'd claimed "looked lonely."

"Pickles don't get lonely," you said.

"This one did. Look at its face!"

"It doesn't have a face."

"It has a vibe, sweetheart."

The frozen foods aisle was where things got dramatic.

You were looking for frozen vegetables — normal, reasonable, adult things — when Satoru spotted the ice cream.

"Sweetheart," he said. "Sweetheart. We need this."

"We don't need ice cream."

"We always need ice cream."

"We have ice cream at home."

"That ice cream is old."

"It's from last week."

"That's ancient in ice cream years."

You ignored him. He picked up a tub of cookies and cream and held it to his chest like a lost puppy.

"Please," he said. "For my health."

"Your health?"

"Ice cream has calcium. Calcium is good for bones. I'm doing this for my bones, sweetheart."

"That's not how—"

"For my bones."

You stared at him. He stared back, bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

"...Fine."

He grinned and dropped the ice cream into the cart.

Then he picked up another one.

"Satoru."

"What? This one's for your bones."

"My bones are fine."

"Your bones deserve treats too."

You took the second tub out. He put it back in. You took it out. He put it back in.

This happened four more times.

And then — he fake-cried.

"I can't believe this," he said, his voice wobbling dramatically. "My own girlfriend. Denying me frozen dairy. In my time of need."

"You're not in need."

"I'm emotionally in need."

"You're ridiculous."

He sniffled — completely fake, utterly theatrical. "I just wanted ice cream. Is that so wrong?"

An old lady walking past gave you a judgmental look.

"Ma'am," Satoru said, turning to her. "Tell her. Tell her I deserve ice cream."

The old lady blinked. Then she looked at you.

"Let him have the ice cream, dear," she said. "Life's too short."

Satoru gasped. "Thank you! Finally, someone with taste!"

You put the second tub of ice cream in the cart.

He beamed.

You died inside.

By the time you reached the checkout, you were exhausted.

Satoru, meanwhile, was thriving.

He stood beside you at the register, leaning against the cart like he'd just run a marathon.

"We did good today, sweetheart," he said.

"We bought pudding cups, gummy worms, and two tubs of ice cream."

"And pickles."

"And pickles."

"That's called balance."

The cashier — a teenager who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else — started scanning your items.

Satoru watched her for a moment. Then he leaned closer to you, his hand finding your lower back.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I'm bored."

"You're always bored."

"Entertain me."

"I'm paying for groceries."

"Boring."

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then rested his chin on your shoulder, watching the cashier scan the items with half-lidded eyes.

The cashier glanced up at the two of you — at his arm around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his whole body curved around yours like he was protecting you from the world.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"That'll be sixty-three forty," she said.

Satoru handed her his card before you could even reach for your wallet.

"I've got it, sweetheart," he said, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I'm a gentleman."

"You're a menace."

"Your menace."

The cashier handed him the receipt. He took it without looking, his eyes already back on you.

"Ready to go home?" he asked.

"Please."

He grinned, grabbed the bags with one hand, and reached for your hand with the other.

"Lead the way, sweetheart."

He carried all the bags.

You'd tried to help — really, you had — but every time you reached for a bag, he pulled it away.

"I'm the strongest," he said. "Let me be useful."

"You're always useful."

"I'm always handsome. Usefulness is debatable."

You laughed — a real laugh, bright and tired and full of love.

He grinned at the sound.

"There she is," he said softly. "There's my favorite sound."

You stood by the car as he loaded the bags into the trunk. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. He had flour still in his hair. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck. He looked soft. He looked yours.

"Satoru," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For coming with me."

He closed the trunk and walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Always, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Even when I'm annoying."

"Especially when you're annoying."

He laughed. "Yeah. Especially then."

You stood there for a moment, wrapped in his arms, the grocery store parking lot buzzing around you.

"I love you," you said.

"I know," he said. "I love you too."

Then he pulled back, grinned, and added: "Now let's go home. I want to eat the pickles."

"The pickles?"

"They're lonely, sweetheart. They need me."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

And when he reached for your hand on the drive home, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm, you forgot why you'd ever been annoyed in the first place.

Back at home, you watched as Satoru unpacked the groceries.

He put the ice cream in the freezer. He put the pickles in the fridge. He pulled out a container of pre-cut pineapple — the kind that's supposed to go in the fridge immediately — and placed it on the counter. Not in the fridge. Just... on the counter. Like a psychopath.

"Satoru," you said slowly. "That goes in the fridge."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does. It's cut pineapple. It needs to be refrigerated."

He tilted his head, considering the container like it had personally offended him.

"The pineapple wants to be free, sweetheart."

"The pineapple wants to not rot."

"The pineapple is living its best life." He patted the container gently. "Room temperature. Fresh air. This is what it deserves."

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely serious.

"That pineapple is going to go bad by tomorrow," you said.

"Then we'll enjoy it while it lasts. Carpe diem, sweetheart. Seize the pineapple."

"You're ridiculous."

He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "Takes one to know one, sweetheart."

You sighed, but you were smiling.

"...I'm moving it to the fridge when you're not looking."

"I'll know."

"How?"

"The pineapple will tell me."

"You're impossible."

"And even then," he said, pulling you into his arms, "you're still here."

You stayed like that for a moment — wrapped in his arms, the pineapple sitting on the counter, the rest of the groceries forgotten.

Then you pulled back, looked him in the eyes, and said: "I love you. Even when you're wrong about fruit."

He grinned. "I'm never wrong about fruit."

"The pineapple says otherwise."

"The pineapple is a liar, sweetheart. Don't believe its propaganda."

You laughed, and he kissed your forehead, and the pineapple stayed on the counter.

(You moved it to the fridge after he fell asleep. He never mentioned it. You never mentioned it. Some things are better left unsaid.)

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch together, a movie playing quietly in the background. Satoru's head was in your lap, his white hair fanned out across your thighs, his eyes half-closed.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me come with you today."

You ran your fingers through his hair. "You say that like I had a choice."

He laughed softly. "You always have a choice. You just keep choosing me."

You looked down at him — at his tired eyes, his soft smile, the way his hand had found yours and was holding it like you were something precious.

"Always," you said.

He smiled — that soft, private smile he only gave you.

"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Outside, the world kept turning. The pineapple sat in the fridge, safe and cold. And Satoru — your Satoru — fell asleep in your lap, his hand still in yours, his heart beating steady beneath your touch.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Love you, pretty boy."

He mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like "love you too."

And that was enough.

A/N. my grocery trips are so boring can gojo tag along with me 🥹💔 what's next for the series? 🧐

"Satoru," you said slowly. "Why are you wearing that?"

He struck a pose. "I'm going to bake you cookies."

"You... what?"

"Cookies," he repeated, as if that explained everything. "Chocolate chip. From scratch. Because I love you and I want to express my love through the medium of baked goods."

You set down your book. "You know how to bake?"

He grinned — that stupid, beautiful grin. "Of course I do, sweetheart. I'm a man of many talents."

You should have known then.

You really should have.

You followed him into the kitchen, mostly out of curiosity. The counter was already covered in ingredients — flour, sugar, butter, eggs, chocolate chips. A recipe book was open to a page that looked suspiciously clean.

"Have you done this before?" you asked.

"Define 'done this.'"

"Have you ever baked cookies from scratch?"

He paused. "I've watched videos."

"Satoru."

"Videos count as experience!"

You crossed your arms. He ignored you, tying the apron strings tighter and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were visible. You tried not to stare.

"Okay," he announced, cracking his knuckles. "Let's do this."

The first sign of trouble was the flour.

He poured it into the bowl with great enthusiasm — too much enthusiasm. A white cloud erupted from the mixing bowl, dusting the counter, his apron, and his face.

"You got flour on your nose," you said.

"I meant to do that." He didn't wipe it off. "It's called flair."

"You're going to get flour everywhere."

"Sweetheart, the flour is already everywhere." He gestured grandly at the counter. "Embrace the chaos."

You sighed, but you were smiling.

He measured the sugar wrong — double what the recipe called for — and when you pointed it out, he just shrugged.

"It's love sugar," he said. "Extra sweet. For my extra sweet girlfriend."

"That's not how baking works."

"Baking is an art, not science."

"Baking is literally chemistry, Satoru."

He dipped his finger into the sugar and held it up to your lips. "Taste test?"

You ate the sugar off his finger. He looked delighted.

"See?" he said. "You trust me."

"I trust that you're going to burn down the kitchen."

"Slander."

He added the eggs — too enthusiastically, shells included. You watched him fish the fragments out with his fingers, completely unbothered.

"Most people crack the eggs first," you said.

"Most people are boring."

He stirred the mixture with too much force, splashing batter onto the counter, onto his apron, onto your shirt.

"Satoru!"

"Oops." He did not look sorry. "Clumsy me."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart."

He was grinning. He was absolutely, undeniably, grinning.

The cookies went into the oven.

That's when things got really chaotic.

You weren't sure what temperature he'd set — he'd twisted the dial with great confidence and refused to let you check. Within five minutes, smoke was billowing out of the oven.

"Satoru, the cookies—"

"The cookies are developing character."

"The cookies are on fire."

The smoke alarm went off.

You scrambled for a towel, waving it under the detector while Satoru stood perfectly still, watching you with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

"Are you just going to stand there?" you yelled.

"You're so cute when you're flustered," he said.

"THE ALARM, SATORU."

He sighed dramatically, reached up, and pressed the silence button on the smoke detector. Then he opened the oven.

Inside were twelve black discs. They were barely recognizable as cookies. They were smoking.

"Perfect," he announced.

"Those are charcoal."

"Those are homemade charcoal. With love."

You stared at him. He stared back, flour on his nose, sugar in his hair, a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He looked absolutely ridiculous. He looked absolutely adorable.

"You did this on purpose," you said.

He didn't deny it. He just smiled — soft, warm, full of love.

"You've been so stressed lately," he said quietly. "Work. Life. Everything. I just wanted to make you laugh."

Your heart melted.

"You set the kitchen on fire to make me laugh?"

"The kitchen is not on fire. The cookies are slightly crispy."

"Baby, they're charcoal."

"Artisanal charcoal."

You laughed — a real laugh, bright and surprised. His face lit up like you'd given him a gift.

"There she is," he whispered. "There's my favorite sound."

You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his neck, not caring about the flour or the sugar or the smoke still lingering in the air.

"You're ridiculous," you said against his shoulder.

He pulled you closer, his voice soft against your hair. "Ridiculously in love with you. Does that count?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, nothing like the confident man who'd walked into the kitchen an hour ago.

"...That's cheating," you whispered.

"Is it working?"

You kissed him instead of answering.

He ordered pizza.

While you waited, he insisted on showing you the "best part" of the baking process.

"There's no best part," you said. "The cookies are ruined."

"The best part isn't the cookies, sweetheart. It's the cleanup."

You watched in disbelief as he grabbed the bag of flour and sprinkled it over both of you — a cloud of white settling on your hair, your shoulders, your nose.

"Satoru—"

"Now we match," he said, grinning. "Flour twins."

"I can't with you sometimes."

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "And yet you're still here. Curious."

"You're lucky I love you."

"I'm not lucky. I'm blessed."

The pizza arrived twenty minutes later. You ate it on the couch, surrounded by the mess you hadn't cleaned up yet, your head on his shoulder and his hand on your thigh.

"Next time," he said, "I'll bake you cookies that aren't charcoal."

"Next time?"

"There's always a next time, sweetheart."

You looked up at him — at the flour still dusted in his white hair, the chocolate smear on his cheek, the soft smile on his lips.

"Okay," you said. "Next time."

He kissed your forehead.

"Promise."

You woke up to the smell of freshly baked cookies.

Satoru was standing in the kitchen, still in his pajamas, holding a tray of perfect golden-brown chocolate chip cookies. No smoke. No flour cloud. No fire alarm.

"I practiced," he said, sheepish. "After you fell asleep."

You stared at him.

"You stayed up all night... baking cookies?"

"I wanted to get it right." He set the tray on the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "For you."

You walked over, plucked a cookie from the tray, and took a bite.

It was perfect.

Soft, warm, melty chocolate, just the right amount of sweet.

"Satoru," you said, your voice soft.

"Yeah?"

You kissed him — slow and sweet and full of love.

"They're perfect," you whispered against his lips.

He grinned — that stupid, beautiful, adorable grin.

"I know," he said. "They're for you."

A/N. HES PRECIOUS !!!! i can already imagine his cute boyish grin that makes ur heart melt UGHHHHHHHHH (┬┬﹏┬┬) also, do you guys like my pun!?!? SDHHSDH

And he had nothing to fear.

Or so he told himself, standing in the corner of yet another boring Jujutsu High networking event, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers that he hadn't taken a single sip from.

"You're doing it again," Shoko said, not even looking up from her phone. She was leaned against the wall next to him, already bored out of her mind, watching the room through half-lidded eyes.

"Doing what?" Satoru asked, his voice casual. Too casual.

"That thing where you stare at someone like you're calculating exactly how to make them disappear from the face of the earth. You know. Your specialty."

Satoru's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not staring at anyone."

"You've been staring at that guy for seven minutes," Shoko replied, finally glancing up. Her eyes followed his gaze across the room. "Seven minutes, Satoru. I counted."

"I've been observing," he corrected, his tone clipped. "There's a difference."

"Mm. And what, exactly, are you observing?"

Satoru didn't answer. Because he couldn't. Because if he opened his mouth right now, he might say something he couldn't take back — something like "I'm observing the way his hand keeps finding excuses to touch my girlfriend's arms" or "I'm observing how he's standing way too close to her" or "I'm observing the exact angle I'd need to Infinity his stupid face into next week."

Shoko finally looked up from her phone, following his gaze across the room. You were talking to someone — some assistant from the Kyoto branch, some guy Satoru didn't recognize and didn't care to know. The guy was tall, annoyingly handsome, and he kept laughing at things you said. Too loudly. Too eagerly. Like he was trying to impress you.

Like he didn't see Satoru standing right there.

"You're jealous," Shoko said flatly.

"I'm not jealous."

"You're literally turning green."

"I'm not turning anything—" Satoru started, but then he saw it. The guy's hand slid down to the small of your back. Casually. Like he had any right to touch you there. Like your boyfriend wasn't ten feet away, watching the whole thing.

Satoru's eye twitched.

Shoko smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Oh, this is going to be good."

You were mid-conversation — something about mission protocols, something boring that you were only half-paying attention to because this guy had been talking for five minutes and you were starting to wonder where Satoru had wandered off to — when you felt an arm wrap around your waist.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. Just... there. Warm and familiar and distinctly his. The arm tightened just slightly, pulling you back against a solid chest, and you felt the brush of lips against your temple — soft, almost absent, like he couldn't help himself.

"Hey, baby," Satoru said, his voice smooth and easy. But you felt his fingers press just a little more firmly into your hip. A reminder. A claim. Mine.

You looked up at him. His blindfold was on, but his head was tilted in that particular way that meant he was looking at the guy across from you. Not glaring. Not threatening. Just... looking. The kind of looking that made lesser men break into a cold sweat.

"Hey, sweetheart," you said back, playing along even though you knew exactly what he was doing. "I was wondering where you went."

"Got bored," he shrugged, but his arm didn't move from your waist. Not an inch. "Who's your friend, pretty girl?"

The guy — you'd already forgotten his name, something with a K maybe? — shifted uncomfortably under Satoru's unseen gaze. "I'm— we were just discussing—"

"Great." Satoru smiled. Not his real smile. The other one. The one that didn't reach his eyes and made everyone who saw it take a small step backward. "Well, we should get going, my love. Things to do. People to see."

"We do?"

"We do." He was already steering you away, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back — right where that other guy's hand had been. Like he was erasing the touch. Replacing it with his own. "Nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He just guided you across the room, his touch warm and steady, until you were standing by the windows at the far end of the venue, away from everyone else, the city lights glittering behind the glass.

"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"What was what, darling?" He was playing innocent, but his ears were already turning pink.

"You just... dragged me away from a conversation."

"I didn't drag you, princess. I escorted you. There's a difference."

"That's literally the same thing."

"It's really not."

"Satoru."

He sighed, running a hand through his white hair. His blindfold had slipped slightly during his dramatic intervention, and you could see the edge of his eyebrow, the furrow in his brow. He looked flustered. Embarrassed. Cute.

"Who was that guy, anyway?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

You blinked. "I don't know. Some assistant from Kyoto? I think his name started with a K?"

"And he had to stand that close to you?"

"He was just talking, Satoru."

"His hand was on your back, sweetheart." Satoru's voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "I saw it. He put his hand on your lower back and left it there for way too long."

"He was just being polite, Satoru." you pointed out, though you were struggling not to smile. "Not everyone is trying to steal me away."

"I touch your back when we talk," he said, stepping closer. His hands found your waist again, pulling you gently toward him. "He doesn't get to."

You stared up at him — at his pink ears, his slightly furrowed brow, the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something he'd regret.

And then, slowly, you smiled.

"Satoru," you said, drawing out his name like a tease. "Are you jealous?"

"No."

"You are. You're totally jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm protective. There's a difference, princess."

"Name one difference."

"The difference is—" He stopped. Paused. His ears went from pink to red. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You're so jealous, baby."

"I'm not—" He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. His arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you against his chest. "You're impossible, you know that?"

You laughed, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy white hair. He melted into your touch instantly, his whole body relaxing against yours, a soft hum escaping his throat.

"I don't get jealous," he mumbled against your shoulder, his voice muffled. "I'm not that guy, sweetheart."

"You're literally that guy right now, my love."

"I'm never that guy."

"You're being that guy, darling."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't, pretty boy."

He sighed. His arms tightened around you. "...I really don't, baby. I really, really don't."

Later, when you got home, Satoru was quiet.

Not the bad kind of quiet — not the distant, unreachable kind that made you feel like he was a thousand miles away even when he was right next to you. Just... thoughtful. Introspective. His hand found yours on the couch, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm while he stared at the ceiling.

"You know I trust you, right, sweetheart?" he said finally, his voice soft.

You turned to look at him. His blindfold was off now — just his eyes, soft and blue in the dim lamplight, reflecting something vulnerable. Something honest. He looked young like this. Unprotected.

"I know, Satoru," you said.

"It's not that I don't trust you, baby." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just... I don't trust them. I don't like the way they look at you, my love. Like you're something to be... taken. Like I'm not standing right there. Like you're not mine."

"Satoru—"

"I know it's not rational." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "I know I'm being stupid, princess. I'm Gojo Satoru. I'm not supposed to feel... threatened. By anyone. I'm the strongest. I've faced down curses that would make grown men weep. But when I see someone touch you — when I see someone look at you like they have a chance—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I want to remind them that you're mine. And I hate that, pretty girl. Because you're not mine. You're your own person. You can talk to whoever you want. You can let whoever touch—"

"Satoru."

He looked at you.

You leaned over and kissed him. Soft. Slow. Deliberate. You poured every ounce of reassurance you had into that kiss, and you felt him exhale against your lips, felt his shoulders drop, felt his hand come up to cup your cheek like you were something precious.

"I am yours, baby," you said against his lips. "I'm yours and I'm my own person. Both things can be true at the same time."

He stared at you for a long moment — at your eyes, your lips, the small smile playing at the corner of your mouth. Then his shoulders relaxed completely, and he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he mumbled against your skin. "For being weird tonight. For being jealous. For dragging you away like a caveman."

"You weren't weird, my love. You were... cute."

"Cute?"

"Jealous you is very cute, darling."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "I'm never being jealous again, princess. I'm above it."

"Sure you won't, baby."

"I won't. I'm the strongest. I don't get jealous."

"Mmhmm."

"I'm serious, sweetheart."

"The strongest jealous boyfriend."

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. "I'm leaving you."

"You're not going anywhere, pretty boy."

He sighed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until your chest was pressed against his and you could feel his heartbeat, steady and warm. "You're right, baby. I'm not."

The next time it happened, you were at a small café down the street from your shared apartment.

It was a Saturday morning, the sun was golden through the windows, and you'd just wanted a quiet coffee before heading back to curl up on the couch with Satoru. Nothing fancy. Nothing worth noting.

Except the barista was cute.

You noticed — because you had eyes, not because you were interested. He was tall, lanky, with kind brown eyes and a friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably had a dog and went on hikes and remembered people's orders.

"One oat milk latte," he said, sliding the cup across the counter. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his smile widening. "It's on the house today. For the pretty customer."

You laughed politely, reaching for your wallet. "Oh, thank you, but I can pay—"

"She said she can pay."

Satoru's voice came from directly behind you, smooth as silk and cold as ice. His hand appeared on your lower back — firm, possessive, deliberate — and he stepped up beside you, towering over the counter like a warning sign.

The barista's smile faltered. "Oh, I didn't realize—"

"Clearly." Satoru's smile was razor-sharp. "Thanks for the coffee. Very generous. We'll be going now, baby."

He took the cup from the counter, wrapped his other arm around your waist, and guided you out of the café before you could even process what had happened.

The door swung shut behind you. The morning air was cool on your flushed cheeks.

"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. "Did you just... jealous-interrupt me again?"

"No, baby."

"You did. You totally did, my love."

"I was being efficient, sweetheart. He was wasting your time."

"He was being nice, Satoru."

"He was being flirty, pretty girl. There's a very big difference."

You stared at him — at his red ears, his stubborn jaw, the way he was holding your coffee like a trophy. He stared back, unblinking, refusing to admit defeat.

"You're impossible, darling," you said finally.

"You've mentioned that before, princess."

"I'm dating a toddler."

"You're dating the strongest sorcerer in the world, actually."

"You're a jealous toddler, baby."

"I am not—" He stopped. Took a breath. Ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Okay, sweetheart. Fine. Maybe I'm a little jealous."

"Maybe?"

"...A lot jealous, my love. I'm a lot jealous. Are you happy now?"

You smiled — wide and bright and full of affection — and reached up to cup his face in your hands. His eyes fluttered shut immediately, his whole body leaning into your touch like a sunflower seeking the sun.

"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru," you said softly. "You don't have to scare off every guy who looks at me, pretty boy."

"I know, baby." He opened his eyes, and they were soft now. Warm. Vulnerable. "But I want to."

"That's not healthy, darling."

"I never claimed to be healthy, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to your palm. "I just claimed to be yours."

You laughed — bright and surprised and so full of love it made your chest ache — and he kissed you right there on the sidewalk, coffee forgotten, the world fading away around you.

"You're ridiculous, Satoru," you whispered against his lips.

"I'm yours, princess," he corrected, his forehead resting against yours. "There's a very big difference."

Later that night — after the café incident, after you'd spent the afternoon curled up on the couch together while watching bad movies, and after Satoru had apologized approximately seventeen more times (you'd stopped counting) — his phone started buzzing.

He glanced at the screen. Rolled his eyes.

"It's Shoko," he said, already reading through the messages. "She's being annoying."

"Nothing new there," you said, leaning over to look.

The group chat was, as always, chaotic.

Satoru's fingers flew across the screen, his expression indignant.

He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a dramatic sigh you could hear from across the couch, he typed:

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Satoru shot you a look of betrayal. "You're supposed to be on my side," he complained.

"I'm on no one's side," you said sweetly. "I'm an agent of chaos."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "traitor" before turning back to his phone.

You watched his thumbs hover again. He was typing, deleting, typing again.

Satoru stared at his phone for a long moment. His ears were turning pink again. You could see him trying to come up with a comeback.

He failed.

You burst out laughing — actually laughing, the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Satoru tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him and flopped backward with a dramatic groan.

"They're the worst," he declared, staring at the ceiling.

"You love them," you said, still giggling.

"I tolerate them. Barely."

"You literally just said you don't hate Shoko."

"Don't quote me at me."

You grinned, crawling over to curl up against his side. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You're cute when you're flustered," you said.

"I'm never flustered."

"Your ears are red."

"The room is warm."

"It's November."

"The heater is warm."

You reached up and tugged gently at his earlobe. He swatted your hand away, but he was smiling — that soft, private smile he only let you see.

"I love you, you know," he said quietly.

"I know, baby."

"Say it back."

"I love you too, Satoru. Even when you're a jealous mess."

"I'm not a jealous mess."

"Your phone says otherwise."

He groaned, burying his face in your hair. "I'm never looking at that group chat again."

"Sure you won't, pretty boy."

"…I really hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't."

He sighed, his arms tightening around you. "…No, I don't."

That night, you were lying in bed, half-asleep, the sheets tangled around your legs and Satoru's arm draped across your stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city outside the window, and everything was quiet and warm and safe.

"Hey, baby," he whispered.

"Mm, Satoru?" you mumbled, barely conscious.

"I'm sorry. For being... like that tonight. At the café."

You opened your eyes, blinking in the darkness. He was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair was a complete disaster — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other — and his eyes were soft in the dim light. He looked adorable like this. Unprotected. Yours.

"Like what, my love?" you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

"Jealous. Possessive. Weird." He paused, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip. "I've never been like this before, sweetheart. With anyone. I've never cared enough to be."

You reached up and brushed his white hair back from his forehead, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

"I know, Satoru," you said softly.

"I don't like it, princess. Feeling like I could lose you. Even when I know I won't." He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "It makes me act... not like myself, pretty girl."

"Maybe this is yourself, darling," you said, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Maybe you've just never cared enough about anyone to feel it before. Maybe jealousy isn't weakness, Satoru. Maybe it just means you love me."

He was quiet for a long moment. His eyes searched yours in the darkness, looking for something — reassurance, maybe. Or permission.

"That's... actually really insightful, baby," he said finally.

"I have my moments, my love."

He smiled — that soft, private smile he only gave you in moments like this, when the world was asleep and nothing existed except the two of you — and leaned down to kiss you. Slow. Sweet. Full of everything he couldn't say out loud.

"I love you, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips.

"I know, pretty boy."

"Say it back, princess."

"I love you too, Satoru. More than all the baristas in the world."

He laughed — a real laugh, warm and surprised — and buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

"I'm still going to glare at anyone who touches you, baby," he mumbled into your skin.

"I would expect nothing less, my love."

"And I'm not sorry about the Kyoto assistant."

"I know you're not, darling."

"Or the barista."

"Definitely not the barista."

"And if anyone ever puts their hand on your back again, sweetheart —"

"Satoru."

"—I'm not saying I'll do anything violent. I'm just saying I might, pretty girl."

You laughed, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you, and pressed a kiss to the top of his messy white head.

"Go to sleep, Satoru," you murmured.

"Can't, baby."

"Why not, my love?"

"Too busy being jealous of your dreams, princess."

"My dreams, darling?"

"You might dream about someone else, sweetheart. Someone with better hair."

"No one has better hair than you, pretty boy."

"That's true." He paused, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Wait. Was that a compliment, baby?"

"Go to sleep, Satoru."

"...I love you, my love."

"I love you too, darling."

"More than the barista?"

"Satoru."

"I'm just asking, sweetheart!"

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. And when you felt his breathing even out a few minutes later, his arms still wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear, you pressed another kiss to his forehead and held on just as tight.

Jealous Gojo was a lot.

But he was your jealous Gojo.

And you wouldn't have him any other way.

A/N. if you can't tell, i am NOT talented at writing jealousy, so i hope you guys still enjoyed this!! 😭

next up: sick gojo.. or maybe a cooking disaster?.. 🧐

"I am not," Suguru said from somewhere behind him, but Satoru heard the click of a camera shutter and chose to ignore it.

He was not staring.

He was... anticipating.

There was a difference.

The three of them were waiting outside your apartment building, the summer air thick and warm. Lanterns glowed in the distance — the festival had already started, music and laughter drifting down the street. Satoru had been here before. He'd been to a hundred festivals. They were fine. Loud. Crowded. Nothing special.

But tonight was different.

Because tonight, you were going with them.

And you were wearing a yukata.

"Don't think about the yukata," he told himself. "You'll short-circuit. You'll say something stupid. You'll—"

The door opened.

Satoru forgot how to breathe.

You stepped out into the golden evening light, and you were wearing a yukata the color of summer peaches — soft pink with little white flowers scattered across the fabric. A pale yellow obi wrapped around your waist, tied in a perfect bow. Your hair was different too — pinned up, with a few strands falling loose around your face.

You looked like something out of a dream.

Like the main character of every summer festival episode he'd ever watched.

Like home.

"Sorry I took so long," you said, tugging at the sleeve self-consciously. "I've never worn one before. Does it look okay?"

Okay? She asked if it looked okay? He was going to pass away. Right here. On the sidewalk. Suguru would take another picture.

"You look," Satoru started, and his voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat. "You look beautiful."

Behind him, Shoko's eyebrows shot up.

"Beautiful?" his brain screamed. "That's better than "nice" but you're still—"

"Beautiful?" you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips.

"I mean—" His ears were burning. "You look. Good. Great. Fantastic. Beautiful was the first word. I'm going to stop talking now."

You laughed — that soft, wonderful laugh — and something in his chest cracked open.

"Thank you," you said. "You look beautiful too."

He was wearing a simple gray yukata. Nothing special. But the way you said it — like you meant it — made him feel like the luckiest person in the world.

"Okay, lovebirds," Shoko interrupted, already walking toward the festival. "The fireworks aren't going to watch themselves."

Suguru fell into step beside her, but not before shooting Satoru a look that said "you owe me for this".

Satoru ignored him.

Because you were walking next to him now, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm, and he could smell your perfume — something floral, something soft — and he was never going to survive this night.

The festival was everything you'd hoped for.

Lanterns strung across the street like little golden stars. The smell of grilled corn and sweet soy sauce. Children running past with cotton candy clouds in their hands. Laughter and music and the warm glow of a thousand lights.

And Satoru.

Satoru, who kept looking at you when he thought you weren't watching.

Satoru, who bought you taiyaki without asking because he remembered you said you liked the red bean ones once, months ago.

Satoru, who was currently watching you try to win a goldfish with an expression of intense concentration, like he was the one holding the paper scoop.

"You're going to break it," he said.

"I am not."

"You're being too aggressive. You have to be gentle. Like this—" He reached over, his hand covering yours on the scoop. His palm was warm. His fingers were long and careful. "Slowly. See?"

You weren't looking at the goldfish.

You were looking at his profile — at the way the lantern light caught his white hair, at the soft focus in his eyes, at the small smile playing on his lips.

"Satoru."

"Mm?"

"You're not helping."

"I'm instructing."

"The goldfish is getting away."

He looked down. The goldfish had, in fact, swam off.

"...That wasn't my fault."

"It was entirely your fault."

"You distracted me."

"I didn't do anything."

"You exist. It's very distracting."

The words hung in the air between you.

Satoru's ears turned red. He pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.

"I mean—" he started.

"I know what you meant," you said softly.

And you smiled — a small, private smile that made his heart stutter — and turned back to the goldfish.

You didn't catch one.

But Satoru bought you a little plushie from the booth next door instead. A tiny white cat with blue eyes that looked suspiciously like someone he knew.

"This is stupid," you said, hugging it to your chest.

"It's sentimental."

"It's a cat."

"It's a very handsome cat."

You laughed, and Satoru decided that was his new favorite sound.

The four of you found a spot on a grassy hill overlooking the festival — close enough to see the stage, far enough to hear each other speak. The sky was darkening, the first stars just beginning to appear.

Shoko and Suguru had conveniently wandered off to "get food" ten minutes ago and hadn't come back.

Satoru knew exactly what they were doing.

He was going to kill them. Slowly. With Infinity. Maybe.

But for now — for now, he was alone with you. On a hill. Under the stars. And you were sitting so close that your shoulders touched every time you breathed.

"Your friends are very obvious," you said, not looking at him.

"They're not my friends. I don't know them."

"They literally live with you."

"Roommates. Acquaintances. People I tolerate."

You laughed. "Liar."

"I'm the strongest," he said, staring straight ahead. "I don't lie. It's beneath me."

"Mm."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

You turned to look at him — really look at him — and his breath caught in his throat.

"Satoru," you said softly.

"What?"

"Thank you for tonight."

He swallowed. "For what?"

"For this." You gestured vaguely at the festival, the stars, the space between you. "For... everything. For always being here. For remembering I like red bean taiyaki. For the stupid cat."

"He's not stupid. His name is Gojo Satoru Jr."

"His name is what?"

"Too late. I've already decided. He's our son now."

Our son. He said our. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then — softly — you said, "You're different than I thought you'd be."

"Different how?"

"I don't know." You looked down at your hands. "I thought you were just... Gojo Satoru. The strongest. Untouchable. But you're not. You're just... Satoru. Who buys me taiyaki and loses at goldfish and names stuffed animals after himself."

"I didn't lose at goldfish. I was instructing."

"You distracted me."

"I exist. It's very distracting."

You looked up at him, and your eyes were soft, and your lips were parted, and the space between you had somehow gotten much smaller.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I think—"

A firework exploded overhead.

Then another. And another.

The sky erupted in color — gold and red and blue — and the crowd around you cheered. Children clapped. Couples held hands.

And Satoru sat there, heart pounding, watching the fireworks reflect in your eyes.

You turned to him, smiling. "They started!"

"Yeah," he said. "They started."

But he wasn't looking at the fireworks.

He was looking at you.

And he thought — I love you. I love you. I love you.

The words were on the tip of his tongue.

But before he could say them, you moved.

You leaned in — so close that your nose brushed his, so close that he could feel your breath on his lips — and the world stopped.

"Satoru," you whispered again.

"Yeah?"

"Stop thinking."

And then you kissed him.

Right there. On the hill. Under the fireworks.

His brain short-circuited.

She's kissing you. She's KISSING you. DO SOMETHING—

His hand came up to cup your cheek, gentle, almost reverent. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his yukata, and you were smiling — he could feel it against his lips — and he was pretty sure he was dreaming.

When you finally pulled back, the fireworks were still exploding overhead, painting your face in gold and blue and red.

Your eyes were bright. Your lips were parted. Your cheeks were pink.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Hi," he said back, his voice barely a whisper.

"I've wanted to do that for a while."

"You—" He blinked. "You have?"

"Months, Satoru. Months."

He stared at you.

Then he laughed — breathless, disbelieving, so full of love it hurt — and pulled you into his chest.

"I love you," he said into your hair. "I love you. I've loved you for— I don't even know how long. Years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the beginning. I can't remember what it felt like not to."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were wet.

"I love you too," you said. "I've been waiting for you to say something."

"I was scared."

"I know."

"I'm the strongest. I'm not supposed to be scared."

You smiled — that soft, wonderful smile — and kissed him again, quick and warm.

"Everyone's scared," you said. "Even the strongest."

He looked at you — at your messy hair, your smudged eyeliner, your bright, beautiful smile — and felt his heart crack open in the best way.

"Stay," he said. "After the festival. Stay with me tonight."

"I was planning on it."

He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed you one more time.

The fireworks exploded overhead.

Neither of you watched.

The festival ended.

The crowds thinned. The lanterns flickered. The music faded into the warm summer night.

Satoru walked you home.

His hand was in yours.

Neither of you had stopped smiling.

"Today was perfect," you said.

"Today was okay," he said, and you swatted his arm. "I'm kidding! It was perfect. You were perfect. The fireworks were—" He looked at you. "The fireworks were fine."

"The fireworks were beautiful."

"They had nothing on you."

You stopped walking. "That was so cheesy."

"I'm romantic."

"You're embarrassing."

"And yet you kissed me."

"And yet I kissed you," you agreed, and you reached up to cup his face. "I'd do it again, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You did.

And when you finally reached your door, and when you kissed him goodnight, and when he floated home on a cloud of disbelief —

He thought, "I should have done that months ago."

And then he thought, "Suguru owes me fifty bucks."

One year later, you stood in front of the same mirror.

But this time, the yukata was different.

White and blue.

His colors — or rather, both of your colors now.

You ran your fingers over the fabric — soft, elegant, with little silver threads that caught the light like stars. You'd bought it weeks ago, hidden it in the back of your closet, smiled every time you thought about his face when he'd see it.

What you didn't know was that Satoru had done the same thing.

In his bedroom — across town, in the apartment you'd practically moved into — he was standing in front of his own mirror, adjusting the collar of a new yukata.

White and blue.

Your colors.

He'd bought it the same week you'd bought yours. Great minds thought alike.

"You're going to make her cry," Shoko called from the couch, not looking up from her phone.

"I'm not going to make her cry. I'm going to make her happy."

"It's the same thing with you."

Suguru, sitting in the armchair with a book, smirked. "Remember our bet?"

Satoru's ears turned red. "Shut up."

"You owe me fifty bucks if you didn't confess by the summer festival."

"I did confess. At the festival. Last year. Remember? The fireworks? The kiss? The—"

"I remember. That's why you owe me fifty bucks."

Satoru glared at him. "That's not how the bet worked."

"That's exactly how the bet worked."

"Suguru."

"Satoru."

Shoko sighed. "Can you two save the domestic dispute for later? She's going to be here any minute."

Satoru's heart jumped.

She.

You.

You were coming over. Tonight. To go to the festival together. Just the two of you this time — no Suguru, no Shoko (they were "coincidentally" busy, which Satoru knew was a lie but appreciated anyway).

The doorbell rang.

Satoru's heart stopped.

"Go get it, Romeo," Shoko said.

He walked to the door on autopilot, his hands slightly sweaty, his heart pounding. "Why was he nervous? He'd known you for years. You'd been dating for a year. You'd seen him cry. You'd seen him with bed hair. You'd—"

He opened the door.

And forgot how to breathe.

You were wearing white and blue.

White fabric with blue flowers — hydrangeas, maybe, or little morning glories — scattered across the silk. A pale blue obi tied in a perfect bow. Silver pins in your hair that sparkled like the fireworks from a year ago.

And you were looking at him with wide eyes.

Because he was also wearing white and blue.

His yukata was the inverse of yours — blue fabric with white flowers, a white obi, his white hair falling softly around his face.

"You're—" you started.

"You're—" he started at the same time.

Both of you laughed.

"We're matching," you said.

"We're matching," he agreed, and his voice was so soft, so full of wonder, like he couldn't believe this was his life.

"I bought this weeks ago," you admitted. "I wanted to surprise you."

"I bought this weeks ago," he said. "I wanted to surprise you."

Behind him, Shoko called out, "You two are disgusting. I love it."

Geto added, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Satoru ignored both of them.

He reached for your hand — your fingers intertwined with his, warm and familiar — and pulled you inside.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"You look beautiful too."

"I'm handsome."

"You're something."

He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed your forehead.

"The festival?"

"The festival," you agreed.

You walked out together, hand in hand, white and blue matching under the evening sky.

Behind you, Shoko took a picture.

Suguru added it to the group chat.

And Satoru — walking beside the person he loved most in the world, wearing matching yukatas like the universe had planned it — smiled.

"Best fifty bucks I ever won," he thought.

A/N. HES SO ADORABLE WSHHHDHW !!! this idea popped up into my mind since i was watching a shoujo anime, shh!! i js know satoru would EAT in a shoujo anime JUSTICE FOR SHOUJO ANIME MALE LEAD SATORU !!!!!!!!! （；´д｀）ゞ

"Satoru, it's freezing," you called out, your breath fogging in the air.

He was across the yard, already packing a snowball with suspiciously efficient hands. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair — messy, falling over his forehead — and his cheeks were pink from the cold. He looked young. He looked happy.

"That's the point!" he called back. "Snow fights require snow! And cold! And—"

A snowball hit him square in the chest before he could finish.

He looked down at the white splatter on his dark sweater. Then back up at you. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, you're dead."

You shrieked and took off running, your boots crunching in the fresh snow. His laughter chased you across the yard — loud, bright, echoing off the trees.

You didn't stand a chance.

He was faster. He was always faster. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, spinning you around once before both of you tumbled into a snowbank in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

"I win," he announced, hovering over you, his face inches from yours.

"You cheated."

"I played strategically."

"That's not a thing."

"It is when I do it."

Snowflakes were catching in his white hair, melting on his eyelashes. His nose was pink. His lips were parted, still smiling. He was so beautiful it made your chest ache.

"I love you," you whispered.

The smile on his face softened into something quieter. Something real.

"I know," he said, just as soft. "I love you too."

He kissed you then — cold lips, warm heart — and the snow kept falling around you like the world was giving you its blessing.

"Okay, okay, round two," you said, propping your phone against a snow-covered rock. "But this time — this time — I'm going to win."

Satoru raised an eyebrow from across the yard. "You want me to go easy on you?"

"I want you to try."

"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."

"Your coat is my coat now. I stole it fair and square."

He gasped dramatically, one hand over his heart. "The betrayal! The audacity! And on the Lord's day—"

"It's Tuesday."

"—on the Lord's Tuesday!"

You threw a snowball at his face.

He dodged it effortlessly (annoying), packed three of his own in rapid succession (unfair), and the battle began again.

The snowball fight reached its peak quickly. You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, your cheeks were numb from the cold, and you were winning — or at least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

"Last one!" you called out, ducking behind a snowbank. "I'm getting the final shot!"

Satoru's laughter echoed across the yard. "You can try, sweetheart!"

You scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tight, and grinned to yourself. This was it. The winning shot. He'd never see it coming.

"Satoru?"

You paused.

His voice had changed. It wasn't playful anymore. It was... softer. Quieter.

"Can you— can you come here for a second?"

You rolled your eyes, still grinning. "Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"

"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."

Something in his voice made you stop.

Not because he sounded like he was lying. But because he sounded like he was scared. And Gojo Satoru was never scared.

You dropped the snowball.

Slowly — confusion prickling at the back of your mind — you stood up from behind the snowbank and turned around.

And then.

And then.

He was on one knee.

His white hair was messy, falling over his forehead. His cheeks were pink — from the cold, or from something else, you couldn't tell. His hands were shaking. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair, and his eyes — those impossible, endless blue eyes — were looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

In his trembling hands was a small velvet box.

Open.

A ring inside.

The snow was falling around him — catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders — and he looked like something out of a dream. Like something too beautiful to be real.

"Satoru?" Your voice came out as a whisper.

"I had a speech planned," he said, and his voice cracked. His voice never cracked. "I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."

Your hands flew to your mouth.

"You forgot the snowball," he continued, rambling now, words tumbling out like he couldn't stop them. "You were about to throw it at me. I saw you packing it. And I thought — I thought, if she throws that snowball, I'm going to lose my nerve. So I called you over. And now you're here. And I'm—"

He swallowed.

His eyes were wet.

"I'm on my knees. In the snow. Asking you to marry me. And I forgot every single word I was supposed to say, because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't do anything except—"

He held out the ring.

His hands were shaking so badly.

"I've been planning this for a year," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "A whole year. I had spreadsheets. Geto made fun of me. Shoko called me pathetic. Which — fair. But I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Then another.

Then you were crying — full-body sobs that shook your shoulders — and you didn't even care. You didn't care that the snow was cold. You didn't care that your nose was running. You didn't care about anything except him.

"Please don't cry," he said, his own voice wobbling. "If you cry, I'm going to cry, and then we're both going to be crying in the snow and the recording is going to be ruined—"

You let out a wet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the rock. "You're the one who set up the recording!"

"For memories!" he protested. "Not for— not for this—"

"For what? Me saying yes?"

"For you crying! I didn't plan for the crying!"

"You're crying too!"

"I'm emotional! There's a difference!"

You laughed again — a real laugh, wobbly and tearful and so full of love it hurt — and dropped to your knees in front of him, snow soaking through your jeans.

"Yes," you said, cupping his cold face in your hands. "I will marry you. I will be your wife. I will wear your last name and steal your hoodies and wake up next to you every single morning until I'm old and gray and you're still annoyingly pretty."

"I'm not pretty, I'm devastating—"

"Shut up and put the ring on me."

He did.

His hands were still shaking. He almost dropped it twice. You laughed at him. He didn't even care.

When the ring finally settled on your finger — a perfect fit, because of course he'd checked — he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"We're getting married," he said.

"We're getting married."

"I'm going to be your husband."

"You're going to be my husband."

He kissed you then — snow falling around you, your phone still recording on the rock, the whole world quiet and soft and right.

And when he pulled back, you were both crying.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know."

"Say it back."

"I love you too, Satoru."

Behind you, forgotten in the snow, the snowball you'd dropped was slowly melting.

You didn't need it anymore.

You'd already won.

The snow started falling on a Thursday.

Not the soft kind. Not the kind that made you think of laughter and proposals and warm coats. This was the angry kind — the kind that fell in sheets, driven by wind, stinging your cheeks like tiny shards of glass.

You didn't feel it.

You couldn't feel anything.

Because Satoru was in your arms, and he was dying.

No.

The word echoed in your skull, hollow and useless. A denial that meant nothing. A prayer that wouldn't be answered.

No, no, no, no, no—

His blood was soaking through his clothes, dark and warm against your hands. You pressed down — you pressed so hard — but it kept coming. Kept spilling. Kept leaving him.

"Satoru," you whispered. "Satoru, stay with me. Please."

His eyes were open — those impossible blue eyes, the ones that had looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. But they were hazy now. Distant. Like he was looking at something you couldn't see.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was so soft. So tired. "You're... you're crying."

He was the one dying and he was worried about your tears.

"Don't," you choked out. "Don't talk. Save your strength."

"I've saved enough strength," he murmured. "I've been saving it... for years. For this."

"Don't."

"You look beautiful." His hand — cold, trembling — reached up to touch your face. His fingers left a trail of red on your cheek. "Even now. Even with... the crying. You're so beautiful."

"Satoru, please—"

"I should have... married you sooner." His lips twitched — almost a smile. "I was scared. Isn't that funny? The strongest... scared of a wedding."

"Stop it. Stop talking like—" Your voice broke. "You're going to be fine. You're going to— the others are coming. Shoko can—"

"She can't fix this."

The words hit you like a physical blow.

"Don't say that."

"You know I don't... lie to you. Not about... important things."

The snow was falling on both of you now — catching in his white hair, melting on his pale skin. He looked like a painting. Like something frozen in time.

"Do you remember," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "the snow... last year...?"

"Stop talking."

"I was so nervous. I forgot... everything. Every word."

"You proposed. That's all that matters."

"I wanted it to be... perfect. For you." His hand found yours — cold fingers intertwining with your bloodstained ones. "Was it... was it perfect?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "It was perfect. You were perfect. Please stay."

"I can't."

"You promised."

His eyes — those beautiful, terrible eyes — found yours one last time. And even now, even like this, they were soft. They were loving.

"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Satoru—"

"Tell me... about the snow. Tell me... you remember."

"I remember," you said, your voice cracking. "I remember everything. You were wearing that stupid sweater. You kept fixing your hair. You were so nervous you dropped the ring in the snow and had to dig for it."

"I did not—" A weak laugh. "Okay. I did."

"You called me beautiful. You said you'd been choosing me every day. You said you couldn't remember what it felt like not to."

"Sounded... smoother... in my head."

"It was perfect."

His eyes were drifting. His hand was getting colder.

"Satoru." You gripped his fingers tighter. "Satoru, look at me. Please."

He did.

Barely.

"I love you," you said. "I love you so much. I'm going to say it every day. Every single day. Even when you can't hear me anymore."

"Waste of... good words."

"They're not wasted. They're for you. They're always for you."

His lips curved — just a little — into that soft, private smile he only ever gave you.

"I love you too," he breathed. "My... my wife."

You weren't married. You never got the chance. The wedding was supposed to be in spring — cherry blossoms, not snow. A white dress, not bloodstained hands.

But he called you his wife anyway.

And you let him.

Because you were. You always would be.

"Kiss me?" he asked. Quiet. Hopeful. Like he was asking for something small.

He was asking for a last kiss.

You leaned down — snow falling on his face, on his lips, on his closed eyes — and pressed your mouth to his.

He was cold.

He was so cold.

But his lips moved against yours — weak, fading — and you felt his hand squeeze yours one last time.

"I love you," he didn't say.

"I know," you didn't answer.

When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.

The snow was falling on his face — on his white hair, his pale cheeks, his parted lips.

His hand was limp in yours.

"Satoru?"

Nothing.

"Satoru, wake up."

The wind howled.

The snow kept falling.

And Gojo Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the man who had grinned in the face of death, the man who had dropped a snowball and forgotten every word of his proposal because you were too beautiful — did not move.

Did not breathe.

Did not open his eyes.

He was gone.

You don't know why you watched it.

It's been three months. Or six. Or a year. You've stopped counting. Time doesn't feel real anymore — not without him.

But tonight, the snow is falling again. Soft. Gentle. The kind that reminds you of him.

And you find yourself scrolling through your phone.

Past the mission reports. Past the concerned texts from Shoko. Past the photos you can't bring yourself to delete.

And then — there it is.

The video.

The one you recorded on that Tuesday, one year before the world ended. Before he ended.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

"Don't," you tell yourself. "Don't do this to yourself."

You press play.

The video is shaky at first — your phone propped against a rock, the lens speckled with snow. You hear your own voice, distant and laughing: "Okay, round two. But this time — this time — I'm going to win."

And then — him.

Satoru appears in the frame, messy-haired and pink-cheeked, his blindfold pushed up into his white hair. He's grinning — that stupid, brilliant grin that used to make your heart stutter.

"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."

You watch yourself throw a snowball at his face. You watch him dodge it (show-off). You watch the two of you chase each other across the yard, laughing, breathless, alive.

You watch yourself duck behind a snowbank. Hear your own voice: "Last one! I'm getting the final shot!"

You watch him call out: "You can try, sweetheart!"

And then —

His voice changes.

"Satoru?"

"Can you— can you come here for a second?"

"Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"

"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."

The video captures it perfectly: the moment the snowball fight stops. The moment your laughter fades. The moment you drop the snowball — you see it fall from your hands, forgotten — and turn around.

And then —

He's on one knee.

The snow is falling around him. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks when he speaks.

"I had a speech planned. I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."

You're crying now. Tears slipping down your cheeks, warm against your cold skin.

"But I forgot it. I forgot every single word. Because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're laughing and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe."

He opens the ring box.

"I've been planning this for a year. A whole year. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."

You watch yourself say yes.

You watch him put the ring on your finger.

You watch him kiss you in the falling snow.

And you watch — at the very end of the video, just before your phone tips over in the snow — his face.

He's looking at you like you're the sun.

Like you're the only thing keeping him warm.

Like he already knows — even then, even when everything was still possible — that you were the best thing that would ever happen to him.

The video ends.

The screen goes dark.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

And you press your hand to your chest — right where the ring hangs on a chain beneath your shirt, too precious to put away — and you whisper it.

"I love you too, Satoru."

The wind doesn't answer.

The snow doesn't stop.

But somewhere — somewhere beyond the cold, beyond the dark, beyond the place where the strongest sorcerer in the world took his last breath—

You swear you hear him say it back.

A/N. guys im sorry please dont kill me i am so sorry I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!! i cried writing this 🙁

This one's for everyone who's ever lost someone too soon.

It was not often that Gojo Satoru had time to be bored.

Japan, unfortunately for him, was a thriving breeding ground for the very problems he was tasked with eradicating—like a wound that never quite closed, always reopening in new and unpleasant ways.

Autumn was the worst of season with the most work. The air turned damp and heavy, saturated with a quiet that clung to skin and seeped into bone. Curses bloomed like mould in forgotten corners, thriving where sunlight refused to linger.

The higher-ups issued assignments without pause, stacking them like cursed talismans on an altar that never stopped growing, never granting him even a moment to simply breathe. Meetings he was forced to attend dragged on interminably, though Satoru usually contributed nothing more than long legs stretched lazily across the table, a tilt of his head, theatrical sighs, and ill-timed commentary that earned him synchronized glares from every direction. . .

Gojo Satoru was constantly moving—whether from one mission to the next, or simply pacing from one side of a room to the other because stillness felt like a cage he refused to sit inside. He was everywhere he was needed, and nowhere he was wanted at the same time.

And yet, sometimes, between all of it—between exorcisms that left invisible stains of cursed energy, between paperwork he absolutely did not read and reports he absolutely did not write—silence settled.

Not the peaceful kind. Never the peaceful kind. It was a dangerous silence, the sort that did not soothe but sharpened. Because when Satoru was bored, his mind did not rest. It wandered. It prowled. It found loose threads and pulled until something unraveled.

Boredom, however fleeting, was always the birthplace of his worst ideas—the kind that arrived dressed as brilliance, glittering and certain, only to detonate spectacularly the moment he chose to act on them.

Ever since Itadori Yuji had stuffed one of Sukuna’s shrivelled fingers down his throat as though it were an expired protein bar rather than an ancient cursed relic, and subsequently enrolled at Jujutsu High, Satoru had been stretched thin in ways even he could not entirely ignore—though he would have insisted otherwise if asked.

He was constantly searching for the remaining fingers of Ryomen Sukuna—those ugly little relics of something that should have stayed dead and forgotten—so they could eventually be served to Yuji as his final “meal” before execution. Or rather, he pretended to search for them with the kind of theatrical diligence the higher-ups adored. They loved the illusion of effort.

And Gojo Satoru was nothing if not a performer.

Between that grand performance and the reports he never bothered to write after missions, he was regularly dispatched to exorcise Grade 1 and Special Grade curses, as though he were some divine exterminator on call. A god with a schedule. A weapon with appointment slots.

More than once, he considered not going—not out of fear, never that—but because the routine was beginning to feel like chewing the same flavorless candy until even the memory of sweetness had vanished.

It was not as though the higher-ups could truly punish him. What were they going to do—fire him? Execute him? The thought almost made him laugh out loud.

Sometimes, he entertained the idea of skipping missions purely to see how creative their threats might become. Or better yet, how desperately inventive they would grow when forced to reel him back in.

But he always went.

Because if he did not—if he refused the heavier assignments, the more dangerous ones—then they would simply be redirected elsewhere. Students like Megumi or Yuji would be sent in his place. It was no secret that, due to the chronic shortage of sorcerers, assignments were often mismatched in difficulty.

While Satoru was fond of his hands-on philosophy—throwing students into the fire and trusting they would learn not to burn—he was not heartless. His students were brilliant. They had him as a teacher, after all. But even brilliance could choke on something too large to swallow.

So he accepted every mission without much protest.

And it was after one of those last-minute “urgent” assignments in the city—where a curse tore through an abandoned bar like rot through wood—that Gojo Satoru encountered someone he had never expected to see again.

✧ ✧ ✧

The curse died the way all of them did when Satoru decided he was finished with it. One moment it was there—this swollen, half-aware mass of rotting limbs and stitched-together mouths—and the next, it simply wasn’t.

Satoru stepped out of the abandoned bar, hands buried in his pockets, posture loose enough to suggest he had just finished a casual errand rather than erasing something born from human despair.

Fresh air replaced the stench of rot.

The city carried on as if nothing had happened. Cars murmured in the distance. A vending machine clunked somewhere down the block. A drunk laughed too loudly outside a convenience store with a dying neon sign. Ordinary sounds, stitched together into an ordinary world that had no idea how close it had just come to being altered.

Satoru glanced around. He recognized this place. Too well, in fact. Megumi and Tsumiki used to live nearby. A lifetime ago, though it had not been nearly that long.

He checked the time. One hour before he was supposed to meet Megumi and Yuji to pick up their new classmate. Plenty of time.

Nostalgia tugged at him. Boredom followed immediately after. Before he could properly dismiss either, his feet moved on their own, not toward the station or back to the school, butt down streets he had not walked in years.

The city grew quieter here. Laundry swayed from balconies. Somewhere nearby, dinner simmered—garlic and oil drifting through open windows. Cicadas hummed lazily.

And then when he turned the corner, he saw you, sitting on what barely qualified as a balcony, more narrow ledge than anything else. The railing pressed lightly against your shoulder, chipped paint flaking under your sleeve. One leg tucked beneath you, the other angled loosely, a cup of tea balanced in your hand. Steam rose in fragile spirals, dissolving into the afternoon light.

Your other hand held your phone.

Your brows were drawn together. Your lip was caught between your teeth. Your eyes narrowed at the screen.

Sunlight spilled over you, softening everything it touched. For a moment, Satoru felt like he had wandered into a romance film that was trying a little too hard. All that was missing was slow piano music and a dramatic gust of wind that existed purely for symbolism.

You looked different. Older. Still beautiful, though.

You did not notice him, which was not surprising.

He stood at the far edge of the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, black blindfold stark against white hair, watching. Even if you glanced in his direction, he doubted you would have made him out clearly.

Satoru wondered, absently, whether face-to-face would change anything, whether you would remember him at all. He would not have called you a friend. Acquaintance, maybe. Even that felt stretched thin because he could easily count the conversations he had with you on one hand and still have fingers left over.

The first time he heard your name, it had come from Tsumiki. It had meant nothing then. Just noise in a life already crowded with obligations. A passing mention in a warm kitchen that smelled faintly of something baked.

“She’s really nice,” Tsumiki had said, as if that explained everything worth knowing.

You helped carry groceries upstairs when her bags were too heavy. You came back the next day with cookies.

After that first interaction, your presence had started to accumulate quietly around them. Not dramatic, just persistent, like warmth that refused to leave a room once it had entered.

You always appeared at Tsumiki and Megumi's door without warning. Said you had cooked too much breakfast. Or ordered too much food. Or simply did not like waste. Excuses that never sounded rehearsed. You knocked just to say hello sometimes. Asked if they were alright. If they needed anything. If they had eaten.

And more than once, Tsumiki had told Satoru—with quiet fondness—you offered to stop by a shop on your way home, just in case they needed groceries.

Satoru had only seen you a handful of times back then. The first had been a Saturday morning when he stayed over.

Sunlight had spilled across the apartment floor in lazy stripes. He, Tsumiki, and Megumi had been sitting in the living room when the knock came.

Tsumiki had lit up immediately.

“She always brings something she baked on Saturdays!”

Even Megumi had straightened, betraying the smallest flicker of anticipation he would never admit to.

Satoru, self-appointed responsible adult in the room, had gotten up first. Not because he needed to, but because curiosity had a way of pulling him forward before caution could catch up.

He had opened the door and there you were. Warm plate of cinnamon rolls balanced carefully in your hands. The glaze gleamed. Steam curled upward, carrying butter and spice.

For a full thirty seconds, Satoru had stared at the plate instead of you—his fingers had actually twitched, itching to snatch one of the rolls, but instead he forced himself to raise his gaze.

His first thought was that you were younger than expected you to be. His second was that you were exactly his type. His third thought never got the chance to fully form because the situation immediately started collapsing under its own awkward gravity.

From your perspective, a stranger had opened the door to the apartment where two children you cared about lived. Tsumiki had mentioned a guardian, but you had imagined someone older. Not a young man with snow-white hair, an unreadable grin, and eyes like they had stolen color from the sky itself.

You had frozen, trying, rapidly, to determine whether he was family, or safe, or neither. There was no resemblance between him and the children.

Your grip on the plate had tightened. So much so that, for a brief and alarming moment, you had looked like you might actually swing it at him. And you would have, too—probably—if Tsumiki had not stepped in just in time to prevent what would have gone down in history as Satoru Gojo’s most undignified possible death: by pastry.

You did not stay for tea that day, even though you usually did. That time, embarrassment had won. Especially after Satoru, far too pleased with himself, teased you about attempted assault with baked goods as if it were a perfectly reasonable topic of conversation.

Before you left, he had given you his number.

Back then, Satoru avoided relationships. He was young, reckless, and allergic to commitment. More of a fuck-and-dip type of guy. He knew he would have treated you the same way, carelessly, and that definitely would have ruined the fragile connection between you and the kids. He did not want that. He liked knowing someone else watched over them too.

So he left everything—you—alone.

Now, years later, Satoru walked past your balcony without even pretending not to look. His footsteps, softened by Infinity, made no sound.

You still did not notice him. Of course you didn’t. You were absorbed in something ordinary—phone, tea, the quiet irritation of existing in a world that demanded attention in small, exhausting ways.

He could have called out your name and said hello. He could have started the conversation by asking if you remembered him and the time you nearly smashed a plate into his head. He could have asked you out on a date—he has not been on one in a while.

It would be nice to catch up,

Even if the date lead nowhere. Even if it was meaningless. Even if it would end up only being another way to pass time between exorcisms and obligations and the endless swallowing void of being Satoru Gojo.

He could have made this simple, but simplicity had never been his preference. It was too boring, and Gojo Satoru had never been good at boring things.

So he kept walking.

If he re-entered your life, it would not be quietly.

✧ ✧ ✧

A few days later, he sent the letter. Not a romantic confession. Certainly not a polite invitation to dinner either. Inside was one of Sukuna’s fingers, one that he had found a day or two ago.

Satoru calculated the outcome carefully.

It should attract a few low-level curses. Nothing dangerous—nothing that would reach you properly, not in a neighbourhood as quietly cursed as yours. Just enough to stir the air. Enough to make the windows tremble in their frames. Enough to leave you uneasy when the lights flickered at night or the hallway felt a fraction too long.

Enough, in other words, to create a reason. A reason for him to appear, a reason to “save the day.”

It would not hurt you.

It should not hurt you.

That distinction sat comfortably in his mind, like a rule that had never once been challenged. In his interpretation, it was simple mathematics: risk reduced, outcome controlled, Satoru Gojo inserted as necessary variable. A perfectly sane plan. Almost elegant, if he ignored the fact that it involved planting danger as a pretext for attention.

After all, who would refuse a date with a man who arrived just in time to save them from a curse?

Surely, you would not.

✧ ✧ ✧

When you came home that evening, shoulders aching and the faint smell of copier ink and stale office air still clinging stubbornly to your clothes, you nearly stepped on the envelope.

It sat perfectly centred on your doormat.

You paused mid-step, keys still pinched between your fingers. The hallway light hummed overhead with a tired, fluorescent buzz. Somewhere above you, old pipes groaned as water pushed through them like a reluctant sigh.

For a moment, you only looked at it. Then you nudged it with the toe of your shoe. No stamp. No address. No name. Just thick, expensive paper, the kind of material used for wedding invitations or legal documents.

The envelope barely bent when you picked it up.

You glanced down the empty corridor once more, as if expecting someone to still be standing there watching, before unlocking your door and stepping inside.

The lock clicked shut behind you.

You did not open the envelope immediately. Only later, when you were curled on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, a rerun of a show you barely watched murmuring from the television, did you finally tear it open.

The tearing of paper sounded unnaturally loud in the apartment.

Paper split cleanly beneath your fingers before something small and weighted dropped into your lap. You flinched.

At first, you did not understand what you were looking at. A bundle, tightly wrapped in thick, yellowed bandages. Old-looking. The cloth the colour of aged parchment left too long in the dark. Dark ink crawled across its surface in patterns you did not recognise.

Your instincts recoiled before your thoughts caught up.

Cold pricked along your spine. You did not touch the small bundle. You only stared at it as the air in the room shifted, not temperature, but in a feeling, like the space itself had thickened around you.

You thought you saw something under the bandages—just for a second. A faint distortion, like heat rippling off asphalt in summer. Except darker.

Slowly, carefully, as if the bundle might unwrap itself if you were careless, you lifted it and placed it on the coffee table.

Eventually, exhaustion caught up with your fear. You had work in the morning and you were more than ready to go to bed. So you did what you always did when something did not fit into your understanding of the world. You refused to engage with it.

You should have thrown the bundle away. Instead, you stood, walked to your bookshelf, and placed it on the highest shelf you had—behind a row of old novels you never reread but could not bring yourself to discard.

Out of sight, yet not out of mind.

By most standards, you were painfully normal.

You paid your bills on time. You filed your taxes. You complained, regularly and with conviction, about traffic lights that stayed red too long and grocery prices that seemed to climb out of spite. You rewatched the same shows until entire episodes lived in your head like second memories, until you could recite entire scenes without looking at the screen.

Yeah, you were pretty normal, except for one small, inconvenient detail.

You could see curses.

They lingered where light struggled to reach—corners of ceilings, the tight space beneath stairwells, the blind spots between streetlamps. They slid along alley walls, their shapes wrong in ways your mind tried and failed not to correct. Some were small and twichy things. Others were swollen, layered massses stitched together like an unfinshed crafts project.

You learned early not to stare too long because if you did, they seemed to notice.

For half of your life, you had convinced yourself it was stress caused hallucinations. When you got older, you blamed it all on trick of light and fatigue. That last belief lasted until your great-great-grandfather gripped your wrist from his hospital bed.

His skin had been paper-thin, translucent in places, stretched over bone. The monitors beside him beeped in a slow, indifferent rhythm. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Unnaturally so. Too awake for a man so close to leaving.

He was not looking at you. His gaze was fixed slightly to the side, past your shoulder, toward the corner of the room where something small and green and wrong clung to wall like a stain that refused to be scrubbed away.

His fingers tightened around your wrist with surprising strength when he realized you knew what he was looking at.

“I see them too.”

His voice was dry, he did not look at you when he spoke again.

“Always have.”

That was all he gave you. No explanation or comfort that might have softened the impact of it. Just inheritance of the disturbing knowledge that you were not insane.

He died before you could ask anything else.

The only other person who ever seemed to acknowledge that fractured layer of reality without flinching was Satoru Gojo, the strange guardian of the children who once lived across the hall.

You remembered the moment he found out you were like him.

The hallway had smelled of lemon cleaning solution. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in uneven pulses, as you stepped outside with a trash bag and stopped so abruptly the plastic crinkled loud in your grip.

It was there.

A curse clung to the ceiling above your door like wet clay thrown and forgotten. Blackened. Glossy. One swollen eye rolled slowly in its socket. A thin mouth hung open beneath it, lipless, slack, dripping something viscous that evaporated before it ever reached the floor.

Your lungs locked. Your fingers tightened around the bag until plastic bit into skin. You had never seen one that close to your home before.

Then, behind you—

“You can see them too?”

The voice was casual, curious, as if he had asked whether you preferred tea or coffee and not whether you could see things that were not supposed to exist.

“…Yeah.”

That was the entire conversation with Gojo.

The next day, the hallway was empty. The curse was gone, as if it had never been there at all. The same evening, there was a knock at your door.

You opened it to find Gojo leaning against the frame, sunglasses balanced lazily on the bridge of his nose despite the sun having set hours ago. One hand in his pocket. The other reaching forward before you could fully register the movement.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, he raised your hand and placed something into your palm.

A dagger.

Slim. Perfectly balanced. The metal cool and impossibly clean. Faint symbols ran along the blade.

“In case one gets too close,” he said.

You had stared at the dagger, then at him, questions starting to form on the tip of your tongue. But there was no small talk that coud transition into please explain the supernatural horrors I can see everyday.

Before you could ask anything, he left.

Eventually, Megumi and Tsumiki moved away without goodbye. The apartment across the hall went dark and stayed that way. Gojo disappeared from your life as abruptly as he had entered it.

You woke with your throat burning. Dry and scratchy, like you had swallowed dust in your sleep. For a moment, you lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what had pulled you from slumber. Nothing—just thirst.

You dragged yourself out of bed, half-awake, eyes barely open, the cool floor pressing against your bare feet. The hallway stretched longer than usual. Quieter. You didn’t notice the shadows pooling too thickly in the corners. Didn’t hear the soft creak of wood that wasn’t your own steps. Didn’t feel the weight of something watching.

In the kitchen, your hands moved on autopilot. You grabbed a glass, turned on the tap. Water sputtered, then flowed steady, washing down the scratch in your throat as you brought the glass up to your mouth. You leaned against the counter, taking small sips.

“Where is it?!” a shrill voice screeched.

It didn’t come from a single point. It sliced through the air—metallic, grating, like claws dragged across slate.

Before you could even blink, the world flipped. One second you were leaning on the counter; the next, you were slammed face-first into the kitchen tiles. Glass crashed somewhere nearby, shards scattering across the floor. Pain bloomed across your ribs from the impact. Your cheek scraped against cold tile as your body hit the ground.

Something heavy pressed into your back, pinning you. You struggled, palms sliding uselessly on slick tile. The pressure intensified, forcing the air from your lungs. Your heart hammered violently, as if it might tear itself free from your chest. Sweat slicked your hands.

“Tell me, human! I do not have time for this!” the voice screeched directly into your ear.

Your stomach compressed. Something cracked. You choked on a scream, fearing it had been your rib, only to realize it was a piece of glass beneath you.

“WHERE IS IT?”

Tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating. Panic ripped through you. Sleep evaporated completely.

“I—I don’t know what you want!” you stammered, voice broken, not even thinking to lie because you truly didn’t know.

A fist tangled in your hair. You screamed again as you were yanked upright, your scalp igniting with pain, like thousands of needles driving into your skull at once. Your feet left the ground.

“Sukuna’s finger,” the voice hissed, close—too close. “I can feel it here…”

You were spun around.

The curse loomed before you—human-shaped, but grotesquely wrong. Limbs bent at impossible angles. A mouth slit filled with jagged, uneven teeth stretched unnaturally wide. Its eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. You had never seen one like this. You had never heard one speak.

It snarled, then flung you sideways.

You crashed into the counter, the edge biting into your back, then collapsed to the floor. White-hot pain shot up your spine.

“FETCH IT.”

It stepped back slightly, granting space—permission for you to move.

Your brain barely functioned. Survival instincts took over. You scrambled upright and bolted toward your bedroom like it was a sanctuary, even though you knew it wasn’t. It would have been wiser to run out of the apartment entirely, but that thought only surfaced as you slammed the door behind you, fumbling for the lock, hands shaking violently.

You didn’t have any severed fingers stashed in the pantry. You didn’t—

The bookshelf.

The bandaged bundle.

Your stomach dropped.

But you didn’t run for the living room. No. You ripped open drawers, flinging clothes aside, tearing through your closet. Your heart pounded so loudly you could barely hear your own ragged breathing.

The dagger.

Where had you put it?

You hadn’t needed it in years.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand—your phone. You lunged. Fingers moved faster than they ever had. Contacts. Scroll. Gojo. You had thought about calling him before, sometimes—just to ask about Megumi and Tsumiki—but you always hesitated. Always locked your phone and didn’t do it.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You pressed call. You tried not to think about the possibility that he had changed his number, or that you were calling someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. He was your only option for survival because it wasn’t like you could call the police. What were you even supposed to say? Hello, a curse is attacking me? They would have taken it for a prank call.

The ringing barely began when the bedroom door exploded inward.

Wood splintered like brittle paper. Hinges tore free. The door shattered across the room.

You screamed as the shockwave threw you backward. The phone flew from your hand, skidding just out of reach.

“I don’t have time for games, human,” the curse growled, stepping through the wreckage. Its presence pressed into your lungs—thick, suffocating, smelling of rot and metal.

Your knees buckled. Even if they hadn’t, there was nowhere to go. You crawled backward until your shoulders hit the side of the bed. Your eyes darted frantically—no escape route, no opening large enough to slip past it without dying.

“I—I don’t have it! Please, just—”

You didn’t even know what you were begging for. Mercy?Understanding? Anything? But curses did not offer either.

It advanced slowly. Each step made the floor groan. Your thoughts fractured: run, scream, grab something—anything—but nothing would save you. You were going to die.

As its shadow swallowed the space between you, you squeezed your eyes shut. If this was it—if this was the end—you did not want this monstrosity to be the last thing you ever saw.

A flash—blinding white—erupted through your closed eyelids so violently it felt like the world had been set on fire behind your face. Heat followed a heartbeat later. Then a sharp, crackling sizzle, like live wires snapping apart. Red sparks fractured the darkness. A violent bzzz rattled the windows.

Silence.

You curled into yourself on instinct, knees pulled to your chest, forehead pressed hard down, fingers locked over the back of your head as if that alone could hold you together. Your whole body shook. Tears spilled without permission, soaking into your pajamas. Every breath came ragged, shallow.

You waited.

For claws. For teeth. For the end.

Nothing came.

Ten agonising seconds passed. Then thirty. Still nothing.

Slowly, you forced your fingers apart and blinked through the blur of tears. Satoru Gojo stood in the ruin of your bedroom like he had simply stepped in for tea. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted. That familiar grin—too easy, too bright for a room that looked like it had been torn open.

“You called?”

Your mind lagged as your gaze darted all over. Splintered door. Scorched air. The metallic tang of something burned out of existence still hanging faintly in the room.

The curse was gone.

You stayed half-folded against the bed, arms drawn tight around yourself.

Gojo looked… older, but familiar. His white hair still shone like silver. His smile was still there—still infuriatingly soft at the edges, like he hadn’t just erased something that had been seconds away from killing you. However, his uniform fit differently than you remembered. The fabric sat differently across him now, stretched over broader shoulders, shaped by muscle you didn’t remember being so defined.

The biggest in change his appereance was the blindfold. Gone were the round sunglasses he used to wear. In their place, a sleek strip of black cloth was wrapped around his eyes.

“Gojo?” you managed. His name cracked on your tongue—fragile in a way that made it feel dangerous to say too loudly, as if you were afraid he was just a part of your imagination.

He tilted his head slightly at the sound.

“That would be me,” he said lightly.

He stepped forward. Each step landed softly over the ruined floorboards, sound threading through the silence like a metronome trying to convince your heartbeat to slow down and follow it. He stopped just short of you, not wanting to crowd you.

His smile shifted, softening by a fraction.

“You know,” he started, voice slipping easily back into teasing, as if he were gently trying to stitch normality back into the air, “usually when someone calls me after maaany years, there’s a ‘hello’ first. Maybe a ‘how have you been.’ Basic courtesy.”

His head angled toward the wreckage behind you, then back to you again.

“…But I’ll let it slide,” he added, slower now. “I guess. If—”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence because you moved.

There was no elegance to in your movements. Just a sudden collapse of everything you had been holding in place since the moment the curse had entered your home.

You launched yourself at him, clumsy and uncontrolled.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t react at all. Then his hand braced against the floor behind you, steadying both of you as your momentum forced him back just slightly.

Your arms locked around him and you buried your face into his chest. It was colder than you expected at first, like stepping into winter air too quickly. Then warmth bled through, slow and steady, spreading outward in quiet waves that made your shaking worse before it made it better.

“I—” your voice fractured completely. “Thank you.”

You didn’t realise you were crying again until you felt your tears soaking into his jacket.

He didn’t answer right away. He just lifted his hand slowly, resting it lightly against the back of your head. The other settled around your shoulders—careful again, as if he was handling something fragile he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold.

“Well,” he murmured at last, softer than before, almost reluctant to break the silence, “that’s one way to say hello.”

✧ ✧ ✧

It took you about an hour to really calm down.

An hour spent sitting on the floor in Gojo’s lap, your knees still weak, your body refusing to trust the fact that the world was no longer actively trying to kill you. Your fingers stayed twisted into the front of his uniform like a lifeline, knuckles pale.

At some point, your breathing evened out. The violent shaking faded. Tears dried stiff against your cheeks, leaving faint salt tracks you pretended not to feel.

Gojo didn’t rush you. He didn’t joke. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t fill the silence with anything that might crack it open too soon. One hand stayed steady against your back, warm and grounding, tracing slow, absent circles that anchored you more than any words could have.

Eventually, awareness returned in pieces rather than all at once. First came the embarrassment. Then the slow, creeping realization of proximity. Then the very human understanding that you were currently clinging to a man you hadn’t seen in years like your life depended on him, which, in a way, it had.

Slowly, carefully, you pulled back. Your hands lingered for half a second too long before releasing his jacket, reluctant in a way you immediately hated yourself for noticing. You avoided looking at his face as you stood.

You flicked on the light and immediately regretted it.

Your bedroom looked like a crime scene. The door was obliterated—splintered wood hanging like broken ribs. Clothes spilled from your closet in chaotic heaps. A lamp lay on its side, its shade cracked. Somehow, impossibly, the walls still stood, and the windows remained intact.

You stepped into the hallway half-expecting the rest of the apartment to mirror it But the living room was almost untouched. The kitchen, too, looked strangely ordinary.

Your front door was still locked.

The only thing that looked out of place was the living room window—cracked open just a finger’s width, letting in pale early-morning air that smelled faintly of rain and something clean enough to feel unreal after what had just happened.

Gojo followed quietly behind you as you began cleaning.

You moved on autopilot.

Smashed glass. Broken fragments. Shaky hands that refused to stop trembling no matter how carefully you tried to steady them. You told yourself it was practical. Necessary. Something to do with your body while your mind tried to stitch itself back together.

He tried to talk a few times.

You answered without really hearing yourself, your voice distant, like it belonged to someone else speaking through a wall.

When you retrieved the bandaged bundle from the bookshelf, his posture changed immediately.

“Is that what it was after?” he asked.

You nodded, unable to look at it for long now that you knew what it was supposed to be.

“I got it in a letter,” you said quickly, too quickly, like you needed to justify its presence in your life. “I didn’t—I didn’t know what it was. I just kept it.”

You handed it over.

Gojo went still.

You couldn’t see his eyes beneath the blindfold, but the shift in the air was unmistakable. His shoulders tightened. His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek, like he was holding back a reaction he didn’t want to show.

For a moment, it looked like he might speak. He didn’t. He simply took the bundle and slipped it into his pocket.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Do you… want tea?” you asked. A pause. “Or coffee?”

It sounded absurd the moment the question left your mouth.Yet it was a fragile attempt to hold the moment in place. To delay whatever came after this. To keep him here a little longer because you didn't want to be alone.

Gojo looked at you for a beat longer than necessary, then exhaled something almost like amusement.

“Tea sounds good.”

He watched you the entire time you worked in the kitchen, openly entertained now, like the concept of you boiling water had become unexpectedly fascinating.

Your apartment made him look bigger than you remembered him being—too tall for the space, shoulders nearly brushing doorframes as he moved through it. He ducked slightly out of habit when passing through narrow spaces, following you from room to room, not letting you out of his sight completely.

“—you’re a teacher?” you asked when he told you so, glancing at him over your shoulder with open skepticism.

He grinned instantly. “Don’t I look like one?”

“No,” you said without hesitation. “You look like someone who should not be trusted around children.”

He laughed—bright, unrestrained, too loud for the quiet that had settled back into your apartment—and despite everything, something in your chest loosened enough that you found yourself exhaling a reluctant laugh too.

When the tea was ready, you both settled in the living room on the couch. The cups warmed your hands. Dawn spilled slowly through the window, soft and bruised with early light.

Gojo talked. About Jujutsu High. About curses. About sorcerers.

He explained just enough that your exhausted mind could follow without breaking apart completely, though the words still felt like they belonged to a different world entirely. Curses. Cursed energy. Sorcerers. The fact that he was apparently the strongest of them al, which he repeated with confidence at least five times.

He mentioned Megumi more than once too, and something in his voice softened each time, pride threading through it in a way you didn’t remember hearing before. When you asked about Tsumiki, though, his answer thinned. He redirected the conversation gently but firmly, like closing a door without making it obvious it had been shut.

You didn’t push. You kept listening instead, hovering somewhere between shock and relief, as if your mind hadn’t decided yet whether to accept any of this as real.

Eventually, he asked about you and suddenly, your life felt small.

“I just… bounced around after graduating,” you said at last, eyes fixed on your tea. “Different jobs. Nothing really stuck.”

“I always figured you’d do something interesting,” he hummed.

You let out a quiet snort. “I work in an office.”

“Tragic,” he said gravely. “We’re going to have to rescue you from that immediately.”

You rolled your eyes, but warmth still crept into your chest anyway. Talking to him was easy in a way that unsettled you more than it should have. You had expected awkward silences, forced politeness, something brittle and unfamiliar. Instead, it felt like slipping back into a conversation that had never properly ended.

Sunlight spread further into the apartment, turning dust motes into drifting gold. Gojo stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders with an ease that made the movement look almost lazy. His gaze swept the room again, lingering briefly on the slightly open window before he exhaled and turned back to you.

You stood as well.

“You shouldn’t stay here alone tonight,” he said, still half-distracted by the space around him.

“Have to,” you replied dryly. “Not like I can afford to stay anywhere else.”

You didn’t add the rest. That the thought of being alone again made something tight coil in your chest. That silence, after everything that had happened, suddenly felt too large to exist in. Or that you were now painfully aware of how small your apartment really was and how vulnerable you were inside it.

Gojo turned his head slightly at your answer. Then, as if the thought had simply arrived fully formed and unbothered by consequences, he said, “Come with me, then.”

You remained quiet.

“There are empty rooms at the school,” he continued. “You can stay until I sort this out. Until it’s safe.”

You hesitated, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, because logically, it was absurd. Going with him—someone you had barely known properly, someone who had just torn a curse apart in your bedroom like it was nothing—to a place you had never even heard of before today should have set off every alarm in your body.

It should have felt like a mistake and yet it didn’t. Because the alternative was staying here alone, listening to your own heartbeat echo through empty rooms, waiting for something you couldn’t see but now knew existed.

You looked at him, at the ease in his posture, the absolute certainty that you would say yes.

“…Okay,” you said at last.

His smile widened immediately.

“Excellent decision,” he said brightly, clapping his hands once as if sealing the agreement. “Don’t worry. I promise only minimal life-threatening incidents.”

“That is not reassuring,” you muttered, though your mouth twitched despite yourself.

After changing into warmer clothes, you packed an overnight bag. Just essentials. A change of clothes. Toothbrush. Phone charger. The normal things people bring when they are absolutely, definitely not uprooting their lives.

As you locked your apartment door, Gojo lingering by your side. You kept reminding yourself that this was temorary, that you will stay at school only until things settle. Until it's safe to return.

✧ ✧ ✧

What was supposed to be a few days away from home somehow turned into nearly four weeks of living in the Jujutsu High dorms.

The first night had felt temporary. You kept your shoes by the door, your bag zipped, your mind insisting you would leave any moment. The second night had felt the same, as had the third. But by the end of the first week, your bag sat half-unpacked in the corner like it had always belonged there, clothes slowly migrating into drawers without you ever quite remembering deciding to stay.

Every morning, you woke tangled in sheets, sunlight filtering through the curtains, warm against your face. The air carried a faint mix of pine, old wood, and distant incense drifting in from somewhere deeper in the campus. And every morning, the same thought returned like a habit you couldn’t break: you should go home. You told yourself that while brushing your teeth. While tying your shoes. While standing too long in front of the courtyard windows.

There was always that lingering sense that you were occupying borrowed space—you weren’t a sorcerer, not a student, not anything that belonged in a place like this. And yet that thought dulled with time. The campus was quieter than you had expected, almost eerily so. You rarely saw more than a handful of students or teachers, and most days it felt less like a school and more like a half-forgotten shrine.

During the day, you wandered the grounds with a book tucked under your arm. Gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes. Leaves whispered overhead, shifting in slowly in the wind. Students passed occasionally, bowing politely or watching you with open curiosity. You sat beneath shaded trees, reading without really reading. No emails, no deadlines, no fluorescent office lights humming overhead.

You had taken unpaid leave after the attack, telling your boss you had a family emergency. Technically, that wasn’t a lie. But bills still existed. Your job still existed. Your apartment still existed, somewhere out there in a life you were increasingly detached from. You were supposed to go back. Yet every time you brought it up, Gojo already had a reason why you couldn't leave just yet.

At first, it wasn’t safe. The curse might not have acted alone. Someone might come looking for you.

Then your apartment was declared a disaster zone. Returning wasn’t possible until repairs were finished. You had no idea how you were supposed to afford any of it, but Gojo had waved the concern away with an easy, careless, “The school has funds for situations like this.”

Then he insisted you couldn’t leave until he identified whoever had sent you Sukuna’s finger—conveniently neglecting to mention he was the sender.

Eventually, the excuses began to wear thin.

You stood in the dorm room that had stopped feeling temporary and leaned against the desk, arms crossed.

“I have to go back,” you told him. “I can’t miss any more work. My boss is blowing up my phone. And you said my apartment’s fixed, so—”

Gojo sighed dramatically, just like he did everytime you decided to talk about this.

“Fiiiiine,” he groaned, flopping backward onto your bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sprawled out shamelessly, long limbs claiming far too much space.

“You learn how to fight,” he announced, pointing lazily at you from where he lay upside down across your pillows. “Properly. With the dagger I gave you. Then you can go.”

“I’m not a sorcerer,” you argued immediately. “I don’t need combat training. I’ve successfully avoided curses my entire life—until one broke into my bedroom because someone thought mailing me a cursed finger was a fun social experiment.”

Since arriving, you had been given a crash course in a world you had never asked to understand. Curses were manifestations of negative emotion. Sorcerers fought them. Jujutsu High trained them, and Satoru Gojo—apparently—was the strongest sorcerer alive, a fact he had repeated with alarming enthusiasm whenever the opportunity arose.

He had also, far too casually, suggested more than once that you might have potential to become a sorcerer since you could see the curses, but you refused to even entertain the thought.

“What if one attacks you again?” he asked more quietly when you still refused.

The humor in his voice thinned at the edges.

“I know I put myself on your speed dial,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck, a grin returning as if he could physically shrug off the seriousness of the question, “but I’m a very busy, responsible adult. I can’t always arrive dramatically to save you.”

Your gaze flicked away. The memory of claws and pressure and breathless panic lingered like a bruise under the skin.

“…Fine,” you said at last. “One week. You teach me whatever you think I need to know, and then I’m moving out.”

“Four weeks,” he replied instantly.

“Three.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider it.

“Hm. I suppose I could turn you into a semi-competent fighter in three weeks,” he said. “After all, I am Gojo Satoru. The strongest. The most handsome. The most talented teacher to ever exist—”

You grabbed a pen from the desk and threw it at him.

He caught it midair without looking.

Show-off.

“You mean the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” you corrected, though your mouth betrayed you with a faint curve.

Gojo sat up slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, blindfold angled toward you as if he could see you anyway.

“Oh?” he said, voice dipping just slightly. “And yet you agreed to spend three more weeks with me.”

Your lips parted, but you didn't reply because he was right.

And his hair.

Oh, his hair.

The iconic white locks that usually fell in perfect, effortless waves were now a complete disaster. It stuck up in every direction — flattened on one side from the pillow, sticking out wildly on the other like he'd been electrocuted sometime around 2 AM. A few strands had fallen across his face, and he'd clearly been too deep in sleep to care.

You smiled softly, your heart squeezing in that familiar, painful way it always did when you looked at him like this. Unprotected. Unbothered. Yours.

Slowly, carefully, you tried to shift your weight.

Big mistake.

Satoru's arm tightened around you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with a strength that reminded you — not that you'd ever forgotten — exactly who you'd married.

"Mmm," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "No."

"Good morning to you too," you whispered.

"Not morning yet."

"It's 8:30."

"That's the middle of the night."

You laughed softly, reaching down to brush your fingers against his wrist. "Satoru, I have things to do."

"The things can wait."

"They're important things."

He lifted his head just enough to crack one eye open — still half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, but sharp enough to pin you in place. That one visible eye, the color of the sky just before dawn, stared at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"More important than me?" he asked, his voice still raspy.

You paused. "That's not fair."

"I'm not playing fair." He buried his face back in your neck, his nose cold against your skin. "I'm playing stay. I always win at stay."

"You made that game up."

"Doesn't make me any less good at it."

You sighed, but you were smiling. You couldn't help it. This was the same man who had stared down curses that would make seasoned sorcerers weep. The same man who had faced death with a laugh and walked away unscathed. The same man who had stood in front of you on your wedding day, blindfold nowhere to be seen, looking at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

And now he was whining about you getting out of bed.

Some things never changed.

"I really do need to get up," you tried again, attempting to peel his arm off your waist.

He responded by wrapping his other arm around you too, effectively caging you in. His legs shifted, hooking around yours like he was building a human fortress. You were pinned. Completely, utterly, hopelessly pinned.

"You're being dramatic," you informed him.

"I'm being efficient," he corrected, his lips brushing against your shoulder. "This is the only way to keep you here."

"There's nothing efficient about this. You're just clingy."

"Clingy implies a lack of purpose. I have a purpose." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder — soft, almost unconscious, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. "My purpose is keeping my wife in bed where she belongs."

"She belongs out of bed. Living her life. Doing things."

"You can live your life right here." He tightened his arms. "This is life. Peak life. The best life."

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you," he mumbled. "Satoru thinks you're warm. Satoru doesn't want you to leave."

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "Are you speaking in third person now?"

"I'm speaking in whatever it takes."

You felt him yawn against your skin, his jaw cracking slightly, and the sound was so endearingly human that your heart ached. This was Gojo Satoru — the strongest, the most untouchable, the man who carried the world on his shoulders without ever seeming to feel the weight.

But right now, he was just your husband. The one who ran hot at night and stole all the blankets. The one who mumbled nonsense in his sleep and always, always reached for you before he was fully awake.

"Ten more minutes," you bargained.

"An hour."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Forty-five."

"Twenty, final offer."

He was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe — maybe — he'd fallen back asleep. But then he shifted, pulling you even closer until your back was flush against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.

"The world can wait," he murmured, his voice soft and sleepy. "Just... ten more minutes of this."

Your resolve crumbled.

"Fine," you whispered. "Ten more minutes."

He hummed in satisfaction, his arms relaxing just slightly — just enough to be comfortable, never enough to let you go.

"Love you," he breathed.

"Love you too."

"Love you more."

"That's not how love works."

"Don't care. Still true."

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. The blankets were soft. The morning light was gentle. And Satoru's heartbeat — steady, rhythmic, alive — was the only sound you needed to hear.

Twenty-three minutes later, you were still there.

Not that you were counting.

(You were counting. You'd counted every single minute, and you'd let him have every single one.)

"I can feel you thinking," he said suddenly, his voice still rough from sleep.

"You can feel me thinking?"

"I'm very perceptive."

"You're very nosey."

"Same thing."

You laughed — a real laugh, the kind that shook your shoulders and made his arms tighten around you instinctively. "I need to go, Satoru. The world is calling."

"The world is overrated."

"The world pays our bills."

"The world can pay them later."

You turned in his arms — an awkward shuffle that involved a lot of squirming and a displeased grunt from your husband — until you were facing him. His eyes were still half-closed, his white hair an absolute disaster, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek.

He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Hi," he said back, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Your hair is a mess."

"Your hair is also a mess."

"It's your fault. You were using it as a pillow."

"It's a very comfortable pillow. You should be flattered."

You reached up, brushing the wild strands away from his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a moment — just a moment — he looked so young. So unburdened. So safe.

"I really do have to go," you said quietly.

"I know."

But he didn't let go.

Neither of you moved.

Then, slowly — reluctantly — his arms loosened. Just a little. Just enough.

"Go," he said, but his voice was thick. "Before I change my mind."

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Soft. Lingering.

"I'll make breakfast," you promised.

His eyes cracked open again. "What kind of breakfast?"

"What kind do you want?"

"The kind where you come back to bed after."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Nice try."

"Worth a shot."

You slipped out from under his arms — a careful, practiced escape that you'd perfected over months of marriage — and stood up. The morning air was cooler without his warmth, and you immediately missed it.

Satoru groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. The blankets had slipped down to his waist, revealing the bare expanse of his chest, and his hair was spread across the pillow like a white halo.

"You're staring," he said, not moving his arm.

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are. I can feel it. My wife is ogling me."

"Your wife is leaving."

"Your husband is suffering."

You grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair — the one he'd left there last night, the one that smelled like him — and pulled it over your head. It fell to your mid-thigh, swallowing you whole.

Satoru lifted his arm just enough to peek at you.

"You're stealing my clothes," he observed.

"I'm borrowing your clothes."

"With intent to return?"

"...Debatable."

He dropped his arm back over his eyes, but you could see the smile spreading across his face. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." You walked over to his side of the bed, leaning down to press another kiss — this time to his lips. Soft. Simple. A promise. "I know."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes — both of them now, open and bright and so impossibly blue — looked up at you.

"Ten more minutes wasn't enough," he said quietly.

"It never is."

"Then stay longer next time."

You smiled. "Maybe I will."

And even as you walked out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, you could feel his gaze following you. Warm. Devoted. Endless.

Somewhere behind you, you heard him sigh — content, happy, utterly, ridiculously in love.

"Married," he muttered to himself. "I'm married. To the most beautiful woman in the world. How did I get this lucky?"

You didn't answer.

But you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Breakfast was half-finished when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind.

Satoru's chin dropped onto your shoulder, and you could feel his breath warm against your ear.

"You're supposed to be in bed," you said, not looking up from the stove.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

"Same thing."

You felt him press a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher up on your neck, then another just below your ear.

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you," he mumbled against your skin. "Satoru wants pancakes."

"You're getting eggs."

"Satoru wants pancakes and eggs."

"Satoru is very demanding."

"Satoru is very loved, which means he should get pancakes."

You finally turned off the stove and turned around in his arms. He was still half-asleep, his hair still a disaster, his blindfold nowhere to be seen. He was wearing nothing but his sweatpants, and he looked like he'd rolled out of bed approximately thirty seconds ago.

Which, to be fair, he had.

"You look terrible," you said affectionately.

"I look devastating."

"You look like you were hit by a truck."

"A very handsome truck."

You laughed, reaching up to fix his hair — or try to, anyway. It was a losing battle. The white strands slipped through your fingers like silk, refusing to be tamed.

"I love you," you said softly.

His eyes softened. The teasing faded from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something real.

"I know," he said, echoing your words from earlier. "I love you too."

He leaned down and kissed you — slow, lazy, morning-sweet.

When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"So," he said. "Pancakes?"

"Eggs."

"Pancakes and eggs?"

"...Fine."

He grinned, the full megawatt smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place, and pulled you into another hug — this one tighter, warmer, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

"Best morning ever," he declared.

"It's not even 9 AM."

"Doesn't matter. You're here. I win."

And honestly?

You couldn't argue with that.

You never made it to the kitchen.

Well — you did. You made the eggs. You even made the pancakes (because you were weak and he knew it). But somewhere between the last bite and the first sip of coffee, Satoru had tugged you toward the couch instead of the bedroom.

"The bed is right there," you said.

"The couch is closer," he'd argue.

"You're impossible."

"You're mine."

And now here you were — curled up on the sofa, the morning light still soft through the curtains, your half-empty coffee mug on the side table. Satoru's head rested in your lap, his long body stretched across the rest of the couch, his feet hanging off the armrest like he was too tall for any piece of furniture ever made.

His eyes were closed. His hair — still a complete disaster — fanned out across your thighs like white silk. He looked peaceful. Pretty. Soft.

You ran your fingers through his messy hair, untangling the knots gently, and he made a sound low in his throat. Something between a sigh and a hum. Content.

"You're purring," you observed.

"I'm not purring."

"You're absolutely purring."

"Shut up. I'm sleeping."

"You're not sleeping. You're just lying there with your eyes closed."

"Same thing."

You laughed quietly, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw.

"Satoru."

"Mm."

"You said ten more minutes. That was forty-five minutes ago."

"Time is fake."

"The clock says otherwise."

"The clock is a liar." He cracked one eye open, peering up at you through his lashes. The blue was striking against the morning light — bright, almost glowing. "Are you trying to leave again?"

"I'm trying to be productive."

"Productivity is overrated."

"Someone has to do the dishes."

"The dishes can wait." He closed his eye again, nuzzling his face against your thigh. His nose was cold. You yelped slightly, and he grinned — slow and sleepy and unfairly handsome. "See? You're not going anywhere."

"You're impossible."

"You've mentioned that."

You sighed, but you were smiling. Your fingers found their way back into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he melted. Actually melted. His whole body relaxed beneath your touch, his shoulders dropping, his breathing slowing.

"I could stay like this forever," he murmured.

"Then we'd starve."

"Worth it."

"No food?"

"You're enough."

You swatted his shoulder lightly, and he laughed — a low, sleepy rumble that vibrated through your legs. His hand came up to rest on your knee, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the fabric of your sweatpants.

"Do you remember," he said softly, "when we first started dating? And I used to fall asleep on your shoulder during movies?"

"You still do that."

"Yeah, but back then I was pretending to be cool about it."

"You were never cool about it. Your ears turned red every single time."

"...I was hoping you didn't notice that."

"I noticed everything."

He opened his eyes again, looking up at you with an expression that made your chest ache. Soft. Vulnerable. Loving.

"Good," he said quietly. "I wanted you to notice."

The morning light shifted, casting patterns on the wall. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. The world was waking up — slowly, gently, like it didn't want to rush either.

Satoru turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.

"I love you," he said against your skin.

"I know."

"Say it back."

You leaned down, your hair falling forward to brush against his cheeks, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips — soft, quick, a whisper of a kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered. "Now let me do the dishes."

"No."

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you. Satoru thinks you should stay right here. Satoru's head is very comfortable in your lap and he refuses to move."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're ridiculously in love with me."

"Unfortunately."

He grinned — that full, blinding smile that made your heart stutter — and pulled your hand down to rest over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm. Steady. Strong. Alive.

"Ten more minutes," he said.

"You said that forty-five minutes ago."

"Ten more minutes this time."

You looked down at him — at his messy hair, his sleepy eyes, his soft smile. At the man who could destroy cities but chose to spend his morning with his head in your lap.

"...Fine," you said. "Ten more minutes."

He closed his eyes, still smiling.

"I win."

"Yeah," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back into his hair. "You win."

The coffee grew cold. The dishes waited. The world kept turning, slow and patient.

And Satoru stayed exactly where he was — head in your lap, heart in your hands — exactly where he belonged.

A/N. he's so adorable he could keep me in bed all day and i wont complain (┬┬﹏┬┬)

You, curled up on the couch with your knees tucked under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You, laughing at the terrible special effects, your nose crinkling in that way that made his chest ache. You, wearing one of his hoodies — the black one with the worn-out sleeves, the one you'd borrowed three months ago and never given back.

Not that he wanted it back.

Not that he'd ever ask for it back.

Not when you looked like that — soft and cozy and so unfairly beautiful that he couldn't concentrate on anything else.

"Satoru." Shoko's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're staring."

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from you. "I'm not staring."

"You're literally staring."

"I'm looking. There's a difference."

Shoko raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Uh-huh. And what's the difference?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Shut up," he said finally.

Shoko snorted, but mercifully, she didn't push. She just gave him a knowing look — the kind that said we're talking about this later — and turned back to the screen.

Satoru let out a breath and tried to focus on the movie.

He failed.

Because you shifted beside him, pulling the blanket higher, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. Just a touch. Just a second. Just enough to send electricity shooting through his entire body.

"Get a grip," he told himself. "It's just a movie night. It's just her. It's just-"

You yawned.

A small, soft sound, barely audible over the screaming on screen. Your eyes fluttered, lashes casting tiny shadows on your cheeks. You blinked once, twice, and then your head started to droop.

"Oh no," he thought. "Oh no no no."

Your head landed on his shoulder.

Satoru stopped breathing.

You were warm. So warm. Your hair smelled like flowers — something soft, something sweet, something that made him want to bury his face in it and never come up for air. Your hand, limp with sleep, had somehow found its way to his chest, fingers curled loosely against his shirt.

"Don't panic," he told himself. "Don't-"

His heart was pounding so loud he was sure it would wake you up.

"Panicking," he admitted. "I'm panicking."

He looked at Shoko.

Shoko was watching him with an expression of pure, unholy amusement.

"Don't," he mouthed.

She smiled. She actually smiled. Then she pulled out her phone and started typing.

"I will kill her," he thought. "I will actually kill her."

But he didn't move.

He couldn't move.

Because you were right there, asleep on his shoulder, and if he moved — even slightly — you might wake up. You might pull away. You might realize how close you were and think it was weird and stop falling asleep on him and he would never feel this again.

So he stayed perfectly still.

The movie played on. Shoko typed away on her phone, probably telling Geto exactly what was happening. The others laughed at the screen, oblivious.

And Satoru sat there, heart racing, breath shallow, completely, utterly undone.

PART TWO: THE FIRST HOUR

Twenty-three minutes.

That's how long it took for his arm to fall asleep.

Not that he cared. His arm could fall off entirely and he wouldn't move. Not when you were nestled against him like this, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck.

You'd shifted in your sleep at some point, curling closer. Your hand had slid from his chest to his arm, fingers loosely wrapped around his bicep. The blanket had slipped, and he could see the curve of your shoulder, the way his hoodie gaped just slightly at the collar.

"Don't look," he told himself.

He looked.

"Stop looking."

He kept looking.

You're being creepy.

He was absolutely being creepy. He didn't care.

You made a soft sound — not quite a word, not quite a sigh — and burrowed deeper against him. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck. Your breath ghosted across his skin.

Satoru's brain short-circuited.

"This is fine," he thought, as his entire nervous system went up in flames. "This is normal. Friends do this. Friends fall asleep on each other all the time. It's fine."

His heart was beating so fast he was genuinely concerned it might give out.

"She can feel that," he realized suddenly. "She can feel my heartbeat."

He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to calm down. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that you were right there, warm and soft and so close he could count your eyelashes if he wanted to.

(He wanted to. He wasn't going to. But he wanted to.)

"Satoru."

He jumped. Shoko was standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down at him with an expression that was equal parts amused and exasperated.

"What?" he whispered.

"You need to breathe."

"I'm breathing."

"You're hyperventilating."

"I'm not-" He took a breath. Then another. "Okay, maybe a little."

Shoko shook her head, but there was something soft in her eyes. Something that looked almost like sympathy. "You've got it bad, huh?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew.

"Just tell her," Shoko said quietly.

"And risk this?" He glanced down at you — at the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him, at the way your face was soft and peaceful. "I can't lose this."

Shoko was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed. "You're hopeless."

"I know."

She walked away, and Satoru was alone again.

Alone with you.

Alone with the weight of your head on his shoulder, the warmth of your hand on his arm, the quiet sound of your breathing.

He tilted his head, just slightly, and rested his cheek against your hair.

"Just for a second," he told himself. "Just one second."

He closed his eyes.

One second stretched into two, stretched into five, stretched into something that felt like forever and not long enough all at once.

"I love you," he thought. "I love you. I love you. I love-"

You stirred.

He jerked his head back, heart pounding, terrified that you'd heard him somehow. That you'd felt the words in the way his body tensed, in the way his breath caught.

But you just shifted, mumbling something unintelligible, and fell still again.

Satoru let out a shaky breath.

"You're pathetic," he told himself.

He didn't disagree.

PART THREE: THE TEXT MESSAGES

His phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

Then buzzed a third time.

Satoru grabbed it with his free hand — the one not currently trapped under your sleeping form — and glared at the screen.

Satoru typed back with one thumb, his movements careful and quiet.

A/N. Satoru typed: "i hate both of you" !! :D

Satoru shoved his phone back in his pocket, ignoring the next buzz (and the buzz after that). He didn't need them teasing him. He was doing a perfectly good job of tormenting himself.

Because you'd shifted again.

Your hand had slipped from his arm to his hand — his hand — and your fingers were loosely intertwined with his. Not holding, exactly. Just... resting. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"She's asleep," he reminded himself. "She doesn't know it's you. She could be holding anyone's hand."

But she wasn't holding anyone's hand.

She was holding his.

And that meant something.

"Does it, though?" a nasty little voice whispered. "Or are you just desperate?"

He was desperate. He'd been desperate for years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the day he met you, when you'd looked at him — not as Gojo Satoru, the strongest, but just as Satoru — and smiled.

He'd been a goner ever since.

He looked down at your hand, at the way your fingers curled around his. Your nails were bare — no polish, no acrylics. Your skin was soft. There was a small scar on your knuckle, probably from cooking, and he wanted to kiss it.

"That's weird," he thought. "That's definitely weird."

He wanted to do it anyway.

He didn't, of course. He wasn't a complete creep.

(He was, actually. He was absolutely a creep. But he was a creep with self-control.)

Instead, he just sat there, holding your hand, counting your breaths, and trying very, very hard not to think about how much he loved you.

He failed at that, too.

PART FOUR: THE DANGEROUS THOUGHT

Two hours and eleven minutes.

That's how long you'd been asleep on him.

The movie had ended. Everyone else had left — Shoko with a knowing smirk, Geto with a quiet "good luck," the others with various degrees of obliviousness. The apartment was quiet now, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

Satoru should wake you up.

He knew he should wake you up.

It was late. You'd be sore if you slept on the couch all night. Your neck would hurt. You'd regret it in the morning.

"Wake her up," he told himself.

He didn't move.

Wake. Her. Up.

He tightened his arm around you, just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth of you through his hoodie.

You're making it worse.

He knew.

He didn't care.

Because this — this — was everything he'd ever wanted. You, soft and sleepy and trusting. You, curled against him like he was somewhere safe. You, breathing quietly, your heart beating against his side.

"This is what it would be like," he thought. "If you were mine."

He could almost see it. Waking up next to you every morning. Making you coffee the way you liked it. Holding your hand in crowded streets. Kissing your forehead before bed.

"Stop," he told himself. "Stop. You're torturing yourself."

But he couldn't stop.

He tilted his head, looking down at you. Your face was peaceful in sleep — no worry lines, no tension. Your lips were slightly parted. Your lashes fanned across your cheeks.

She's so beautiful.

He wanted to kiss you.

Not in a passionate, sweeping way. Not in the way people kissed in movies. Just... softly. Gently. A whisper of a kiss against your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

"Just once," he thought. "Just once. She'd never know."

He leaned in.

Just a little. Just enough to feel your breath on his lips. Just enough to count every single one of your eyelashes.

"This is wrong," a voice whispered. "She didn't consent. She's asleep. This is wrong."

He pulled back.

His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His lips were tingling with want.

"You almost did that," he realized. "You almost actually did that."

He was disgusted with himself.

He was also still in love with you.

Both things could be true.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the couch, trying to slow his breathing. Trying to calm his racing heart. Trying to forget how close he'd come to ruining everything.

"You need to tell her," he thought. "Not like this. Not while she's asleep. But... soon. You need to tell her soon."

He wasn't sure he believed it.

But he knew he couldn't keep going like this — wanting you, aching for you, loving you in silence.

Something had to change.

"Tomorrow," he promised himself. "Tomorrow, I'll tell her."

Tomorrow came far too quickly.

PART FIVE: THE MORNING

You woke up slowly.

First, there was warmth. Warmth everywhere — against your cheek, your chest, your hands. Then there was sound — a steady rhythm, like waves, like breathing.

"Someone's heartbeat," you realized.

Then there was smell — something clean and familiar, something that smelled like him.

Satoru.

Your eyes fluttered open.

You were on the couch. The TV was off. The apartment was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. And you were...

Oh.

You were lying on top of him.

Your head was on his chest, right over his heart. Your legs were tangled with his. Your hand was tucked under his hoodie — his hoodie, the one you were wearing, the one that smelled like him — pressed flat against his stomach.

He was asleep.

His head was tilted back against the couch, his blindfold askew, his mouth slightly open. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

"He's beautiful," you thought.

He was. Even like this — disheveled and vulnerable and nothing like the confident, annoying Gojo Satoru the world knew. Especially like this.

You should move.

You knew you should move.

But you didn't.

You just lay there, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way his arms felt around you.

"I love you," you thought. "I love you. I love you. I love-"

His arms tightened.

You froze.

"Satoru?" you whispered.

He didn't answer. His breathing didn't change. He was still asleep.

But his arms held you closer, and his head tilted until his cheek was resting against your hair.

"He's dreaming," you realized. "He doesn't know it's me."

Or maybe he did.

Maybe, even in sleep, he knew exactly who he was holding.

You closed your eyes and let yourself have this — just a few more minutes of pretending he was yours.

"Five more minutes," you told yourself. "Then I'll move."

You stayed for twenty. Maybe longer.

PART SIX: THE WAKING

He woke up to sunlight.

Bright, obnoxious sunlight, streaming through the window and hitting him directly in the face. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, and tried to remember where he was.

"Couch," he remembered. "Movie night. Shoko. Suguru. And-"

You.

He looked down.

You were still there.

Still asleep on his chest. Still wearing his hoodie. Still warm and soft and so beautiful it made his chest ache.

His arms were still wrapped around you.

He hadn't let go. Not once, all night.

"You're an idiot," he told himself. "A complete, utter idiot."

But he didn't move.

He couldn't.

Because you were right there, and this might be the last time he ever got to hold you like this. The last time he could pretend, even for a moment, that you were his.

Wake her up, he thought. You need to wake her up.

He raised his hand — the one that had been resting on your back — and hovered it over your shoulder.

Do it.

He couldn't.

Coward.

He was. He was a coward. He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he was too scared to wake up the girl he loved.

Pathetic.

Just as he was about to drop his hand back down — his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He grabbed it with his free hand, squinting at the screen. 7:11 AM.

He sighed, typing back with one thumb.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, shaking his head.

What he didn't notice — what he couldn't have known — was the way your breathing had changed. The way your fingers had curled, just slightly, against his chest. The way your heart had skipped a beat when the phone buzzed.

You were awake.

You'd been awake since the first buzz — the vibration against his chest, right where your cheek was resting. You'd felt it. You'd seen the glow of the screen.

"Did u sleep on the couch all night."

Your heart was pounding now, but you kept your eyes closed. Kept your breathing slow. Kept pretending.

He dropped his hand back to your back, defeated.

And then you felt him shift — just slightly. His hand came up again, hovering near your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his palm, inches from your skin.

"Is he going to wake me up?" you wondered.

But he didn't.

His hand dropped back to your back.

And then — he spoke. So quiet you almost missed it.

"I love you."

Your heart stopped.

"You have no idea how much I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "And I'm too scared to tell you. I'm too scared to lose this. I'm too scared to lose you."

You wanted to open your eyes. You wanted to tell him you felt the same. You wanted to kiss him and hold him and never let go.

But you were frozen.

And then he shifted again — and you felt his breath on your forehead. Warm. Soft. Close.

Is he going to —

His lips brushed your forehead. Just barely. Just a whisper of a touch. A kiss so light you almost missed it.

Then he pulled away.

You felt his heart pounding under your cheek. You felt his arms tighten around you, just slightly. You felt the weight of his words hanging in the air between you.

"He loves me," you thought. "He actually loves me."

You should say something.

You should open your eyes and tell him you heard everything.

But you were scared too.

So you kept pretending. Just a little longer.

A few minutes passed. Or maybe it was longer. You couldn't tell. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning.

And then — you felt him shift again. His hand came up, this time to your shoulder. Gentle. Careful.

"Hey," he said softly. "Wake up."

You let your eyes flutter open — slowly, sleepily, like you were surfacing from deep water.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

"Hi," you said, your voice soft and rough with sleep.

"Say something normal," he commanded himself. "Something casual. Something-"

"Hi," he said.

Hi? his brain screamed. HI?!

You smiled — a small, sleepy smile that made his heart stop. "Did I fall asleep on you?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

He glanced at the window, at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. "All night, I think."

Your eyes widened. "All night?"

"All night."

You pushed yourself up — just enough to look at him, your hands braced on his chest. Your face was inches from his. He could see the faint crease on your cheek from where you'd been pressed against his hoodie. He could see the sleep in your eyes, the softness in your expression.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" you asked.

"Because I'm selfish," he thought. "Because I wanted to hold you. Because I'm in love with you and I'm too scared to say it."

"You looked comfortable," he said instead.

You stared at him for a long moment. Your eyes searched his face, looking for something — he didn't know what.

"Satoru," you said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Were you watching me sleep?"

His face went red. "No."

"Liar."

"I wasn't- I was just- my eyes were open and you happened to be in front of them-"

You laughed.

A real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made his chest ache. Your nose crinkled. Your eyes squeezed shut. Your hands pressed against his chest as you shook with laughter.

And Satoru forgot how to breathe.

Because you were beautiful.

Not in the way the world meant it — not polished or posed or perfect. But in the way that mattered. In the way that made him want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life.

"You're so weird," you said, still laughing.

"I'm not weird."

"You're very weird."

"I'm quirky."

"You're something," you said, and your voice was softer now. Gentler. Your hands were still on his chest, and you hadn't moved away.

Neither had he.

Neither of you moved.

The sunlight crept across the floor. The birds sang outside. The world woke up around you, oblivious to the two of you frozen on the couch, inches apart, hearts pounding.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah."

"Tell her," he thought. "Tell her now. This is the moment."

"I-"

His phone buzzed.

Loud and obnoxious, shattering the moment like a stone through glass. You jumped. He jumped. Your hands slipped from his chest. His arms loosened around you.

The spell was broken.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, face burning.

"We should-" you started.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we should."

Neither of you moved.

Then you stood up, stretching your arms above your head. His hoodie rode up, just a little, and he caught a glimpse of your stomach — just a flash, just a second, just enough to make his face go red.

"I'm gonna..." you said, pointing toward the kitchen.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll — yeah."

You walked away.

And Satoru sat on the couch, alone, heart pounding, hands shaking, and thought about what he'd almost said.

I love you.

I love you.

He'd almost said it.

"Next time," he promised himself. "Next time, I'll actually say it."

But as he sat there, staring at the kitchen doorway, he realized something.

He was tired of next time.

He was tired of almost.

He was tired of watching you walk away and wondering what if.

So he stood up.

His legs were shaking. His hands were shaking. His entire body was shaking.

"Don't think," he told himself. "Just move."

He walked to the kitchen.

PART SEVEN: THE CONFESSION

You were standing by the counter, drinking a bottle of water. The morning light was streaming through the window, catching the edges of your hair, painting you in gold. You were still wearing his hoodie — his hoodie — and you were trying very, very hard to calm your racing heart.

"He loves you," a voice whispered in your head. "He said it. He kissed your forehead. He loves you."

But then why hadn't he said anything when you were both awake? Why had he just... let you walk away?

"Because he's scared too," you realized. "Just like you."

You heard footsteps behind you.

You turned.

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at you with an expression you'd never seen before. Soft. Vulnerable. Nervous. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders were tense. His eyes — those stupid, beautiful eyes — were fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

Your heart stopped.

"This is it," you thought. "This is the moment."

"Satoru?" you said, your voice coming out smaller than you meant it to. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer.

He just stood there, looking at you like you were something precious. Something he was terrified of losing.

"Say something," you begged silently. "Please, say something."

"Satoru," you said again, quieter this time. Your hands were shaking. "You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard. His jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked like he was going to make a joke — deflect, the way he always did.

But then his shoulders relaxed.

And he said, "I think I've been in love with you for years."

The water bottle slipped from your fingers.

It hit the counter with a dull thunk — water spilling everywhere, dripping onto the floor — but neither of you moved to clean it up. You couldn't. Because the only thing you could see was him. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

"He loves you," a voice whispered in your head. "He actually loves you."

"I don't- I can't remember when it started," he continued, because once the words started, he couldn't stop them. His voice was steady — almost steady — but his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and you could tell he was gripping them tight. "Maybe it was the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes. Maybe it was the first time you looked at me like I was just... Satoru. Not Gojo. Not the strongest. Just... me."

You weren't moving.

You weren't saying anything.

Your lips were parted. Your cheeks were flushed. Your eyes were stinging with tears you didn't even know were forming.

"You already knew this," you told yourself. "You heard him say it on the couch. Why are you crying?"

But hearing it now — with his voice steady and his eyes scared and his hands shaking — was different. It was real. It was happening.

"I know I'm not- I know I'm a lot," he said, and his voice cracked — just a little, just at the end. He cleared his throat quickly, like he was trying to cover it up. "I'm loud and annoying and I never shut up. But when I'm with you, I don't have to be any of that. I can just... be. And I- I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you. But I can't keep pretending that I don't-"

You moved.

You didn't even realize you were moving until you were standing in front of him, close enough to feel his breath on your skin, close enough to see the way his eyes were searching yours — hopeful and terrified all at once.

"Tell him," the voice whispered. "Tell him now. You already know he loves you. So tell him."

"Satoru," you said, and your voice was shaking. "Are you- are you saying what I think you're saying?"

He swallowed again. His hands came out of his pockets, flexing at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "That depends. What do you think I'm saying?"

"He's scared," you realized. "He's scared you don't feel the same way. He doesn't know you heard him on the couch. He doesn't know you've been in love with him for years."

"I think you're saying you love me."

"There it is," he thought. "The words. Out loud. Hanging in the air between you."

He took a breath. Held it. Let it out.

"I love you," he said. "I've been in love with you for- I don't know- months? Years? I don't even remember anymore. I just know that I can't- I can't keep pretending I don't-"

You didn't let him finish.

Instead, you stood on your tiptoes — because he was tall, so stupidly tall, and you were not — and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his cheek.

Right on the curve of his cheekbone. Right where his skin was warmest. Right where you could feel him freeze beneath your lips.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him.

His eyes were wide.

His mouth was slightly open.

His face was slowly turning red — from his neck to his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"You-" he started.

You were smiling. A small, shy, trembling smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest. Tears were streaming down your face — happy tears, the kind you couldn't hold back even if you tried.

"I love you too, you idiot," you said. "I've been in love with you for years. I thought you knew. I thought-"

His eyes glistened.

Just for a second.

Just a flash of something wet and bright before he blinked it away.

But you saw it.

He's crying, you realized. He's actually crying.

"You love me?" he asked, and his voice was so small — smaller than you'd ever heard it. Softer than you'd ever imagined. "You really-"

"I really do."

He didn't let you say anything else.

His hands came up to cup your face — gently, so gently, like you were something precious, something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, wiping away tears even as his own spilled over.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

"You're crying."

"I'm not crying."

"Your eyes are leaking."

"Allergies."

"It's winter."

"Winter allergies."

You laughed — a wet, shaky, beautiful laugh — and he stared at you like you'd hung the moon.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't help it. Like the words were pouring out of him and he couldn't stop them. "I love you. I love you. I-"

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. You couldn't tell anymore. All you knew was that his lips were on yours, and his hands were in your hair, and his heart was pounding against your chest.

Not gentle. Not soft.

Desperate.

Like a man dying of thirst who'd finally found water. Like he'd been holding back for years and the dam had finally broken. His lips slanted over yours, hungry and searching, and you gasped against his mouth — your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"This", he thought. "This is what I've been missing."

"This," you thought. "This is what I've been waiting for."

When he finally pulled back — both of you breathless, both of you flushed, both of you smiling like idiots — he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your nose, his hands still cradling your face like you were something precious.

"Say it again," you whispered.

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you. I love you. I love-"

You tried to kiss him again — you could feel him leaning in, his lips brushing against yours — but he pulled back just enough to make you chase him. Just enough to make you want.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "I'm not done saying it yet."

"Then say it faster."

He laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind he only ever gave you. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I've been wanting to say that for years. I've been wanting to kiss you for years. Do you know how hard it's been? Watching you wear my hoodie? Watching you fall asleep on my shoulder? Watching you smile at me like I'm not-"

You kissed him.

You couldn't help it.

You stood on your tiptoes yet again, and pressed your lips to his — cutting him off mid-sentence.

He melted into you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head tilted, deepening the kiss. His fingers pressed into the small of your back, holding you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

When you finally broke apart — both of you gasping for air, both of you grinning like fools — he didn't let go. He kept his arms around you, kept you close, kept his forehead resting against yours.

"I love you too," you said against his lips. "I love you so much it scares me."

"Good," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks were wet, but he was smiling — that real smile, the one he only gave you. "Be scared with me. We can be scared together."

You laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made his chest ache in the best way. Water was still spilled on the counter. The sun was still streaming through the window. Neither of you had eaten breakfast or brushed your teeth or done any of the normal morning things.

"I'd like that," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again — soft this time, gentle, a promise.

And then he kissed you again.

And again.

And again.

His turn now. His choice. His lips on yours, over and over, like he was making up for lost time.

He didn't care about the water on the counter. He didn't care about the sun rising higher in the sky. He didn't care about the world waking up around them.

He had you.

That was all that mattered.

PART EIGHT: THE GROUP CHAT (EXTENDED)

EPILOGUE: FIVE MORE MINUTES

Later — much later — you were curled up on the couch again.

The same couch. The same blanket. The same hoodie (still his).

But this time, his arm was around you deliberately. This time, your hand was in his on purpose. This time, when your head drifted to his shoulder, he pressed a kiss to your hair instead of holding his breath.

"I love you," he said, just because he could.

You smiled against his neck. "I love you too."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"How long were you pretending to be asleep this morning?"

You went very still.

"Satoru-"

"Because I know you," he said, tilting his head to look at you. "And I know you're a light sleeper. There's no way you slept through my phone buzzing at 7:11 AM."

You buried your face in his neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am —" You lifted your head, glaring at him with flushed cheeks. "Fine. I woke up when Shoko texted you the first time."

His eyes widened. "That was- that was at 7:11. That was like an hour before you 'woke up.'"

"Mmhmm."

"You were awake for an hour?"

"I was comfortable."

"You were-" He stared at you. "You heard my heart pounding."

"Loud and clear."

"You felt me almost-" His face went red. "You knew I almost-"

"I knew you almost kissed me, yes. Twice, actually. Once in the middle of the night, and once that morning."

His mouth fell open. "You — both times?"

"Both times."

"Satoru-"

"I was waiting," you said softly. "I wanted to see if you'd actually do it."

"And when I didn't?"

You shrugged, a small smile playing on your lips. "I figured I'd give you until the kitchen."

"The-" He blinked. "You planned this?"

"I prefer 'manifested.'"

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then he laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

"I love you," he said. "You're insane."

"You love it."

"I love you."

You smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I love you too. Now shut up and hold me."

"Yes ma'am."

He pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around you, and rested his cheek against your hair.

"Hey," you said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Five more minutes?"

He smiled into your hair.

"Five more minutes," he agreed.

But you both knew it was a lie.

It was never five minutes.

It was always forever.

A/N. THIS WAS SO PRECIOUS OEMJI !!! it took me so long to write this, but i am NOT complaining 😭😭

Night one:

“Hello, we’re checking in under Shoko Ieri.”

The lady behind the counter searches for the name on the desk computer carefully. 

“Ah! Yes, for three nights?”

“Unfortunately.” 

Gojo finally trails in, a chicken skewer in his hand. 

“Look! They have free dinner! Want to try?”

The lady turns to the white-haired man and then back at you, smiling. 

“I’ll just go get the key,” she informs you. 

“Thanks so much.”

You turn to face her when you suddenly feel a blunt object poke your cheek. You spin your head to meet Gojo’s chicken skewer in front of your nose. 

“Gojo! What the hell?!”

“Try it! It’s really good!”

“I’ll get my own later! Can you focus?”

“On what..?”

He takes another bite and chews. Loudly. 

“Gojo, I swear if you—”

“Excuse me. Your keys.”

You snap your attention back to the reception lady and take the keys, thanking  her. 

“Please have a wonderful stay.”

“I’ll try,” you huff out. 

Satoru says his thanks and follows you to the elevator. When you reach your room, you’re greeted by a short hallway. To the right is a bathroom, and beyond it, one bed that catches your attention. 

Two swans made of towels sat on the bed neatly, their heads forming a heart. A box of chocolate placed in front of them with a note saying “Enjoy your stay.” in cursive writing. 

You exhale and search for any sign of another bed. You see another door and end up disappointed when you open it and realize it’s a closet. 

“Did she book a room with only one bed? What the hell?” you mutter to yourself. 

Meanwhile Gojo is already munching on the chocolates and spreading his body on the bed. 

“Okay, you can skip the barbecue but you have to try this! Tastes expensive.”

You roll your eyes and open up your suitcase. 

“Gojo—”

“Satoru! No need for the formalities outside the office.”

“…Satoru, please get off the bed. You’re filthy.”

“Please, as if this bed isn’t covered in cum stains.”

You scoff and pick out your bath towel and pyjamas. You look at the clock. 10:48. You needed to be up by 5 a.m. tomorrow. 

“Whatever. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Suit yourself.” 

He shrugs and places the last piece of chocolate in his mouth. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Whilst Satoru takes his shower, you set yourself up on the couch next to the footrest of the bed. You grab another clean towel from your bag and use it as a blanket. 

It’s small and honestly depressing but it works. You’re just about to slip under your makeshift covers when Satoru walks out of the bathroom half naked. 

A towel wraps around his bottom half, giving you full access to his toned and wet abs. His  hair is slicked up in a way you’ve never seen before. A toothbrush is halfway in his mouth, and the expression he holds says that he’s missing something. 

“Ah, there it is!”

He pulls out a wide black shirt with a cat in the middle from his suitcase and shows it to you. 

“Isn’t it cute?” 

His face contorts into the same expression the cat is making. He pouts at you. 

“So cute,” you agree, an obvious tone of sarcasm laced in your voice. 

“Please hurry up. I’d like to turn the lights off.”

“Mhm, right.”

He rushes back in the bathroom and it only takes a few minutes before he’s back in the room. 

“Okay! Let’s get into bed!” he sings, tucking himself in between the covers. 

“Are you not sleeping on the bed?”

“No,” you state and the tone of your voice suggests that you won’t be changing your mind either. 

“Okay, weirdo.”

He shut the lights off using a remote— how fancy is this hotel?— and you fall asleep almost immediately. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Being a deep sleeper had few perks but also many drawbacks. One of them is that you can’t seem to feel any physical discomfort once you fall asleep. 

The hotel room is cold. Satoru hears it only two hours into his sleep. And by it, he means your loud shivering. Your teeth chatters loudly above the otherwise quiet night. 

Satoru can’t take it anymore. There’s only one way to solve this. 

That’s what brought him to carry you into his arms and onto the bed. He prays that you don’t wake up. He doesn’t need you yelling at him right now. He’ll deal with that tomorrow morning. 

He pulls the blanket over your shoulders and pushes some hair from your face. He’s tempted to sleep next to you, as it would provide maximum body warmth for the both of you. 

But he doesn’t want to push any boundaries that you might’ve set. So he takes the cold way out and sleeps on the couch. 

The smell of your towel comforts him, along with the warmth your body left on the couch. It doesn’t take long before he begins to snore softly. 

Night two: 

You didn’t ask Satoru about how and why you woke up on the bed this morning. He didn’t tell you either. Perhaps you both had sleepwalking abilities, you tell yourself. 

After the first day of exhaustive talking and endless presentations, you both arrive back at the hotel room. You slip your heels off and plop down on the bed. 

Satoru is just as tired and even argues with  you that he’s “more tired” than you. You can only scoff at that. 

Once the two of you prepare for bed, you sit at the edge awkwardly and fiddle with the blanket. 

“So—“

“Take the bed. It’s warmer and you’re so loud when you’re cold,” he simply says as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. 

He acts out your shivering and you stare at him with a blank expression. 

“Alright! If you say so!” 

You hop into the bed and turn the lights off. Deep sleep hits you like a truck but it comes with an uncommon consequence. 

You face a horrifying nightmare, causing you to toss and turn repeatedly. The shuffling of your body does not go unnoticed by the light sleeper, Satoru. 

He wakes up with his eye twitching in annoyance. He stands up and hovers above you. He notices how your eyes are screwed shut and his gaze softens. 

You continue to toss and turn until he shakes you awake. You jump out of bed, coming face to face with Satoru. 

“Ow— fuck! You’re already loud as hell and now you’re gonna hurt me? It’s like you don’t want me to sleep!”

Satoru rubs his head aggressively, staring at your wide-eyed state. 

“Sorry! I was having a nightmare.”

“Aw, do you want a glass of warm milk to sleep better?” he coos tauntingly. 

You flick his forehead and lie down again, hiding yourself under the covers. 

“Maybe your subconscious is scared. Do you usually sleep with a stuffed animal or something?”

“N-no! Just go to sleep!”

“I can’t when you’re being loud as fuck.”

You keep silent whilst facing away from him. 

“Want me to sleep next to you?” he laughs. 

You don’t respond. 

“Fine, be that way. I’ll just—”

He scoots in the bed and you immediately feel the warmth that he brings. He keeps his distance, ensuring you both had no physical contact with one another. 

“Maybe sleeping next to me will stimulate your brain to dream of me.”

“You’re such a freak.”

“Hey, it wouldn’t have to be a wet dream. Unless—“

“It would be the worst nightmare ever. Good luck sleeping now,” you huff, but there’s no true malice in your tone. 

“Sure. Tell me about it tomorrow, sweetheart. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight.”

And so what if Satoru was right? So what if you had a cute dream of you and Satoru living on a Tomodachi island? It’s not like he’d ever know. You’d never tell him. 

But he did know. When he heard you whisper his name during your deep sleep, he knew you at least dreamt of him. It made him smile and face you, even though your back faced him. 

Night three:

The both of you decide that tonight, you’ll both take the bed. You create a wall made of pillows to place between you two to prevent this morning’s events to repeat. 

You woke up practically pressed against each other. His arm secured around your waist and his face pressed against your hair. 

“Is this necessary?” he groans out. 

“Yeah, I don’t want you all over me in the morning again.”

“As if you hadn’t dreamt of me,” he mutters. 

You pretend not to hear it, trying to avoid that conversation as much as possible. Once your pillow wall has been constructed, you lie down and sigh. 

“Last night with you. Fucking finally,” you blurt out. 

“Fucking finally or fucking finally?”

“What the hell are you on about? Y’know what, just go to sleep.”

“Doesn’t have to be our last night together,” he purrs. 

“I’ve enjoyed this trip. Because of the good food and everyone but a lot of credit goes to you. I know we’ve had our differences but… you’re not that bad!”

You can just imagine his cocky grin plastered on his face. You only scoff at his attempt to compliment you. 

“Yeah, well you’re still a dick.”

He laughs at that. 

“You’re not horrible either, Satoru. That might just be the close proximity speaking.”

“We have a wall in between us. There’s no close proximity at all.”

“Guess you’re right.”

You turn the lights off, getting in position to sleep. 

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you echo back to him. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Turns out, pillows aren’t the best materials for defence. 

In the morning, you somehow land back in the same position as yesterday. Only this time, you’re facing him directly. 

As you stir awake, you’re met with Satoru’s large chest and shoulders. His leg cages around yours which pulls you closer to him. 

When you tilt your head to look at him, his eyes are half-lidded looking down at you. 

“Satoru?”

“Shh, you’re cuter when you’re not talking.”

You grunt in response and close your eyes. It doesn’t seem to hit either of you that you’re cuddled up in each others arms so lovingly. 

“The flight is in a few hours. Get some more sleep,” he slurs out, falling asleep himself. 

“Okay,” you whisper back. 

He pulls you in closer, nuzzling his nose into your hair. 

“Let’s not tell anyone about this,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Definitely.” 

Because Satoru Gojo had been your best friend for nearly your entire life, and until recently, you had never questioned a single thing about it.

You had grown up together. There was no dramatic first meeting, no cute story, no significant moment where your lives collided and changed forever. It simply felt as though Satoru had always existed. He was there in your earliest memories, sitting beside you in classrooms, walking beside you after school, showing up at your house uninvited and immediately making himself comfortable. Somewhere along the way, your lives became so deeply intertwined that neither of you bothered separating them anymore. If somebody needed you, there was a good chance Satoru was nearby. If somebody needed Satoru, they usually called you first. It had been that way for years.

People questioned it all the time. Your friends questioned it. Your parents questioned it. Complete strangers questioned it.

The number of times somebody had mistaken the two of you for a couple had long since become impossible to count. Even now, whenever your friend group went out together, somebody inevitably made a joke about the two of you acting like an old married couple. Nanami was particularly ruthless about it. Shoko was worse because she looked genuinely convinced. Suguru simply enjoyed watching both of you get annoyed.

But you and Satoru always laughed it off. Because they didn’t get it.

They didn’t understand that once you knew somebody for that long, romance almost stopped being an option. Satoru wasn’t some mysterious attractive guy who sat across from you in class. He wasn’t somebody you could fantasize about because there was nothing left to fantasize about. You knew everything. You knew how grumpy he became when he was hungry. You knew he secretly cried at animal documentaries. You knew exactly how many cups of coffee it took before he became unbearably hyperactive. You knew every embarrassing story from his childhood and he knew every embarrassing story from yours.

He was just Satoru.

Your Satoru.

Your best friend.

And for the longest time, that explanation had been enough.

Maybe that was why you never felt particularly interested in dating. It wasn’t that you couldn’t. Men approached you often enough, and there had been a handful of relationships throughout the years. A few dates. A few kisses. A few brief situationships that inevitably fizzled out when you realized you would rather spend your Friday night watching movies with Satoru than entertaining somebody else’s attempts at flirting. Looking back, perhaps that should have told you something. The fact that every person you met eventually felt disappointing. The fact that they all seemed exhausting compared to the ease you felt around him. But you never thought too deeply about it because there was no reason to. Your friendship worked exactly as it was.

Until university. Until suddenly everybody else started noticing him too.

Not that Satoru had changed much. That was the irritating part. He was still the same awkward astrophysics nerd who spent twenty minutes explaining black holes whenever somebody made the mistake of asking a simple question. He still forgot where he left things. Still rambled when he got excited. Still looked genuinely confused whenever somebody flirted with him. Yet somewhere between eighteen and twenty, the rest of the world collectively realized that Satoru Gojo was devastatingly attractive.

You noticed it everywhere.

Girls found reasons to sit beside him during lectures. They stopped him after class. They interrupted your conversations. They laughed too hard at his jokes. They touched his arm when they spoke.

They found increasingly ridiculous excuses to spend time around him.

At first, it was funny. Then it became annoying. Then, somewhere along the way, it became something far uglier. Because every time another girl approached him, something unpleasant twisted inside your chest.

Not jealousy.

You refused to call it jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

Jealousy implied you wanted something. Jealousy implied you had feelings. And you didn’t. You were simply… irritated.

That was all.

Irritated because people constantly interrupted your time together. Irritated because they treated him like some prize to be won. Irritated because none of them actually knew him.

That explanation worked perfectly. At least until the afternoon Satoru casually informed you that he had a date.

The conversation started innocently enough. You were sitting beneath your usual tree after class, discussing weekend plans the way you always did. You had been talking about the new Marvel movie and suggesting that the two of you book tickets before they sold out when Satoru suddenly looked almost guilty. It was such an unusual expression on him that it immediately caught your attention.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

“Satoru.”

A sheepish grin appeared.

And somehow, before he even spoke, dread settled into your stomach. “Oh,” he said. “I’m actually busy tonight.”

The words shouldn’t have mattered. People got busy. People had plans. Satoru was allowed to have a life outside of you. So why did your chest feel strangely hollow?

“Oh?” you replied lightly. “Doing what?”

His grin widened. And then he said it.

“I have a date.”

For one horrifying second, your mind went completely blank.

The words themselves were harmless. Ordinary. The kind of thing people said every day. People went on dates all the time. Your friends went on dates. Strangers went on dates. Satoru, being a twenty-year-old university student who happened to look like he had been sculpted by a particularly generous deity, should have been going on dates far more often than he actually did. There was nothing strange about it.

And yet somehow, the moment the words left his mouth, it felt as though the entire conversation shifted beneath your feet.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Still smiling.

Still completely unaware that something inside you had just cracked. “Oh,” you said finally.

It sounded wrong. Even to your own ears. Satoru’s smile faltered slightly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s… good.”

The silence that followed felt awkward. Nothing had changed. Nothing should have changed. You had known this would happen eventually. Satoru wasn’t going to stay single forever.

He wasn’t going to spend every weekend with you forever. People grew up. People fell in love. People got married and all that shit.

Life goes on.

So why did it suddenly feel like somebody was trying to pull something away from you? “Who is she?” you asked.

The question came out too quickly. Too eagerly. Satoru blinked.

“Huh?”

“The girl.”

“Oh.”

He laughed.

“I met her a little while ago.”

“A little while ago?”

“Yeah.”

Your felt sick. “A little while ago” could mean anything.

A week.

A month.

Long enough for conversations. Long enough for feelings. Long enough for him to decide she was worth taking on a date. And apparently long enough for him not to tell you. The realization struck harder than it should have.

Because that was stupid. Satoru wasn’t required to report every detail of his life to you. You weren’t entitled to that.

Still.

A strange bitterness settled at the back of your throat. “You didn’t tell me.” Satoru looked confused. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Not a big deal.

The words lodged themselves somewhere painfully deep. Not a big deal. For years, you had been the first person he told everything to.

Every stupid achievement. Every embarrassing failure. Every ridiculous story. Every insignificant detail.

There had been days where he texted you simply because he saw a cat that looked funny.

And now there was somebody important enough to go on a date with, and somehow you hadn’t known. You hated how much that hurt.

“So now you’re keeping secrets?” you joked. Or at least you tried to make it sound like a joke. Something flickered across his expression. Was it concern?

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Satoru stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the tree. The concern remained. And somehow that only irritated you more. Because what exactly were you supposed to tell him?

Sorry, Satoru. I’m irrationally upset about a completely normal event and I have absolutely no idea why.

No.

So instead you smiled. The fake kind. The exhausting kind. The kind that made your cheeks hurt and flood bile up your throat. “Seriously,” you said. “Good for you.”

His expression softened. And suddenly guilt punched straight through your chest. Because he looked happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of happy you should have been celebrating as a best friend. The kind of happy that should have made you happy too.

Instead, all you could think about was the image of him sitting across from another girl tonight.

Laughing, smiling, looking at her the way he looked at people he liked. Maybe walking her home afterward. Maybe texting her before bed. Maybe kissing her or having sex…ughh you don’t wanna think about that.

Maybe waking up tomorrow with somebody else occupying the space in his life that had always belonged to you. The thought arrived so suddenly that it stole the air from your lungs. And immediately you hated yourself for it. Because what was wrong with you?

Seriously?

What was wrong with you?

He was your best friend.

Your best friend.

As though some ugly hidden part of you had believed otherwise. You spent the rest of the conversation pretending.

Pretending to listen. Pretending to smile. Pretending that every mention of tonight didn’t feel like a knife being slowly twisted deeper and deeper into your chest.

By the time Satoru finally left, promising he’d tell you how everything went tomorrow, your head was pounding. You watched him walk away. Watched him disappear around the corner. And for the first time in years, the thought of seeing him tomorrow filled you with dread instead of comfort.

Because what if it went well? The question followed you all the way home. What if it went really well? What if she was funny? What if she understood his stupid astrophysics rambles? What if she made him laugh? What if she liked all the little things about him that most people found annoying? What if she became important?

You hope his date goes miserable.