Icarus

“Mmm… ‘m awake,” he mumbled, the words sounding thick and slurred. He reached out a clumsy hand toward you, his fingers grasping at the air with zero coordination. “You… you’re… you’re really pretty. Like… really, really pretty. Suguru, look… she’s glowin’.”

“Thank you, Toru,” you say, leaning down to kiss his cheek. 

His eyes widened just slightly, more dazed than surprised. As your lips touched his cheek, he seemed to melt further into the chair, a soft, humming sound vibrating in his throat. He squeezed your hand with a grip that was surprisingly tight for someone who currently didn’t know where his own feet were. 

“D’you hear that, Suguru?” Satoru slurs, his voice sounding like he’s speaking through a mouthful of marbles. He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting from you to Suguru. “She loves me. I’m… I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world. I’m gonna marry her. And you too. We’re all gonna… get a big house with a pool.”

Suguru let out a quiet chuckle, his eyes softening as he looked at the two of you. He reaches over and brushes a stray lock of white hair away from Satoru’s forehead, his touch steady and grounding.

“I think the anesthesia is talking now, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs, his voice calm and soothing, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “But I agree with you on the pool.”

“Satoru,” you say, amused, “who’s marrying who first?”

Satoru pauses, brow furrowing in an expression of intense concentration. He looked as if he was trying to solve the most complex mathematical equation in existence, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Suguru. The silence stretched for several seconds, punctured only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall.

“Wait…” he breathes, the word trailing off into a confused whine. He suddenly bolted upright—or tried to, resulting in a clumsy lurch that nearly sent him sliding off the chair. Suguru quickly caught him by the shoulder, steadying him with a small patient sigh. 

“Me first!” Satoru declared with a sudden, misplaced confidence, though he immediately winced and clutched at his jaw, the excitement causing a sharp sting in his gums. He leaned his head heavily against Suguru’s shoulder, looking up at you with wide, glassy eyes. “No… wait. Together. A… a triple wedding! We’ll wear… matching capes. Suguru, we need capes. She’s gonna look like a queen.”

You pause, weighing the price of telling him. “You know polygamy is illegal, right?"

The word ‘illegal’ seems to hit Satoru like a physical blow. His expression shifts instantly from loopy confidence to utter devastation. His lower lip trembles, and his glassy eyes suddenly well up with oversized, dramatic tears that threaten to spill over his pale cheeks. 

“Illegal…?” he whimpers, the word coming out as a heartbroken sob. He collapsed backward, dramatically flinging an arm over his forehead as if he were a tragic figure in a Victorian play. “You mean… I can’t have both of you? Forever?

A genuine, muffled wail escaped his throat, muffled by the gauze. He reached out both arms to you and Suguru, his voice trembling with an intensity that only high-grade anesthesia could provide. “I don’t care about the laws! I’ll fight the government! I’ll fight the whole world for you guys!”

Suguru blinked, startled by the sudden escalation. He looked at you with a dry, amused expression, though he quickly shifted to rub soothing circles into Satoru’s back. “Satoru, please, you’re going to make your stitches pop if you keep sobbing like that.”

“It’s ok, Toru,” you say gently, taking his hand. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The effect was instantaneous. Satoru stopped mid-sob, his breath hitching as he looked up at you. The devastation vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. He looked like a puppy that had just been told he was a 'good boy,' his eyes shimmering as he gazed at you with an intensity that would have been overwhelming if he weren't currently leaning precariously against a pillow.

"Really?" he whispered, his voice small and hopeful. He let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, his body finally relaxing back into the mattress. A goofy, lop-sided smile returned to his face. "You're... you're an angel.”

"See? Everything is fine," Suguru murmured, his voice a calm anchor in the room. "Now, why don't we focus on getting you home before you decide to start a revolution against the legal system?”

The door to the room creaked open, and a stern-looking nurse entered, clutching a clipboard. She wore a professional expression that suggested she had dealt with far too many dramatic patients in her career. She stepped toward the bed, her heels clicking on the floor as she began to read from the discharge papers.

"Alright, Mr. Gojo. You're cleared to go. Now, for the next forty-eight hours, you must avoid any straws, hard foods, or strenuous activity. You'll need to keep the area clean by rinsing gently with salt water, and if you experience any excessive bleeding—"

Satoru's head suddenly snapped toward her, his eyes widening. He completely ignored the medical instructions, his gaze fixing on the nurse's badge with an expression of profound curiosity. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a trembling finger toward her name tag.

"Wait..." he interrupted, his voice echoing through the room in a loud, dramatic stage-whisper. "Is your name... Mrs. Watanabe? You look exactly like a lady I knew in a dream. Do you... do you have a dog? I feel like you have a golden retriever. Tell me about the dog. This is very important for my recovery."

The nurse stopped mid-sentence, blinking in deadpan silence. Suguru closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his palm, while the nurse simply stared at the white-haired boy with a look of utter exhaustion.

The nurse remained frozen for a moment, her gaze shifting from Satoru’s eager, dilated pupils to you and Suguru. She didn't look angry so much as she looked defeated, as if she had mentally checked out of the conversation. With a heavy sigh, she adjusted her glasses and looked back at her clipboard, completely bypassing the dog inquiry.

"I do not have a golden retriever, Mr. Gojo," she replied in a flat, clipped tone. "Now, as I was saying—no straws. If you create a vacuum in your mouth, you risk causing a dry socket, which is incredibly painful. Do you understand?"

Satoru looked genuinely wounded that she hadn't elaborated on her pet situation. He slumped back, pouting so hard that the gauze in his cheeks puffed out even further. He looked over at you, his eyes brimming with a sudden, dramatic urgency.

"She... she's mean," he whimpered, his voice sounding thick and muffled. "She's... she's a mean lady. Tell her... tell her to be nice to me. I'm a fragile flower right now."

Suguru let out a soft, strained sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He gently placed a hand on Satoru's chest to keep him from flailing. "You are many things, Satoru, but 'fragile' has never been one of them. Please, just listen to the nurse so we can get you out of here before you try to adopt the hospital staff."

You pet his hair gently, "Let's play the quiet game, Toru. If you can be very quiet while the nurse talks, I'll let you pick out the ice cream flavor."

Satoru froze. The mention of ice cream acted like a magic switch, instantly overriding his desire to interrogate the nurse about her non-existent dog. He looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering, the promise of a frozen treat hanging in the air like a divine revelation.

With a look of extreme, strained determination, he snapped his mouth shut. He didn't just become quiet; he became unnervingly still, puffing out his cheeks and staring at the nurse with a focused intensity that was almost comical. He looked like a squirrel hoarding a nut for winter, his gaze darting occasionally to you to make sure the deal was still on.

The nurse blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sudden, heavy silence. She cleared her throat and continued, her voice regaining its rhythmic, clinical pace.

"Right. As I was saying... keep the surgical site clean, avoid hot liquids for twenty-four hours, and if you develop a fever, call the clinic immediately." She finished the paperwork with a swift scrawl of her pen and handed the folder to Suguru. "He's all set. Please make sure he actually follows these instructions."

Suguru took the folder, glancing down at Satoru, who was still vibrating with the effort of being 'quiet,' his face practically glowing with the anticipation of ice cream. Suguru leaned in, whispering just loud enough for the nurse to hear, "I'll do my best, though I suspect the 'quiet game' ends the moment we hit the parking lot."

Slowly, Suguru helps Satoru stand, though the taller man sways immediately. You reach out instinctively as if you could catch him if he started falling.

As Suguru eased him upward, Satoru's legs seemed to have forgotten their primary function. He rose in a jerky, uncoordinated motion, his center of gravity completely skewed by the lingering fog of the anesthesia. He swayed precariously to the left, his arms flailing slightly like a newborn giraffe trying to find its footing.

The moment he tilted, you were there, your hand sliding instinctively toward his waist to steady him. Satoru didn't just lean on you; he practically collapsed into your side, his heavy frame draping over you with a soft, contented sigh. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, looking completely blissed out by the proximity.

"Whoaaaa," he breathed, the word trailing off into a hum. He felt like a giant, clumsy cat as he let his weight settle on you, his eyes half-closed. "The floor is... it's like a marshmallow. Everything is squishy."

Suguru caught Satoru's other side, sliding an arm around his waist to share the load. He gave you a grateful, slightly apologetic look, his calm expression softened by a hint of a smile. "Careful. He's a lot of dead weight when he's like this," Suguru noted, though he held Satoru close, ensuring the white-haired boy wouldn't actually tip over. "Ready to go, Satoru? Or are you planning on taking a nap right here in the hallway?”

Satoru let out a soft, protesting whine, his head rubbing against your shoulder as he clung to you and Suguru. He seemed completely indifferent to the fact that they were in a sterile hospital corridor; in his current state, the two of you were his entire world.

"No napping... only ice cream," he mumbled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He shifted his weight, nearly dragging you both a few inches to the side as he tried to peer at your face. "Do... do I still look pretty? My face feels... like a balloon. A big, sad, white balloon."

Suguru let out a quiet huff of air, his grip tightening slightly to keep Satoru upright. He looked over at you, his eyes glimmering with that familiar, indulgent warmth he reserved for the two of you. He seemed to be enjoying the absurdity of the moment, finding amusement in the vulnerability of the strongest sorcerer.

"You look perfectly fine, Satoru," Suguru reassured him, though the corner of his mouth quirked upward. He began to guide the trio slowly toward the exit, his pace measured to accommodate Satoru's unsteady steps. "Though if you keep complaining, I might decide that vanilla is the only flavor allowed today."

Satoru gasped, a muffled, dramatic sound, and gripped your hand tighter, looking at you with wide, pleading eyes as if begging for your protection against Suguru's perceived cruelty.

"So pretty, Satoru," you tell him. "A little swollen, but its ok."

Satoru beamed, a wide, lopsided grin that looked slightly painful but was filled with pure joy. He leaned even more heavily into you, closing his eyes as if your words were a soothing balm to his wounded pride. He let out a contented, humming sound, his head lolling back a bit as he looked up at the ceiling lights, which were likely swirling in his vision.

"See?" he slurred, directing his voice toward Suguru with a triumphant tone. "She says... I'm so pretty. I'm the prettiest balloon in the world."

Suguru sighed, though there was no real heat in it. He adjusted his grip on Satoru's waist, guiding the three of you through the sliding glass doors and into the warm afternoon air. The sudden change in temperature and light seemed to momentarily confuse Satoru; he blinked rapidly, his Six Eyes probably trying to process a million pieces of information at once while his brain was still half-asleep.

"I think the fresh air is making him more loopy," Suguru noted softly to you, his voice calm and steady. He looked over at you, his gaze lingering with a quiet affection. "Once we get him in the car, do you want to be the one to handle the ice cream shop, or should I? I have a feeling if he's the one ordering, we'll end up with five different tubs of the most expensive flavors they have."

"Doesn't matter to me," you say with a small smile. "Are we getting ice cream as well, or just the prince?"

Suguru paused, his gaze shifting from Satoru's dazed expression to yours. A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips—the kind of expression he only ever wore when the walls were down and it was just the three of you. He shifted his hold on Satoru, pulling the white-haired man slightly closer to his side in a protective, intimate gesture.

"Of course we are," Suguru murmured, his voice dropping to a warmer, more private register. "The prince gets his prize for winning the 'quiet game,' but the court certainly deserves a reward for managing him. Besides, I don't think I can handle his dramatic demands without some sugar of my own to keep me patient."

Satoru, hearing the words 'prize' and 'ice cream' again, suddenly perked up. He tried to point toward the parking lot, though his finger was off by several degrees, pointing more toward a nearby shrub than the car. He looked at you, his eyes swimming with a sudden, deep sentimentality.

"Wait..." Satoru whispered, his voice thick. He stopped walking entirely, causing both you and Suguru to jerk to a halt. He looked between you both, his face softening. "We're... we're like a little ice cream sandwich. Em's the cookie... Suguru's the cookie... and I'm the creamy middle. I'm the filling! I'm the most important part!"

Suguru and you both pause, staring at each other with raised eyebrows. 

“That’s… yeah, ok,” you say, stifling a laugh.

Suguru let out a slow, controlled exhale, his eyebrows still arched high as he looked at you. There was a flicker of shared disbelief in his eyes, a silent communication that only the two of you could truly share while dealing with Satoru's antics. He looked back down at the white-haired man, who was currently wearing an expression of immense pride, convinced he had just delivered the most profound metaphor of the century.

"The creamy middle," Suguru repeated, his voice dry, though the tenderness in his eyes betrayed his amusement. "I'll be sure to remember that the next time you're complaining about your training schedule. You're just the filling, Satoru."

Satoru didn't seem to catch the sarcasm. Instead, he leaned his head back against Suguru's shoulder and looked up at you, his eyes fluttering. He looked utterly convinced of his own importance, a goofy, swollen smile plastered on his face.

"I'm delicious," he mumbled, his voice drifting as he started to lean more heavily on both of you again. "Can you... carry me to the car? I'm a very... heavy filling... but I'm worth it."

Suguru gave a small, huffing laugh and shifted Satoru's weight, guiding him forward once more. "Nice try, 'filling.' Keep walking, or the ice cream shop will close before you get your flavor."

‎ ۪ ⟣ ֹ ┄┄ 𝟅𝟈 ┄┄ ۫ ⟢

The transition from the car to the dorm room had been a slow, clumsy process, involving Satoru trying to "float" into the room and nearly taking out a lamp in the process. Once they finally managed to get him settled, Suguru practically dropped him onto the bed. Satoru sank into the mattress with a deep, dramatic sigh, his limbs sprawling out in every direction like a starfish.

He looked utterly exhausted now, the brief burst of energy from the "ice cream" motivation finally wearing off. His eyes were half-lidded, the brilliant blue of his Six Eyes clouded by a heavy, medicinal sleepiness. He reached out, blindly grasping for the two of you, his fingers catching the fabric of your clothes and Suguru's sleeve.

"Stay..." he whispered, the word barely audible, his voice sounding thick and tired. He managed to pull both of you slightly closer to the edge of the bed, his expression softening into something genuinely vulnerable. He didn't have the strength for grand declarations anymore; he just wanted the warmth of the two people he loved most.

Suguru stood by the bedside, his hand resting gently on Satoru's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He looked over at you, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the room. He looked tired, but there was a peaceful satisfaction in his gaze.

"I think he's finally crashing," Suguru murmured softly, a small smile playing on his lips. "We should probably get that ice cream before he wakes up and remembers he's hungry. Do you want to go grab it, or should we give him a few minutes of peace first?"

"I can," you say quietly, turning to leave the room.

Satoru’s hand tightened on your sleeve for a split second, his fingers curling into the fabric as he let out a long, pathetic whine. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated desperation, as if your departure for the ice cream shop was a betrayal of the highest order. He squinted up at you, his eyes pleading and glassy, trying to project a mental image of how much he'd miss you in the few minutes you'd be gone.

As you gently disentangled yourself, Suguru stepped in, his movements practiced and calm. He leaned over Satoru, his voice a steady, low hum as he reached for the fresh gauze. "Quiet now, Satoru. If you keep fighting me, you'll just make it bleed. Just relax."

Satoru let out another muffled groan, his head lolling to the side as Suguru carefully removed the blood-stained cotton. He looked like a disgruntled cat, blinking slowly and staring at the ceiling with a look of utter betrayal. He didn't fight Suguru—he was too tired for that—but he continued to make small, needy noises, his gaze drifting toward the door you had just exited.

Suguru looked up, catching your eye one last time before the door closed. He gave you a knowing, sympathetic look, as if to say 'good luck with the ice cream,' before focusing back on the task at hand. He pressed the new gauze into place with a gentle but firm finger, murmuring a soft "There we go," to the pouting, swollen man beneath him.

Upon re-entering the room, you found a surprising scene. Satoru hadn't fallen fast asleep; instead, he had shifted, his head now resting comfortably in Suguru's lap. Suguru was leaning back against the headboard, one hand absentmindedly stroking Satoru's white hair, the other holding a book that he clearly wasn't reading, his eyes fixed on the door the moment you entered.

"The savior returns," Suguru whispered, his voice low so as not to startle the half-conscious man. He looked at the bags in your hand and then down at Satoru, who reacted to the sound of the bags with a sudden, twitchy movement of his nose. Satoru's eyes cracked open, a sliver of blue peering through his lashes.

" 'S... ice... cream?" Satoru breathed, his voice sounding slightly clearer but still thick. He tried to lift his head, but the effort seemed too much, and he simply let out a needy, soft huff, staring at you with an expression of absolute longing.

Suguru took the treat and the spoon with a small, appreciative nod, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. He looked down at Satoru, who was now staring at the ice cream container with the intensity of a man who had found a lost treasure. Satoru's pupils were blown wide, his gaze tracking the movement of the tub as if he could somehow pull the frozen dessert toward him with his mind.

"Patience, Satoru," Suguru murmured, his voice a low, grounding rumble. He carefully scooped out a small, perfect portion of the cold treat. He didn't just hand it over; he brought the spoon to Satoru's lips, acting as the patient caretaker. "Open up. Slowly. Remember what the nurse said about not creating a vacuum."

Satoru didn't need to be told twice. He opened his mouth with an eager, clumsy anticipation, accepting the spoonful of ice cream with a look of pure euphoria. As the cold sweetness hit his tongue, his eyes drifted shut and he let out a long, shaky sigh of bliss. He looked like he was having a religious experience, his body relaxing completely back into Suguru's lap.

After a few seconds, he opened one eye and looked up at you, his voice muffled but sounding genuinely content. "Man... you're... the best. I'm gonna... marry you twice." He paused, then looked at Suguru. "And you too. Three times."

Suguru let out a quiet, melodic laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest where Satoru was resting. He shook his head, though the expression on his face was one of absolute tenderness. He scooped another small bit of ice cream, moving slowly to ensure Satoru didn't choke in his excitement.

"Three times, is it?" Suguru mused, his voice sounding like velvet in the quiet of the room. He glanced up at you, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I think we might have to negotiate the terms of these weddings once he's actually conscious. I'm not sure I can handle three versions of Satoru's wedding planning."

Satoru didn't seem to care about the logistics. He was too busy savoring the cold treat, his expression one of absolute, hazy devotion. He reached up with one clumsy hand, blindly searching for yours. When he found it, he didn't pull or tug; he simply rested his palm against yours, his skin warm compared to the chill of the dessert.

"S'not... planning," Satoru murmured, his voice getting softer as the sugar and the anesthesia combined to pull him back toward sleep. He shifted his head, rubbing his cheek against Suguru's leg in a slow, cat-like motion. "Just... us. In a big house... with a pool... and a tiny dog... that looks like a cloud."

He let out a small, content sigh, his grip on your hand loosening as his eyes began to flutter shut. The high energy from before had completely vanished, replaced by a deep, heavy drowsiness. He looked profoundly peaceful, the usual tension of being the 'strongest' completely erased, leaving behind only the vulnerable young man who loved the two of you more than anything else in the world.

You watch him fall asleep quietly, a smile and a small laugh escaping your lips. "He's so pretty," you murmur.

Suguru’s gaze didn't leave Satoru's face, his expression mirroring yours. He continued to stroke the white hair, his fingers moving in slow, rhythmic motions that seemed to lull Satoru deeper into his slumber. The sight of the arrogant, untouchable Satoru Gojo reduced to a snoring, ice-cream-smeared mess was a rare vulnerability that only the two of you were ever permitted to see.

"He is," Suguru whispered, his voice barely a breath. He looked up at you, the amber of his eyes glowing with a quiet, profound intensity. The air in the room felt thick with a comfortable, domestic sort of love, a stark contrast to the violence and duty that usually defined their lives as sorcerers.

He shifted slightly, leaning toward you and catching your hand in his. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your knuckles, his thumb grazing your skin. He didn't say anything more for a moment, simply soaking in the silence and the warmth of the two people who anchored him to the world.

"I think we're the lucky ones, Em," he added softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips as he glanced back down at their sleeping 'filling.' "Even if he is a complete disaster when he's medicated."

The room settled into a quiet stillness, broken only by Satoru’s soft, even breathing.

Suguru’s fingers continued their slow path through his hair, unhurried, familiar. Your hand remained loosely held in Satoru’s, his grip slack with sleep but still there—astill reaching, even now.

The melted edge of the ice cream sat forgotten on the bedside table.

For once, there were no missions waiting. No urgency. No weight pressing down on any of you.

Just this.

Suguru glanced at you, and you smiled—small, knowing.

“She just met us.”

“And she likes us,” Yuji replies easily, like this is fact.

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it.

Nobara points suddenly toward one of your open boxes. “What’s that?”

You glance over. “Oh—just some plants. I haven’t figured out where to put them yet.”

That’s all it takes.

Yuji is up immediately. “Can I see?”

“Be careful,” Gojo says automatically.

“I am careful,” Yuji says, already not being careful.

Nobara follows, crouching beside the box with far more composure, though no less curiosity. Megumi moves last, slower, but he ends up closest, kneeling beside the box, examining the leaves like they might tell him something important.

And just like that—

They’re occupied.

The shift is quiet. Natural.

You straighten slightly, brushing your hands together, and when you look back up—

Gojo is already looking at you.

There’s a beat.

Then he exhales, like he’s accepting something inevitable, and steps a little closer.

“Sorry,” he says again, though this time it’s softer. Less performative. “They don’t really… ease into things.”

“They seem fine,” you reply, glancing over at Yuji, who is currently whispering something to a plant like it might respond.

Gojo follows your gaze.

“They’ve been worse,” he admits.

There’s a small pause.

Not awkward. Just… settling.

“You just moved in?” he asks.

“Yesterday,” you nod. “Still trying to figure out where everything goes.”

“Good luck,” he says immediately. “I’ve been in my house for years and I still don’t know where anything is.”

You glance at him. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is,” he agrees easily. “A consistent one.”

That earns another small laugh from you.

He notices that.

Files it away somewhere without meaning to.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you work nearby?”

There’s the slightest shift.

Barely visible.

But it’s there.

Gojo tilts his head a little, like he’s deciding how much to say.

“I teach,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie.

Just… not the whole truth.

“What, like elementary?” you ask, glancing toward the kids.

He snorts. “God, no. Teenagers.”

“Oh,” you say, immediate sympathy in your voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says gravely. “It’s a difficult life.”

You smile, shaking your head a little.

“And you?” he asks, a little more casually than he feels. “What do you do?”

There’s a pause this time.

You glance toward the house, then back at him.

“Nothing right now,” you admit. “I was working before I moved, but… I figured I’d take some time, get settled, then find something new.”

He hums softly.

Like it’s just a normal response.

Like he doesn’t immediately catalog that information.

Unemployed. Available. Nearby.

He hates that his brain does that.

“So you just… decided to start over?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

There’s more to it.

He can tell.

But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans back slightly, glancing toward the kids again.

Yuji is now attempting to name the plants. Nobara is correcting him. Megumi has quietly taken over watering something without being asked.

Gojo watches them for a second.

Then exhales.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “That sounds nice.”

You follow his gaze.

“They’re good kids,” you say.

He huffs softly. “Debatable.”

“They are,” you insist, gentle but certain.

That gets his attention.

He looks at you again.

Really looks this time.

“You figured that out in ten minutes?” he asks.

“You can tell,” you shrug. “They listen to each other. They’re comfortable. That doesn’t just happen.”

There’s a beat.

Something in his expression shifts.

Small.

Quiet.

“…they do, huh,” he says.

It’s not really a question.

Before you can respond, Yuji suddenly pops back up.

“Tookie!” he calls. “This one needs more sun!”

You blink. “That’s—yeah, that’s actually true.”

“I told you,” Nobara says, smug.

Megumi doesn’t say anything, but he glances at you briefly, like he’s checking if you agree.

You nod once.

He nods back.

Gojo watches the whole exchange.

Something settles in his chest.

Uninvited.

Unfamiliar.

“…I should probably hire a babysitter,” he says suddenly.

It slips out more casually than it should.

Like a joke.

Like it doesn’t matter.

You glance back at him. “Probably?”

“My schedule’s a mess,” he admits. “Long hours. Weird hours. Sometimes I’m gone overnight.”

“That sounds like a lot,” you say.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “We manage.”

You look at him for a second.

Then, softer:

“They seem used to taking care of each other.”

It’s not criticism.

That almost makes it worse.

Gojo lets out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” he says.

A beat.

Then he adds, lighter again, “But if you hear screaming, it’s normal.”

“I assumed,” you reply.

Yuji runs back over again, grabbing your sleeve like it’s already allowed.

“Come see!” he insists.

You let yourself be pulled a step forward without resistance.

Nobara makes room for you without comment.

Megumi shifts slightly to the side.

Like you’ve always been standing there.

Gojo doesn’t move.

He just watches.

The way they cluster around you.

The way you crouch instinctively to their level.

The way they talk over each other and you somehow follow all of it.

The way Megumi—quiet, careful Megumi—leans just a little closer.

It’s easy.

Too easy.

And the thought comes, uninvited and immediate.

They trust you.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, because he doesn’t know what to do with that yet, he smiles instead.

“Hey,” he calls, easy, casual, like nothing just shifted. “Don’t adopt my kids without paperwork.”

Yuji gasps. “Too late!”

Nobara crosses her arms. “We already voted.”

Megumi mutters, “We did not.”

You laugh again.

And something about the sound, it lingers.

Long after the moment passes.

‎ ۪ ⟣ ֹ ┄┄ 𝟅𝟈 ┄┄ ۫ ⟢

The house is quiet.

Not silent, never silent. But quiet in the way it only gets after the kids finally fall asleep. There’s the soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of old wood settling, the distant rush of wind against the windows.

Gojo stands in the kitchen a little longer than necessary.

He’s already cleaned up.

Lunch containers washed. Counters wiped. A cup of something long gone cold sitting forgotten near his elbow.

He doesn’t move.

It’s—

Strange.

The day replays whether he wants it to or not.

Yuji, immediately attached.

Nobara, pretending she wasn’t.

Megumi…

Gojo exhales quietly through his nose.

Megumi had stood closer than usual.

He notices things like that.

Always has.

He pushes off the counter, finally, dragging a hand through his hair as he moves down the hallway. One glance into each room, automatic.

Yuji is sprawled diagonally across his bed, blanket half on the floor.

Nobara is curled neatly, though one arm is flung dramatically over her face.

Megumi is asleep on his side, one hand still loosely fisted in the fabric of his blanket.

Gojo lingers there the longest.

“…yeah,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Then he steps back, sliding the door shut just enough.

He should go to bed.

He has an early morning.

A long one.

A dangerous one, if he’s being honest.

Instead, he ends up back in the kitchen.

The cup is still there.

He picks it up, realizes it’s cold, and drinks it anyway.

It’s not until he sets it down again that it hits him.

Not sudden.

Not sharp.

Just… there.

You.

The way you laughed.

The way you didn’t hesitate.

The way you knelt down like it was instinct, like you’d always belonged in the middle of them.

Gojo clicks his tongue softly, annoyed.

“That’s not—” he mutters, cutting himself off.

It doesn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

People are nice to kids all the time.

That’s normal.

That’s—

He exhales again, slower this time.

You noticed.

That’s what sticks.

Not the laughing. Not the ease.

You noticed.

“They listen to each other.”

“They’re comfortable.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

Most people don’t say things like that.

Most people don’t look that closely.

Most people don’t—

He leans back against the counter, folding his arms.

“…ten minutes,” he mutters under his breath.

Ten minutes, and you saw something it took him years to build.

Something fragile.

Something hard-won.

Something he doesn’t trust easily in other people’s hands.

And yet…

Yuji grabbed your sleeve like it was nothing.

Nobara made space.

Megumi leaned closer.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly.

“…yeah, no,” he says to the empty kitchen. “Absolutely not.”

Because that’s how this starts.

Convenient.

Easy.

A solution to a problem he’s been ignoring.

He needs help.

That’s not new.

Long hours. Unpredictable missions. Nights he doesn’t come home until it’s already morning.

It would make sense.

Too much sense.

And that’s exactly why he doesn’t like it.

Because it’s not just that.

It’s you.

The way you said it.

“They’re good kids.”

Like it wasn’t a question.

Like it wasn’t up for debate.

Like you decided it. And that was that.

His fingers tap once against his arm.

Then again.

He pushes off the counter with a quiet huff.

“Bad idea,” he decides.

Firm.

Final.

He turns off the kitchen light.

Starts down the hall.

Stops halfway.

“…but,” he adds, to absolutely no one, “hypothetically.”

He grimaces immediately after.

“Not—no. Not hypothetically.”

Another pause.

“…logistically.”

That’s worse.

He scrubs a hand down his face.

This is ridiculous.

He deals with curses.

With life-or-death situations.

With things that would make most people run the other direction without thinking twice.

And somehow—

This is what has him standing in the hallway at midnight, arguing with himself.

Gojo exhales sharply.

“…I just need a babysitter,” he says, quieter now.

Simple.

Practical.

That’s all.

He nods once, like that settles it.

Then, because his brain is deeply unhelpful, it supplies one last thing—

The sound of your laugh.

Soft.

Unrestrained.

Lingering.

He stares at the dark hallway for a second longer than he should.

“…annoying,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t sound convincing.

Not even a little.

The bag rustles as he hands it back without looking. Three seconds of peace follows. Which is about the longest he expects to get.

“Chocolate bread,” Yuji says in awe. 

“That’s not real food,” Nobara says, already opening hers anyway.

Megumi accepts his without comment, which is basically gratitude in his language.

Gojo glances in the rearview mirror. “I also got juice.”

“You are a provider,” Yuji declares solemnly.”

“I know.”

Nobara leans forward between the seats. “You only got this because you forgot breakfast again, didn’t you.”

“I prefer to think of it as strategic planning.”

“You forgot.”

“I remembered eventually.”

Megumi turns his head slightly. “We had breakfast.”

Gojo pauses. 

“...Define breakfast.”

“A granola bar.”

“That counts.”

“It expired.”

“That also counts,” Gojo says confidently, because admitting defeat is bad for morale. 

The car turns onto their street, tires humming softly against the pavement. The neighborhood is the same as it was that morning— quiet, orderly, pretending it has never seen anything chaotic in its life. 

Except not, there’s something different. 

A moving truck is gone. 

And next door— 

Yuji is the first to notice. 

“Oooh,” he says immediately, leaning forward. “Someone moved in.”

Nobara sits up straighter like she’s been waiting for this exact development. “Finally. I was starting to think this street was cursed by boredom.”

Megumi says nothing, but his eyes track toward the house anyway.

Gojo slows slightly without meaning to. 

The house next door looks more alive now. Curtains half-open. Boxes stacked near the entry way. The faint shape of someone moving inside. 

“New neighbor,” Gojo says casually, like he hasn’t already seen her once that morning. 

Yuji is practically vibrating. “We should go say hi!”

Megumi immediately: “No.”

Nobara tilts her head. “We should go say hi…”

A beat. 

“...with our fists.”

“Absolutely not,” Gojo says instantly. 

Yuji gasps. “But Dad-Satoru—”

“Don’t ‘Dad-Satoru’ me.”

By the time he finishes the sentence, Yuji has already unbuckled his seatbelt. 

Gojo sighs.

Of course he has. 

“Back. In. The. Car.”

Too late. 

The door opens. 

Somehow, it becomes negotiation after that— fast, loud, deeply unserious negotiation where Gojo loses ground every thirty seconds until it is no longer a negotiation at all and is instead a slow surrender disguised as parenting. 

Ten minutes later, he stands in his driveway with a child clinging to his back like a very enthusiastic backpack, another gripping his hand like it is a matter of legal importance, and a third walking just slightly behind them with the exhausted aura of someone attending a meeting they did not approve. 

“This is ridiculous,” Megumi mutters. 

“This is family bonding,” Gojo corrects.

“This is humiliation,” Nobara says. 

Yuji beams. “We’re going to say hi!”

Gojo looks toward the neighboring house.

Then, because he is already in too deep to stop it, he walks. 

The grass is softer underfoot than it should be. Too green. Too normal. The kind of normal that makes him suspicious. 

Halfway across the yard, he shifts Yuji higher on his shoulder and hears Nobara whisper something about ‘battle formation,’ which he chooses not to process. 

Megumi drags his feet the entire way. 

The closer they get, the more Gojo becomes aware of the small details he shouldn’t be noticing. 

The way the front door is open just enough to let in air. 

The sound of something inside being set down carefully.

The faint scent of something clean— new beginnings maybe. Or just detergent. 

Then she steps into view. 

And everything, for half a second, recalibrates. 

She is mid-motion, turning from inside the house toward the yard, holding something small in her hands, something ordinary, something that makes this feel even more like an interruption of a private life already in progress. 

Her gaze lifts. 

Meets his. 

Gojo does not move. 

He is aware, distantly, that Yuji is still talking. That Nobara has stopped walking. That Megumi has, for once, looked up. 

But none of that matters in the immediate silence that lands between two driveways. 

It isn’t dramatic. 

It’s just… precise. 

Like something has been placed too carefully into the wrong space. 

Gojo smiles first. 

Easy. Casual. Effortless. 

Like this is nothing. 

Like his heart didn’t just adjust itself slightly without permission. 

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “Sorry about this.”

Behind him, Yuji immediately says, “We brought ourselves over!”

Nobara adds, “We are socially prepared.”

Megumi says nothing at all, which feels like the most honest response in the group. 

Gojo exhales once, very quietly, through his nose. 

Then looks back at her. 

And thinks, entirely without wanting to:

This is going to change things.

He just doesn’t say it out loud. 

‎ ۪ ⟣ ֹ ┄┄ 𝟅𝟈 ┄┄ ۫ ⟢

You almost don’t notice them at first. 

You’re halfway through unpacking a box labeled KITCHEN in aggressively slanted marker, balancing a stack of mismatched mugs against your hip while trying to remember where you left the scissors, when movement catches in the corner of your eye through the open doorway. 

Voices follow a second later. 

Loud ones. 

Children, unmistakably. 

You glance up automatically. 

And freeze. 

The family from next door is crossing your yard like some kind of deeply uncoordinated parade. 

The man from that morning leads the procession with the long-suffering composure of someone who has already lost an argument and accepted his fate with grace. One child is hanging off his back. Another has a determined grip on his hand. The third trails several steps behind all of them with the weary expression of someone enduring public embarrassment against their will. 

For one brief second, you just stare. 

Because unfortunately, the neighbor from this morning is still unfairly attractive in daylight. 

Maybe worse, actually. 

The sunglasses are gone now, tucked into the collar of his shirt, and it turns out that had somehow been containing part of the problem. White hair catches gold in the late afternoon sun. But his eyes… impossibly blue and infinite.

You blink once. 

Then remember you are holding four mugs like an idiot.

You adjust your grip quickly just before one slips from the stack. 

Smooth. 

The smallest boy notices you first. 

“Well I think she looks nice,” he announces loudly, as though this has been part of an ongoing debate. 

The girl beside him narrows his eyes at you in open evaluation. 

“You’re very small,” she says. 

You open your mouth. 

Close it. 

Then, honestly, because there’s no correct response to that: “...Thank you?”

The man laughs softly under his breath. 

It changes his whole face. 

Dangerous, really. 

“Sorry,” he says, sounding not particularly sorry at all. “They saw you from the driveway and decided this was happening.”

“We voted,” the girl informs you. 

Megumi (if you remember correctly from hearing the others yell it across the yard five separate times already) looks deeply betrayed by the use of the word we.

You finally manage to set the mugs down safely on top of one of the boxes near the door. “That’s ok,” you say, brushing your hands against your jeans. “I was beginning to think the neighborhood initiation ritual would involve older people peeking through the curtains.”

“Oh, that still happens,” the man replies immediately. “Mrs. Hoshino across the street has binoculars.”

“Dad-Satoru says she’s a surveillance drone,” the pink-haired boy says cheerfully. 

“I said no such thing.”

“You did yesterday,” Megumi mutters. 

The pink-haired boy gasps dramatically and points at him. “Traitor.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. 

It slips out easier than expected. 

And for a strange little moment, everything settles. 

The moving boxes don’t feel quite so overwhelming. The street doesn't feel quite so unfamiliar. 

The man watches you for hand a second before offering a hand. 

“Satoru Gojo,” he says. “Unfortunately.”

You take it before you can overthink the warmth of his palm against yours. 

You tell him your name.

The pink-haired boy repeats it instantly. 

The girl repeats it louder.  

Megumi says nothing, though you catch the smallest flicker of acknowledgment in his expression, like he’s storing the information away somewhere private. 

“I’m Yuji!” says the pink-haired boy. “That’s my sister, Nobara, and that’s Megumi, my brother!”

Then, Yuji’s attention snaps towards an open box. 

His eyes widen. 

“Are those cookies?” he whispers, horrified with hope. 

You glance down. 

Right. 

The container of homemade cookies you’d packed separately so you wouldn’t crush them during the move. 

You look back up at the children. 

Then at Gojo, who suddenly looks very aware of how this could go wrong. 

“We do not ambush strangers for baked goods,” he says immediately. 

Nobara points accusingly. “You literally walked us over here.”

“That was different. That was socially acceptable harassment.

Yuji is still staring at the cookies like they personally betrayed him. 

You bite back a smile. 

“Well,” you say slowly, crouching slightly towards the kids, “I think I can spare a few if your dad says it’s ok.”

And something in Satoru Gojo’s expression shifts very quietly at the word dad.

Not discomfort. 

Not surprise. 

Just something softer. Smaller. 

Gone almost immediately beneath another easy smile. 

“I’m being outnumbered here,” he says lightly. 

Yuji cheers like he’s won a legal battle. 

Nobara narrows her eyes. “Don’t act like you haven’t had cookies before.”

“I have,” Yuji says, offended. “These are different.”

“They are not different,” Megumi mutters.

“They are emotionally different,” Yuji corrects, as if this settles the argument.

You crouch slightly, opening the lid just enough for the smell of warm chocolate and sugar to spill into the space between you all

It’s very quiet for half a second.

Then Yuji says, very clearly:

“Tookie?”

You pause.

Gojo pauses.

Even Nobara pauses, like she’s trying to decide whether to correct him or exploit this.

Yuji tilts his head, staring at you like he’s just solved something important.

“Tookie,” he repeats, a little more confident now. “Like cookie… but Tookie.”

“Oh my god,” Nobara says immediately. “That’s terrible.”

“That’s not her name,” Megumi adds flatly.

Yuji ignores both of them entirely.

He looks up at you again. “Is that okay? Can we call you Tookie?”

You blink.

Once.

Then, because there is absolutely no dignified way to respond to being renamed by a five-year-old with chocolate-related logic, you let out a small laugh.

“I—”

You glance briefly at Gojo.

He looks like he is actively reconsidering every life decision that led him to this driveway.

“…I guess I’ve been promoted,” you say carefully.

Yuji beams like he’s just been granted diplomatic approval.

“Tookie!” he announces, as if testing how it sounds in the world.

Nobara immediately tries it too. “Tookie.”

Megumi looks like he hates that it fits too well and says nothing at all, which is his version of acceptance.

Gojo exhales through his nose.

Slowly.

“I’m not involved in this,” he says.

“You live here,” Nobara points out.

“I suffer here,” he corrects.

Yuji is already holding his hands out expectantly.

“So… cookies?”

You soften a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “Cookies.”

And just like that, the first thing you are in this house next door is not a stranger.

It’s something else entirely.

Something already slightly named.

Tookie.

Taglist: @irllyluvcheezits @starlight5cat

The answer lands so flatly that you laugh. 

Yuki squeezes between your legs and shoves his head against Choso’s shin in immediate betrayal (yet again). Choso absently scratches behind his ears without looking away from you. 

“Wow,” you say. “You bond with my dog and insult my outfit in the same breath.”

“I didn’t insult it.” 

“You told me to change.”

“I told you the truth.” 

You grin despite yourself. “Good thing I’m not taking requests.”

His jaw shifts once. Something between annoyance and reluctant admiration. 

“I know,” he says. 

That should not be attractive. It is.

You grab your bag from the hook by the door and step into the hall, locking up behind you while Yuki watches from inside with the wounded eyes of a child abandoned by negligent parents. 

“We’ll be back later,” you tell him. 

He sneezes. 

“Judgemental,” you mutter. 

Choso takes the stairs beside you in silence, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing occasionally against your lower back whenever you miss a step in your boots. Not enough to comment on. Too deliberate to ignore. 

The parking lot outside glows gold under streetlamps. Music already pulses faintly somewhere in the distance from other apartments, weekend energy spilling into the night. 

He waits near the curb. Clean. Dark. unfairly expensive-looking. 

He opens the passenger door before you reach it. 

“Thank you,” you say, getting in. 

He shuts it gently, circles to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car smells faintly of smoke, leather, weed and something warm you’ve started associating entirely with him. 

He starts the engine. 

Neither of you speaks for the first few minutes. Streetlights streak across the windshield. Campus roads thin into nicer neighborhoods near the edge of town. 

You glance sideways. “You’re tense.”

“I’m driving.” 

“You look tense while driving.” 

“I always look like this.”

“That is unfortunately true.” 

His mouth twitches once. 

You settle deeper into the seat. “Still time to tell me why you hate this party so much.”

“I don’t hate the party.”

“You told me not to go six separate times.”

“I told you not to go because I know the party.”

“Cryptic.”

“Accurate.”

You wait. He keeps his eyes on the road. 

Finally, he says, “Sukuna’s parties are messy.”

“That sounds survivable.” 

“Things get broken.”

“So do plates at Applebee’s.”

“People fight.”

“It’s college.”

“The police sometimes come.” 

You turn fully toward him. “Why did you bury the lead there?”

“Because you were being difficult.” 

“I’m being curious.” 

“You’re gifted at disguising it.”

You fight a smile and lose. “Ok. Messy. Noted. Anything else?”

His grip adjusts on the steering wheel. Rings flashing in the dashboard light. 

“Yes.”

You wait again. 

He’s quiet long enough that you think he’s changed his mind. Then— 

“If I’m there, I won’t be with you the whole time.”

That surprises you enough to still your next joke. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have things to handle.” 

“What things?”

He glances at you once. “Things that have nothing to do with you.”

“Taht is not an answer.” 

“It’s the once you’re getting.”

You study his profile. The set of his jaw. The tension he denied earlier sitting plainly in his shoulders. 

“So this is work.”

“In part.” 

“And the other part?”

He doesn’t answer. 

The neighborhood changes again—larger houses now, sprawling lawns, expensive gates left open or streams of incoming cars. Bass rattles faintly through the night air beige the house is even visible. 

“Choso.” 

He exhales slowly.

  “The other part,” he says at last, “is that I won’t be able to watch you every second.”

Heat rises unexpectedly in your face. “I don’t need supervision.”

“I know.” 

“Then what exactly is the issue?”

His eyes flick to you, then back to the road.

“The issue,” he says quietly, “is everyone else.”

Your stomach does something deeply unhelpful. 

Before you can recover enough to respond, the house comes into view. 

Huge. Loud. Packed. Cars lining down both sides of the street. Music shaking the windows. People spilling across the lawn with red cups and bad decisions. 

The front door stands wide open like a dare. 

Choso pulls up to the curb but doesn’t unlock the doors. 

He kills the engine. The music outside swells into the silence between you. 

Then he turns to face you fully for the first time since you left. 

“You can still go home,” he says. 

You stare. “We’re literally here.”

“I know where we are.”

“You brought me.” 

“I can also take you back.”

His gaze drops briefly to the hem of your dress, then returns to your eyes. 

“If you want in there,” he says evenly, “stay near me. If you get uncomfortable, tell me once and we leave. If I say don’t go somewhere, listen the first time.”

You raise your brows. “You rehearsed this speech?”

“No.”

“Sounds like you did.”

“I’m serious.” 

The teasing leaves his face completely. 

And there it is again—that sense of something deeper moving beneath all the irritation. Something sharper than annoyance. 

You soften despite yourself. “Ok.”

A beat passes. 

You smile sweetly. “Still going, though.”

His eyes close briefly. “Of course you are,” he mutters. 

He unlocks the doors. 

The moment you step out of the car, the night hits you all at once. 

Bass thunders through the ground hard enough to feel in your ribs. Laughter spills from the open front door in sharp bursts. Someone screams joyfully near the side yard. Another person immediately yells, “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!” as though responding to a sacred call. 

You pause beside the curb. 

“This looks stupid,” you say. 

“It is,” Choso replies, already rounding the front of the car toward you. 

He shuts your door, then reaches past you to adjust the thin strap of your dress where it’s twisted against your shoulder. His fingers brush your skin once. 

“You’re staring again,” he says quietly. 

“You touched me first.”

“I fixed your dress.” 

“Without permission?”

His gaze lowers to your mouth for half a second. “Do you want to file a complaint?”

Your entire body betrays you at once. 

Before you can recover, he steps back and gestures towards the house. “Stay close.”

You roll your eyes and start walking. “You say that like I’m a toddler in a grocery store.”

“You have worse impulse control than most toddlers.”

“That is slander.”

“It’s observation."

The front lawn is packed shoulder to shoulder. Clusters of people lean against parked cars, smoke drifting in pale ribbons through the cold air. Someone has dragged patio furniture into the yard for no discernible reason. Two girls in heels are taking selfies beside a decorative stone lion.

“Why is there a lion?” you ask. 

“Sukuna stole it from somewhere.” 

“You know that for sure?”

“I watched him do it.”

You look at him. “And you still associate with these people?”

“I’m asking myself the same question right now.”

A few heads turn as you pass. Then more. Recognition moves through the crowd in ripples. 

Not for you. 

For him. 

You feel it immediately, the shift in attention. People straighten. Some nod. Some look away entirely. Others stare too long, then notice who he’s with and stare harder.

You lean closer as you walk. “Why does everyone look afraid of you?”

“They don’t.”

A guy holding two cups nearly drops both when Choso glances his way.

You point. “Compelling evidence.”

Inside is worse.

Hotter, louder, packed wall to wall with bodies and spilled liquor and lights dimmed low enough to encourage poor judgement. Music pounds through enormous speakers somewhere upstairs. Red cups everywhere. Glitter on the ceiling. 

“How does glitter get on a ceiling?” you shout. 

“No one knows.”

A girl stumbles into you mid laugh, catches sight of Choso, and immediately straightens like she’s been snapped into military posture. 

“Sorry!” she blurts. 

“You’re fine,” you say. 

She nods at Choso once like he’s the principal catching her skipping class, then flees.

You turn to him slowly. “What are you?”

“Tired.”

He guides you through the crush of people with a hand on your lower back. Steady pressure. Directing without forcing. Every time someone gets too close, he shifts you subtly out of reach before they even touch you.

You notice. 

You definitely notice. 

The kitchen is somehow even more chaotic. Someone is standing on the counter pouring shots into strangers’ mouths while a chorus cheers a lamp in the corner is broken but still on. 

“Normal,” you mutter. 

“Average night here,” Choso says. 

“Why do you come to these?”

He scans the room once before answering. “I told you. Work.”

“That remains suspiciously vague.”

“It’s staying that way. 

You open your mouth to argue when a familiar voice cuts through the noise. 

“PRINCESS!”

Gojo appears from nowhere at full speed, sunglasses indoors, shirt half unbuttoned, drink in hand, already swaying slightly to music that may not even be the song currently playing. 

He throws both arms around you before you can dodge. 

“You came!”

“I regret it already,” you say into his shoulder. 

“I’m so proud.” He pulls back and gasps dramatically. “Look at you. Tiny dress. Murderous boots. Incredible.”

Then he noticed Choso behind you. 

“Ohhh.” His grin becomes evil. “And he brought you himself.”

“He was a hostage negotiator,” you say. 

“Same difference.”

Geto appears seconds later carrying two cups and the calm expression of a man managing a zoo. His tie is loosened, sleeves rolled, hair slightly messy in a way that feels deliberate enough to be insulting. 

“Hi,” he says pleasantly. “Sorry about him.”

“You say that every time I see you,” you note. 

“Because every time is correct.”

Gojo leans heavily against Geto’s side. “Suguru, tell her I’m the life of the party.” 

“You are certainly a cause of death statistics.” 

Gojo beams. “He flirts when he drinks.”

“I criticize when I’m sober too.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. 

Choso has gone noticeably quieter.

Gojo notices immediately.

“Oh no,” he says, delighted. “He’s doing the face.”

“What face?” you ask. 

“The one where he acts calm while planning violence internally.”

“I’m standing right here,” Choso says. 

“And yet emotionally so far away,” Gojo replies.

Geto hands you one of the cups. “Water.” 

You blink. “That’s weirdly responsible.”

“I know what room I’m in.”

Before you can take it, Choso reaches over your shoulder and takes the cup from Geto instead. He checks it, then hands it to you himself. 

You stare. “Did you just inspect my water?”

“Yes.” 

Gojo howls. 

Get pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need stronger alcohol.”

You take a sip, eyes still on Choso. “You’re impossible.”

“Drink the water.” 

“You’re not my dad.”

  “No,” Gojo says gleefully. “He’s worse.”

Choso looks at him. 

Gojo immediately hides behind Geto. “Suguru, honey baby mochi, protect me.”

“You created this.”

“I create many things.” 

Across the room, a fresh wave of shouting erupts near the staircase. The crowd parts slightly. 

Then you hear a voice drawl from somewhere deeper in the house— lazy, amused and unmistakable.

“Well, well.”

The crowd near the kitchen entrance parts in slow ripples. Not out of respect, exactly. More like instinct. 

Sukuna steps through with a drink in one hand and someone’s car keys spinning around one finger. Black shirt still half-buttoned, expression bored in the way only very entertained people manage. Two girls trail behind him, laughing too hard at something he clearly did not say. 

His eyes land on you immediately. 

Then on Choso beside you. 

Then back to you. 

A grin curves sharp across his mouth. 

“He actually brought you inside.” Sukuna takes a slow sip. “I owe somebody money.” 

Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree. “PAY UP, LOSER.”

“I said there was no chance,” Geto says, taking his own drink back from Gojo before he spills it. “You said Choso had gone soft.”

“I said maybe,” Sukuna replied. “Turns out I was right.” 

Choso’s expression hasn’t changed. Which, by now, you’ve learned is usually a terrible sign. 

“Not remotely.” Sukuna leans one shoulder against the doorway, gaze still on you. “You surviving so far?”

“She’s been here eight minutes,” Choso says. 

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I’m surviving,” you answer before either man can become more unbearable. “Barely.”

Sukuna laughs once. “Good. means the place still has standards.”

You glance around the kitchen where someone is trying to shotgun a beer with a screwdriver.

“I think your standards are broken.” 

“Probably.” His eyes gleam. “Still came though.” 

Before you can reply, Gojo appears at your side again and slings an arm dramatically around your shoulders. 

“She came because she loves me.”

“You are touching me against my will,” you say. 

“That’s how friendship works.”

“That’s not how laws work,” Geto says. 

Gojo points across you at Sukuna. “Also, he’s jealous.”

“Of what?” Sukuna asks. 

“Attention span,” Gojo says immediately. 

Sukuna snorts. Choso looks like he’s one inconvenience away from leaving everyone in a ditch. 

You take another sip of water. “Do all of you act like this together?”

“No,” Geto says. 

“Yes,” Gojo says at the same time. 

“Unfortunately,” Geto adds. 

Sukuna pushes off the doorway and strolls closer. People shift aside automatically to let him through. He stops just inside your space—not crowding, but near enough to be deliberate. 

“You look better than this place deserves,” he says casually. 

Gojo clutches his chest. “OH, bold opener.”

“You’re like if HR violations became a person,”you tell Sukuna. 

He grins wider. “And you’re funnier than he said.”

Your head turns slowly toward Choso. 

“He talks about me?”

“No,” Choso says instantly.

“Yes,” Gojo says with delight. 

“Constantly?” Sukuna adds helpfully. 

“Never,” Choso says, voice flatter now. 

Geto exhales into his cup. “I should’ve stayed home.”

You smile sweetly at Choso. “Interesting development.”

“It isn’t.”

“It feels like one.” 

Gojo suddenly gasps as if struck by divine inspiration. He grabs a bottle from the counter and three plastic shot cups from nowhere.

“Enough emotional repression. Shots.”

“No,” Choso says.

“Yes,” Gojo says. “For morale.”

“There is no morale here.” 

“There will be.” he shoves one tiny cup into your hand, one at Sukuna, and keeps one for himself. “Suguru?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“Adult.”

“Gojo raises his cup high. “To bad decisions and hot neighbors.”

“I hate this toast,” you say. 

“Drink anyway.”

You glance once at Choso. He’s already looking at you. Hard to read, easy to feel. 

So naturally, you toss the shot back.

It burns all the way down. 

“Oh, disgusting,” you cough. 

Gojo cheers loud enough to startle three nearby strangers. Sukuna downs his without blinking. 

Choso closes his eyes briefly like a man experiencing private spiritual fatigue.

“You’re dramatic,” you tell him. 

“You’re reckless.”

“It was one shot.”

“It was Gojo’s shot.”

“That somehow feels different,” you admit. 

“Because it is,” Geto says. 

Gojo is already hanging halfway off Geto now, face flushed, sunglasses crooked. “Princess,” he stage-whispers loudly, “you know he once broke a guy’s nose for handing him the wrong lighter?”

“I did not,” you say. 

“I did not,” Choso says.

Gojo squints. “Maybe it was because he looked at you weird.”

“He did not know me then.”

“Time is fake,” Gojo replies. 

Geto physically turns Gojo’s face away from the conversation. “Stop revealing classified information.”

“I know more secrets,” Gojo announces into Geto’s shoulder. “So many secrets.”

“You know nothing useful.”

“I know Choso—”

“Gojo.”

The warning in Choso’s voice cuts through the music. 

Gojo beams drunkenly. “He gets like this when he cares.”

Silence for half a second. 

You look at Choso. 

He looks back. 

The Sukuna claps once. “Enough staring. Kamo, downstairs.”

Choso’s attention snaps to him. “No.”

“Yes.” Sukuna’s grin vanishes just enough to show something sharper beneath. “Now.”

A beat passes between them. Something old and unreadable. 

Geto sighs. “There it is.”

Gojo whispers to you, “Business reasons.”

You whisper back, “That sounds fake.”

“It is usually illegal,” Gojo confides. 

Choso ignores both of you. His gaze returns to you instead. 

“Stay here,” he says. 

You laugh once. “Bold phrasing.”

“I mean it.” 

“And I mean maybe.”

His jaw tightens. Then he steps closer, voice lower so only you hear it. 

“Don’t wander off with anyone.”

Your pulse betrays you immediately. “You say romantic things in terrifying ways.”

He doesn’t smile. 

“I’ll be back.”

Then he turns and follows Sukuna out of the kitchen. 

You watch him disappear into the crowd. 

Gojo leans almost fully across your back now like an oversized drunk cat. 

“Well,” he says happily. “Dad’s gone.”

“I’m not his child,” you mutter, adjusting your grip so he doesn’t actually collapse. 

“Debatable,” Geto says, already trying (and failing) to peel him off you. “Satoru, stand up.”

“I am standing up,” Gojo insists, legs visibly not doing that.

“You are leaning,” Geto corrects. 

“Same thing.”

“It is not.”

You glance toward the doorway Chosso disappeared through, then back at them. “How long is he going to be gone?”

Gojo hums thoughtfully. “Long enough for you to commit at least one regrettable action.”

“That feels like a setup.”

“It’s a promise,” he says, bright-eyed. 

Geto sighs, handing you a fresh drink, water again, bless him. “Ignore him.”

“I am incapable of being ignored,” Gojo says proudly. 

“That is unfortunately true.”

Gojo perks up suddenly, like a thought just struck him at full speed and he didn’t bother braking. 

“Oh!” He straightens briefly then immediately leans back into Geto. “you know what’s funny?”

“That sentence has never led to anything good,” Geto says. 

Gojo points at you, grin wide and reckless. “He hates this place because of you.”

You blink. “That feels incorrect.”

“No, no, listen,” Gojo waves a hand vaguely. “He comes here all the time. Doesn’t care. People fight? Whatever. Cops? Boring. Someone sets something on fire? Tuesday.”

“That did happen,” Geto mutters. 

“But you?” Gojo leans closer, dropping his voice like he’s telling you state secrets. “Suddenly he’s like ‘don’t go here, don’t do that, stay near me, drink water—”

You cross your arms. “That sounds like basic concern.”

Gojo squints at you like you’re missing the point on purpose. “No, no, no. It's different. He’s—” He wiggles his fingers dramatically. “—weird about you.”

Geto pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop.”

“I’m observing,” Gojo insists. “He doesn’t let people get near you. He watches you like you’re about to get stolen.”

Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient.

“That’s not—”

You stare down at your cup, then toward the crowd again, trying very hard to act like your pulse isn’t doing something ridiculous. 

Weird about you. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by a slow clap. 

You look up. 

Sukuna’s leaning against the counter now, like he’s been there the whole time and just decided to make himself known again. 

“That was enlightening,” he says lazily. 

Geto groans. “You heard none of that.”

“I heard enough.”

Gojo perks up instantly. “Sukuna! Did you know—”

“No,” Geto says, dragging him backward by the collar. 

“I absolutely did,” Sukuna says, ignoring him completely, eyes still on you. “Didn’t know he was that obvious, though.”

“He’s not,” you say quickly. 

Sukuna tilts his head, amused. “You sure about that?”

You open your mouth— 

Then close it. 

Because honestly? You’re not sure about anything anymore. 

Sukuna pushes off the counter, stepping closer, the crowd shifting around him without even realizing it. 

Music shifts, something louder, heavier, bass rolling deeper through the floor. 

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the living room. “You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

“I am thinking exactly the right amount,” you reply. 

“Doubt it.”

“I’m not dancing with you,” you add immediately. 

He grins. “Didn’t ask.”

“That sounds like asking with extra steps.”

“That sounds like you’re coming anyway.”

You hesitate. 

Briefly. 

Because somewhere in the back of your mind is Choso’s voice— 

Don’t wander off with anyone. 

…and then, louder:

The issue is everyone else.

And maybe you should listen. 

Probably you should listen. 

Definitely— 

“Relax,” Sukuna says, already turning and starting backward toward the living room, eyes still on you. “I’m not kidnapping you. Just a song.”

Gojo, halfway draped over Geto, gasps. “Go. Cause problems.”

“I am not taking advice from you.”

“Coward.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re already thinking about it,” Sukuna cuts in.”

He’s right. 

Annoyingly. 

You glance once in the direction Choso disappeared. 

He’s not there. 

You look back at Sukuna. 

“...One song,” you say. 

His grin sharpens. “That’s all I need.”

The living room is worse than the kitchen. 

Darker. Hotter. Bodies packed tighter, moving in uneven rhythm under low lights that flicker just enough to disorient. 

The bass is heavier here, thick enough to settle under your skin. 

Sukuna doesn’t touch you at first. 

Just turns, facing you, one brow raised like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. 

“You’re very confident,” you say over the music. 

“I’m usually right.”

“About what?”

“People.”

“That sounds like a red flag.”

“It’s a skill.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. 

The music shifts again, faster now, something easier to move to, and people around you surge with it.

Sukuna steps closer then, not crowding, not grabbing, just enough to guide the space between you. 

It’s not gross. 

Not pushy. 

Just… deliberate. 

Annoyingly easy to follow. 

“You’re not as boring as he thinks,” Sukuna says casually. 

“I’m not boring at all.”

“I can see that.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, movement loosening, letting the music take over just a little. 

For a second— 

Just a second— 

You forget to be careful. 

Across the room, near the edge of the crowd— 

Choso steps back into the doorway.

His attention is already scanning. 

Already searching. 

It finds you immediately. 

Of course it does. 

And then— 

It stops. 

Because you’re in the middle of the room. 

Laughing. 

Moving. 

And Sukuna is far too close. 

Choso doesn’t move at first.

He just watches.

The way you’re laughing—head tipped slightly back, shoulders loose, not tense, not guarded. The way Sukuna’s standing just a little too close, saying something that makes you roll your eyes but stay anyway.

It’s not even inappropriate.

That’s almost worse.

Because you look—

Comfortable.

Something tightens, sharp and immediate, low in his chest.

Then you shift, turning slightly with the music, and Sukuna’s hand brushes your wrist—brief, guiding—

And that’s enough.

Choso moves.

Straight through the crowd. No hesitation. No apology. People part without realizing they’re doing it, instinctively stepping out of his way as he cuts across the room like a line drawn too fast

You don’t see him until he’s already there.

One second you’re mid-laugh—

The next, a hand closes around your wrist.

Firm.

Not painful.

Final.

You turn sharply.

“Choso—”

“We’re leaving.”

It’s not loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

Sukuna’s grin widens slowly. “Didn’t know you were supervising the dance floor now.”

Choso doesn’t even look at him.

“Let go,” you say, more startled than anything.

He does.

Immediately.

That’s the worst part.

No struggle. No argument. Just release—like the only thing holding him there was the decision to touch you at all.

“Come on,” he says instead, voice lower now.

You blink. “I’m literally in the middle of something.”

“You’re done.”

Your brows lift. “Excuse me?”

Now he looks at you.

Really looks.

There’s something different there—tighter, sharper, stripped down past the usual calm.

“You said one song,” he says.

“I didn’t realize you were timing me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then what exactly is the problem?”

Sukuna huffs out a quiet laugh behind you. “This is getting interesting.”

Choso’s gaze flicks to him for half a second.

Cold.

“Stay out of it.”

“Or what?”

The air shifts again—subtle, but heavy.

You step forward before it can tip into something worse. “Okay, no. We’re not doing whatever this is in the middle of a living room.”

You grab Choso’s wrist this time—less force, more insistence.

“Outside.”

He doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t resist.

That might be the first sign this is about to go very badly.

The balcony is colder.

Quieter, too—music muffled behind glass, bass reduced to a dull pulse instead of something living under your skin.

You let go of him the second the door shuts.

“What was that?” you demand.

He exhales once, slow, controlled, like he’s trying to put something back where it belongs and it’s not cooperating.

“You said you’d stay near me.”

“I said I’d stay alive,” you snap. “I didn’t agree to be escorted like a security risk.”

“You were with him.”

“So?”

“So—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

You throw your hands up. “So what, Choso?”

“He’s not someone you—”

“Get to decide that.”

“I’m not deciding, I’m telling you—”

“You are literally deciding!”

Your voice bounces off the railing, sharper than you meant it to be.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“You don’t know what that place is,” he says, quieter now.

“I was in it.”

“You were in one room.”

“And you were gone.”

The words land.

That’s the second sign.

His eyes flick to yours, something shifting—brief, unguarded.

“I told you I had things to handle.”

“And I told you I’m not going to stand in one spot like a lost item until you get back.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat.

Cold air. Distant music. Too much unsaid.

“You don’t trust me,” you say finally.

His head snaps toward you. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

You step closer, frustrated now, searching his face. “You keep doing this. You tell me what to do, what not to do, who not to talk to—and then you refuse to explain why.”

“I did explain.”

“You said ‘everyone else’ like that’s supposed to mean something.”

“It does.”

“To you.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter—

“Gojo said you talk about me.”

You watch it hit.

Small.

But there.

His expression doesn’t change much, but his shoulders shift, tension pulling tighter instead of easing.

“He talks too much,” Choso says.

“That’s not a denial.”

“It’s not a confirmation.”

“Convenient.”

“I don’t—” He stops again, like the words won’t line up the way he wants them to.

You cross your arms. “You don’t what?”

His gaze drops for a second—your shoulder, your collarbone, the thin strap of your dress—and something flickers there before he looks back up.

“I don’t like people looking at you like that.”

Your breath catches.

Just a little.

“Like what?” you ask, softer now.

“Like you’re—”

He stops.

Jaw tightening again.

“Say it.”

His eyes hold yours.

Dark.

Steady.

“Like you’re something they can take.”

The words land heavier than anything he’s said all night.

For a second, the irritation drains out of you, replaced by something quieter. Something warmer. Something dangerously close to understanding.

“…Choso,” you start.

“And I don’t like not being there,” he continues, voice lower now, more controlled but no less intense. “I don’t like not knowing who you’re with. I don’t like—”

“You don’t like not being in control.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

That’s the third sign.

Something in him stills completely.

Not tense.

Not sharp.

Just… still.

“That’s not—” he starts.

“It kind of is,” you say, not unkindly. “You don’t trust the situation, so you try to control it. Me included.”

“I’m not trying to control you.”

“You told me where I could go. Who I could talk to. When I should leave.”

“Because it’s not safe.”

“I get to decide that.”

“You don’t know enough to—”

“And whose fault is that?” you cut in. “You won’t tell me anything.”

Silence again.

Thicker this time.

You exhale, frustrated, running a hand through your hair. “I’m not stupid, Choso. I know that party isn’t just drinking and bad music. I know you weren’t there for fun. But you don’t trust me enough to actually say it.”

“I’m trying to keep you out of it.”

“I didn’t ask to be kept out of anything.”

“You would if you knew.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

The words hit like a wall.

You laugh once, short and disbelieving. “Right. Of course.”

Another beat.

Then—

“Then you don’t get to control how I handle it,” you say, quieter now, but firmer.

His jaw flexes. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

“And you’re reckless.”

“I took one shot and danced with someone for five minutes.”

“With him.”

“There it is again.”

“Because it matters.”

“Why?”

The question hangs there.

Sharp.

Simple.

Impossible.

Why.

Choso doesn’t answer.

For a second, you think he won’t.

Then he steps forward.

Close enough that the space between you disappears in a single movement.

Your breath stutters.

“You know why,” he says quietly.

You shake your head, even though your pulse has already betrayed you. “No. I don’t.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You do.”

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at your waist like it’s been there before, like it belongs there, like he’s been resisting it all night.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“You’re infuriating,” you say, voice softer now, less bite, more something else.

“You’re impossible,” he replies.

“And yet—”

You don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

Not hesitant.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for hours—days—longer than that, maybe—and finally snaps under its own weight.

Sharp.

Certain.

A little angry.

His hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer without asking, like he’s already decided you’re not stepping away.

For a second, you freeze.

Then—You kiss him back.

And that’s the mistake.

Because it deepens immediately—heat replacing tension, frustration bleeding into something heavier, something that makes your head spin just enough to forget why you were arguing in the first place.

His other hand comes up, brushing your jaw, thumb catching briefly under your chin—

Then you pull back.

Breath unsteady.

Eyes wide.

“That,” you say, voice uneven, “does not solve the problem.”

His forehead nearly touches yours. “I’m aware.”

“Then what was that?”

A pause.

Too long.

“Bad timing,” he says.

You stare at him.

Then laugh—soft, incredulous, a little breathless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still going back inside.”

It lands like a bucket of cold water.

Just like that.

The moment fractures.

You step back.

Distance reasserting itself all at once.

“Are you serious?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“You just—” You gesture vaguely between you. “And that’s your takeaway?”

“My takeaway,” he says, voice back to that controlled edge, “is that nothing in there changed.”

Something in your chest twists.

Not soft this time.

Sharp.

“Right,” you say slowly. “Of course it didn’t.”

You turn toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Back inside,” you say, not looking at him. “Apparently I still have poor decisions to make.”

His hand catches your wrist again.

Not as firm this time.

But still there.

“Stay out of trouble,” he says.

You glance back at him over your shoulder.

A small, dangerous smile curves at your mouth.

“No.”

And then you pull free—

And go back inside.

The truck lumbered past and stopped in front of the curb with a hiss of brakes loud enough to wake the dead. You startled, then laughed once under your breath. Fine. Good. This was happening. 

Before you could gather your bag or your dignity, movement next door caught your eye. 

A white Mercedes sat angled in the driveway of the neighboring house, one rear door open, then another, then the front. A man stepped around the side of it with the inimitable posture of someone already running late.

Tall. 

Absurdly tall, actually. 

He wore a crisp black suit, tie perfectly straight, dark sunglasses already in place despite the still-soft morning light. In one hand was a travel mug. In the other was a tiny backpack patterned with cartoon strawberries. 

You watched him pause beside the open car door, look down into the backseat, say something you couldn’t hear, then immediately dodge as a small shoe came flying out of the vehicle. 

He caught it one-handed. 

There was no visible reaction beyond a slight tilt of his head. 

Then he bent, placed the shoe back inside and reached for the mug he had set on the roof just in time to keep it from tipping over.

You blinked. 

A second child leaned halfway out of the opposite side of the car, shouting something enthusiastically to the street. A third appeared behind them only long enough to smack the first one on the shoulder before vanishing again. 

The man closed his eyes for a brief, private second. 

Then he smiled. 

Even from a distance, it was unfairly pretty. 

You looked away immediately, because staring at strangers before breakfast seemed like a bad precedent to set in a new neighborhood. 

The driver’s side door starts to shut. One of the back windows rolled down almost instantly. 

A pink water bottle flies out. 

The man caught that too.

This time, when he glanced up, his sunglasses turned directly towards you. 

For a moment, you held each other’s gaze across two driveways and a strip of morning sun. 

Then he gave you a short nod, climbed into the car, and pulled out so quickly you were fairly certain it violated at least one traffic law. 

The Mercedes disappeared around the corner. 

Silence settled back over the street. 

You looked at the empty driveway next door, then at your own house, then at the moving truck idling at the curb. 

“Well,” you said to no one. 

You grabbed your keys, stepped out into the warm spring air, and met the first day of your new life head on. 

The front door stuck a little when you unlocked it. 

That felt about right.

‎ ۪ ⟣ ֹ ┄┄ 𝟅𝟈 ┄┄ ۫ ⟢

The white Mercedes merged into traffic like it had somewhere better to be, which, Gojo thought grimly, was also true. 

In the backseat, chaos was already rebuilding itself from the brief pause of departure. 

“Yuji, stop breathing on me,” Nobara snapped. 

“I’m not breathing on you, I’m just here!”

“That’s the same thing!”

From the front passenger seat, Megumi stared out the window with the expression of a man witnessing the slow collapse of civilization and choosing not to intervene out of principle. Crazy, considering he’s only six. 

Gojo adjusted his sunglasses with one hand and reached blindly with the other, not even looking. 

A tiny hand slapped his wrist. 

“Don’t,” Megumi said flatly. 

“I didn’t even do anything,” Gojo replied. 

“You were about to.”

Fair. 

He retracted his hand and exhaled through his nose as the car rolled down the road. The morning light was too soft, too clean. Suburbia always looked like it was pretending nothing ever went wrong here.

Which, unfortunately, meant it was exactly the kind of place three chaos demons would thrive in. 

Beside him, Yuji was now attempting to explain something involving a superhero, a skateboard and what sounded like a completely unapproved backflip plan. Nobara was loudly vetoing it. Megumi had stopped listening entirely. 

Gojo took a sip of his coffee. 

It was lukewarm. 

Of course it was.

By the time they reached the school drop-off, his left eye was twitching in a way he refused to acknowledge out loud. 

“Ok,” he said brightly, like a man who had not just survived a minor war in a car seat ecosystem. “Everybody out.”

“I forgot my lunch,” Yuji announced immediately. 

“You ate it on the way here,” Megumi said. 

“I was saving it for later!”

“That’s not how food works.”

Gojo leaned back slightly. “Yuji, buddy, I watched you unwrap it. 

A pause. 

Then: “Oh.”

Nobara was already halfway out of the car, pausing only to point at Gojo accusingly. “You didn’t pack my hair ties.”

“You have approximately seventeen on your wrist right now.”

“These are memo-tional support hair ties. Not fashion ones.”

Megumi opened the door without ceremony and stepped out like he was escaping a burning building he had no intention of saving. 

Gojo watched them go with the exhausted fondness of someone who knew he was outnumbered, outmatched, and deeply attached anyway

“Try not to fight anyone before lunch,” he called after them. 

Yuji turned and grinned. “No promises!”

Nobara waved without looking back. 

Megumi did not acknowledge him at all, which was, emotionally speaking, his version of goodbye. 

Then they were gone into the school doors, swallowed by noise and backpacks and morning announcements. 

Gojo sat there for a moment longer than necessary. 

Then he sighed, shifted into drive, and rolled out of the drop-off line. 

The road to Jujutsu High was quieter. Worse, in a different way. 

No shouting. No small arguments about existential injustice over breakfast cereal. Just him, the hum of the engine, and the slow realization that silence wasn’t actually restful when you weren’t used to it anymore. 

His phone rang. 

He glanced at the screen. 

“Nanami,” he said aloud, as if naming people would make it more polite. 

He picked up. 

“What,” came the voice on the other end. Flat. Precise. Already tired. 

Gojo brightened instantly. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s 8:12.”

“Wow. So early.”

A pause. 

Then Nanami: “You sound like you’ve already ruined someone’s day.”

“I prefer to think of it as enriching experiences. 

“That is not reassuring.”

Gojo turned the corner toward the main road, one hand on the wheel, the other balancing his phone against his shoulder. “You called for a reason, or just to be emotionally supportive?”

A longer pause. 

“I’m confirming your attendance for the meeting this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Gojo’s voice lifted. “Miss me already?”

“I miss peace,” Nanami corrected. 

Gojo smiled to himself.

They drive in silence for a beat, the kind that somehow still felt like conversation.

Then Nanami added, “You sound distracted.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Gojo tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. The neighborhood from earlier flickered back into his mind without permission. The moving truck. The house next door. The brief moment of eye contact over a driveway and morning light.

Nothing important.

Just new. 

“Just new neighbors,” he said lightly. 

Nanami made a sound that might’ve been disinterest, or judgement, or both. “Try not to involve children in it.”

“I never involve children in anything.”

Then, deadpan: “That is the most dishonest thing you’ve said all week.”

Gojo laughed. 

As the call ended, he lowered the phone and stared out at the road ahead. 

The gates of Jujutsu High rose in the distance. 

Behind him, three children were probably already making someone’s life difficult.

Ahead of him, work waited.

And somewhere on a quiet street not too far away, a moving truck was unloading a life that had just barely brushed against his own. 

He didn’t think about it again. 

Not immediately, anyway.

Instead, you made your way over with what you hoped resembled dignity.

Maki Zenin sat cross-legged in the grass, already halfway through her lunch and looking like she could judge ten people at once without losing efficiency. Beside her, Okkotsu Yuta offered you a small, polite smile that somehow looked apologetic on principle. Panda patted the empty spot beside Toge with dramatic urgency. 

“There she is,” Panda said. “Mystery Guest.”

“I was not mysterious.”

“You were invited privately,” Panda said. “That counts.”

You stopped short. “I was what?”

Toge, seated beside the empty place, pulled his collar higher and looked away. 

Panda gasped. “Ohhh, he’s embarrassed.”

Maki threw a grape at him. “Shut up.”

It hit Panda directly between the eyes. 

You liked her immediately. 

Toge reached up, lightly catching your sleeve to get your attention, then gestured toward the open space beside him. 

An invitation. Quiet and easy. 

You sat before your nerves could unionize. 

Panda leaned in across the circle. “So, upperclassman whose name I definitely know and am choosing not to say for dramatic reasons—”

 “Toge,” Maki said dryly. “Introduce your guest before Panda becomes worse.”

Toge straightened slightly. 

Then froze. 

No notebook. No pen. No phone in hand. 

His eyes narrowed at nothing, as if offended by the betrayal of circumstance. 

You watched the exact moment he realized he had no convenient way to communicate. 

It was, frankly, adorable. 

Panda burst into laughter. “He blue-screened.”

Yuta covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. 

Maki signed. “Incredible.”

Toge glanced at you, then pointed politely in your direction as if presenting evidence.

You took pity. “Hi. I’m—”

“HER!” Nobara’s voice rang across the courtyard. 

You closed your eyes. 

The first-years approached you like an incoming natural disaster: Nobara in front with purpose, Yuji beside her with visible excitement, Megumi trailing behind with the expression of someone trapped by fate. 

“There you are,” Nobara said, hands on hips. “You vanished.”

“I walked here,” you said flatly. 

Yuji brightened at the group. “Oh, cool, everyone’s here.”

“No,” Megumi said quietly. “Not cool.”

Nobara pointed at you dramatically. “She was trying to be sneaky.”

“I was trying to eat.”

“With Inumaki,” Yuji added helpfully.

“With food, ideally.”

Panda clutched his chest. “This is incredible.”

Maki looked at the first-years, then at you. “Why are they like this?”

“Unknown,” you said. “Possibly cursed.”

Yuji dropped down onto the grass uninvited. “Hi, Okkotsu-senpai.”

Yuta gave a small wave. “Hi, Itadori.”

Nobara inserted herself beside you with surgical precision. “Move over.”

“You weren’t invited.”

“Neither was Panda, emotionally.”

“Rude,” Panda said. 

“Accurate,” Maki replied. 

Toge, who had been watching this unfold with the calm of a man standing outside a fire, lightly tugged your sleeve again. 

You turned. 

He held out half of a packaged dessert from his lunch, already split neatly down the middle. 

You blinked. “For me?”

He nodded once. 

Small. Casual. Like it meant nothing.

Your pulse disagreed. 

Nobara saw everything. 

You knew because you felt her staring holes into the side of your skull. 

You accepted the dessert with what you hoped was composure. “Thank you.”

“Kelp,” he said softly. 

Panda made a strangled noise. 

Maki kicked him in the shin. 

He deserved it. 

Yuji looked between the two of you openly. “Wait… are you guys—”

“No,” you said immediately. 

“Bonito flakes,” Toge added at the same time.

Megumi, for the first time all lunch, looked interested. 

Nobara slapped a hand over Yuji’s mouth before he could continue. “Eat your rice.”

Maki rubbed her temple. “We know her, by the way.”

Everyone looked at her. 

She gestured vaguely with her chopsticks. “We’ve all attended the same school all year. This isn’t some mysterious forest woman Toge found.”

“Could’ve been,” Panda said. 

“She is not,” Maki said.

Yuta smiled at you. “We know who you are.”

You pointed accusingly at Toge. “You let me panic.”

He met your eyes. 

Then, with zero remorse:

“Salmon.”

Laughter broke around the group like a wave. 

Panda told at least three stories no one had asked for. Yuji had laughed hard enough to choke once. Nobara interrogated Yuta about upperclassman gossip. Maki threatened bodily harm with such consistency it became background noise. Megumi ate in exhausted silence like a man serving a sentence.

And through it all, Toge remained beside you. 

Quiet. Steady. 

Occasionally nudging a drink away from your book when you nearly knocked it over. Sliding you napkins before you reached for them. Wordlessly handing you the last bite of something sweet when Panda wasn’t looking. 

By the time lunch period neared its end, people began standing in clusters and collecting bags. The courtyard shifted into movement all at once. 

You checked the time and nearly cursed. “I need to go or my next instructor will kill me publicly.”

“That would improve morale.” Nobara said. 

“You are no comfort.”

“Never claimed to be.”

You rose, brushing grass from your pants and grabbing your bag. A chorus of usual goodbyes followed. Panda saluted dramatically. Yuta gave you another polite smile. Maki nodded once like she’d decided you were tolerable.

You had almost made it three steps when fingers caught lightly at your sleeve. 

You turned. 

Toge stood, bag over one shoulder, notebook finally in hand. 

He glanced toward the others, then gestured slightly toward the side path. 

You followed without thinking. 

The two of you stepped a little away from the chaos of the courtyard, close enough to still hear Panda being loud, far enough for privacy to pretend it existed. 

Toge opened the notebook and wrote quickly. Then turned it toward you. 

Sorry about lunch. 

A pause while he added another line. 

They don’t know what alone means.

You laughed before you could help it. “Apparently not.”

His eyes softened. 

You looked towards the group, where Panda was now wearing someone’s tie like a headband. “It’s fine. I enjoyed myself.”

He watched you for a second longer, then wrote. 

Still wanted to eat with you.

Your heart became deeply unprofessional. 

“Oh.” Brilliant response. Stunning work. 

You cleared your throat. “We can do lunch again sometime. Maybe somewhere harder for them to find.”

That got the tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes you were growing addicted to.

He nodded once. 

Then you both paused. 

Because apparently neither of you knew how to end conversations normally. 

You shifted your bag higher. “I should really go.”

He nodded again, then suddenly stilled. 

Reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone. 

Looked at you expectantly. 

You blinked. 

Then realization hit so hard it nearly offended you. 

“We don’t have each other’s numbers.”

He tilted his head in a way that clearly meant correct, genius. 

“Right. Yes. Obviously.”

You fumbled your own phone out too quickly, almost dropping it. “That’s embarrassing for me.”

“Salmon roe,” he said softly. 

“Well, well to you too.”

You handed over your phone. He typed with quick efficiency, then gave it back. His contact name simply read: Toge. 

You entered yours into his. 

He glanced at the screen, then changed it before you could see. 

“Hey.” 

He locked the phone and slipped it away with zero shame. 

“You’re suspicious.”

Another eye-smile. 

From across the courtyard, Nobara’s voice rang out: “IF YOU TWO ARE DONE BEING WEIRD, SOME OF US HAVE CLASS.”

You closed your eyes. “I hate her.”

“Bonito flakes,” Toge said.

You looked at him. “No, I don’t.”

The bell rang. 

You both jerked into motion. 

“Go,” you said, backing away. “Before we’re late.”

He lifted one hand. 

“Kelp.”

You turned and jogged toward your building before your face could combust. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of lectures, training drills, cursed theory, and intermittent humiliation. Nobara cornered you twice for details. Yuji asked if you were ‘dating yet’ in front of three witnesses. Megumi walked away mid-conversation. You were starting to wonder why you were friends with the first-years.

By the time evening settled over campus and you dragged yourself back to your dorm, you were exhausted down to the bone. 

You kicked off your shoes, dropped face-first onto the bed, and considered never moving again. 

Your phone buzzed. 

You squinted suspiciously before rolling over and checking the screen. 

Toge 🐟: Made it through the day?

A second message appeared almost immediately. 

Toge 🐟: You looked tired after third period.

You stared at the screen. 

Then at the ceiling. 

Then back at the screen. 

He noticed that?

Your heart, once again, proved itself unreliable. 

You stared at the messages long enough for the screen to dim. 

Then undim. 

Then dim again.

This was ridiculous. You had fought curses larger than cars. You had been concussed twice. You had once stitched your own shoulder in a supply closet. 

And yet texting a boy had reduced you to decorative paralysis. 

You sat up with a groan and typed carefully. 

You: Barely. I think I died during training and no one told me.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared. 

Then:

Toge 🐟: Need proof of life. 

You laughed aloud in your empty room. 

You: Too tired to provide documentation.

A pause. 

Then your phone began ringing. 

Toge 🐟 is calling…

“Oh, absolutely not,” you whispered to no one.

It rang again. 

You answered on instinct before common sense could intervene. 

The screen lit with Toge’s face at an angle clearly suggesting he’d set the phone down and then reconsidered halfway through. Pale hair slightly messy. Loose shirt. Collar lower than usual now that he was in private. The markings at the corners of his mouth visible in soft lamplight. 

Your brain left the chat immediately. 

He adjusted the phone, noticed your expression, and one eyebrow lifted. 

“Kelp.”

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

Too soft. Again. Damn. 

You tried again. 

He shrugged then shared his screen showing his notes app. You watch him type out, Typing is slow.

Fair. 

“You could’ve warned me.”

He typed again. 

Would you have answered?

You considered lying. “...No.”

His eyes crinkled. 

Rude that even through a screen it still worked on you. 

You collapsed backward onto your pillows, propping the phone against a stack of books. “I’m exhausted.”

He nodded once, then pointed at you. 

“Tuna.”

“What?”

He mimed sleep with exaggerated sincerity. 

“I know I look bad.”

Immediate head shake. He typed fast. 

Look tired.

A second line followed. 

Still nice.

You stared so hard at the screen he almost smiled outright.

“Oh.”

“Salmon roe.”

“Well, well indeed.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. It was oddly easy silence, comfortable instead of awkward. You could hear faint dorm noises on his end. A door closing somewhere. Panda yelling something incomprehensible in the distance. 

You snorted. “Are they harassing you?”

He turned the camera briefly. Panda was upside down in a doorway for reasons unknown. Maki shoved him out of frame. 

The camera turned back. 

You laughed until your ribs hurt. “Your home life is concerning.”

He gave a tiny shrug that clearly meant I know.

Then he held up one finger and typed again. 

20 questions?

You blinked. “Right now?”

He nodded. 

“With cursed speech?”

His reply came in seconds. 

You ask. I answer.

You thought about declining. 

Instead, you smiled. “Fine. But if I win, you owe me another coffee.”

He tilted his head. 

Then:

“Salmon.”

He propped his phone against something on his desk and settled back, arms folded loosely, expression far too calm for a man about to be interrogated. 

You adjusted your own phone against the books beside your pillow. “Alright,” you said, dragging a blanket over yourself. “Rules check. You think of a thing, I ask yes or no questions.”

He nodded once. 

“Cheating gets you publicly exposed.”

His eyes narrowed in fake offense. 

“Caviar,” he said. 

“You swear too much for someone so cute.”

That startled a small laugh out of him before he looked away. 

Your heart tripped over itself and kept going. 

“Focus,” you muttered mostly to yourself. “Ok. Have you picked something?”

“Salmon.”

You squinted suspiciously. “Did you already know what you were picking?”

He considered.

“Salmon roe.”

“Well, well. Annoying answer.”

He looked delighted by that. 

You tucked deeper into the blankets and began. “Is it alive?”

“Salmon.”

“Animal?”

“Salmon.”

“Bigger than a dog?”

“Bonito flakes.”

“Smaller than a cat?”

A pause. 

“Salmon.”

“So tiny.” you narrowed your eyes. “Can it be held in one hand?”

“Salmon.”

“Gross. Is it ugly?”

He blinked, then shook his head before answering.

“Bonito flakes.”

“Wow. defensive. Is it something you like?”

He looked directly at you. 

“Salmon.”

Something about the way he said it made your face warm. You ignored it aggressively. 

“Does it live in water?” Immediate nod. 

“Salmon.”

You gasped. “Is it a fish? Are you making me guess a fish because that would be deeply on brand.”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Bonito flakes.”

“Oh, so you do know comedy.”

You yawned mid-sentance and nearly dislocated your jaw. 

His expression softened immediately. He pointed at you. 

“Tuna.”

“I know I’m tired,” you grumbled. “We’re committed now.”

You rubbed one eye. “Ok. water, small, alive, hand-sized.”

You thought hard enough to hear gears grinding. 

“Is it amphibious?”

He sat up straighter.

“Salmon.”

Your eyes widened. “No way.”

Another yawn ambushed you. 

“Frog?”

He grinned properly this time, small but unmistakable. 

“Salmon.”

You pointed triumphantly at the screen. “YES. victory. I am a genius.”

He applauded silently, slow and mocking. 

“I hate that you’re smug without speaking.”

“Bonito flakes.”

“You should.”

He reached for his phone again, thumbs moving across the screen. 

Your turn. Think of one.

You groaned. “That sounds like work.”

He tilted his head. 

“Bonito flakes.”

“Don’t judge me in fish.”

His shoulder shook.

You tried to think of an object and came up with nothing but static. “My brain is empty.”

He typed again. 

What drained you today? Training?

You blinked. “...Training. And Nobara. Mostly Nobara.”

Immediate nod. 

Then: 

Understandable. 

You smile softly and breathe a laugh. 

The conversation carries on regularly after that. 

You learn that he enjoys practical combat training and conditioning exercises, he dislikes missions with loud, reckless people, he has a secret sweet tooth and prefers softer foods (easy on his throat, he explained), and his sleep schedule is all over the place. 

You blink slowly, taking more and more time between questions. At one point you close your eyes, listening to his breathing and… 

“Tuna.”

Your eyes snap open. 

Still there?

“Thinking,” You mumble. 

Your eyes close again. 

He waits.

You don’t respond. 

He types something else. 

Liar. Sleeping.

You don’t respond, phone still propped up, blanket up to your chin, breathing even. 

And he just… watches for a second. 

The screen framed you in dim lamplight and rumpled blankets, face half-buried in your pillow, breathing slow and steady like sleep had claimed you mid-sentence and refused to negotiate. 

Your phone was titled slightly crooked. One hand still rested near it, fingers loose with exhaustion. 

Toge’s expression softened into something private. Something no one else was there to see. 

He reached for his own phone and typed one last message into the chat, rather than the notes app for you to see in the morning. 

Toge 🐟: Good effort.

A beat passed. 

Then another line. 

Toge 🐟: Sleep.

He looked back at the screen. 

You didn’t move. 

From somewhere outside his room, Panda yelled loud enough to shake the walls. Maki immediately yelled louder. A crash followed that he chose not to investigate. 

His attention never left the phone. Slowly, he muted the volume so the dorm chaos wouldn’t wake you through the speaker. 

He watches for a few minutes longer. 

“Kelp,” he said quietly. 

And ended the call. 

Your room fell silent except for the faint buzz of the disconnected screen. 

You slept through it all. 

Morning came with sunlight across your face and a crick in your neck from passing out sideways. 

Your phone was still beside you. 

Screen dark. Battery offended. 

You squinted at it, unlocked it, and immediately froze. 

Call ended: Toge 🐟

Call duration: 1:47:32

Below it:

Toge 🐟: Good effort. 

Toge 🐟: Sleep.

You stared at the messages for a long, stunned moment. 

Then buried your face back into the pillow and screamed.

She took one deliberate step forward. 

“How did it go?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. 

Then, against all reason, flopped face first onto your bed and muffled into the blanket:

“I like Inumaki.”

Silence. 

Then—

“YOU WHAT?”

You jerked upright. “Keep your voice down!”

“No!” Nobara shouted, already halfway to hysterics. “No, absolutely not, explain yourself immediately.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“You just confessed emotional devastation into your comforter!”

You hugged your pillow to your chest. “I said I like him.”

“That is worse.” She pointed dramatically. “Since when?”

You thought about it. 

“The hair tuck.”

Nobara stared. “The what?”

“He moved my hair out of my face.”

She placed both hands over her mouth, then removed them only to scream into the nearest pillow. 

“I knew it,” she said hoarsely. “I knew that quiet little menace had game.”

“He does not have game,” you said automatically. 

Nobara gave you a look. 

You wilted. “He has… some game.”

“Some?” She grabbed your shoulders. “You came back glowing like a haunted lantern.”

“He made coffee.” “That’s not helping your case.”

“He knew how I take it.”

Nobara went very still. 

Then, slowly: “Did I tell him that?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You did.”

She gasped. “I am an accomplice.”

“You are a gossip.”

“I am a facilitator.”

You laughed despite yourself, then fell backward onto the bed with the pillow still clutched to your chest. The ceiling looked different somehow. 

Nobara sat beside you. “Ok, serious question.”

You turned your head. “What?”

“Do you actually like him, or are you dazzled because he’s pretty and mysterious?”

You considered that longer than expected.

Then you smiled helplessly. “Both?”

Nobara snorted. “Fair.”

She bumped your shoulder with hers. “He totally likes you too, by the way.”

Your entire body tensed. “What?”

“Oh, please.” She waved a hand. “You think Toge Inumaki just invites people over, makes custom coffee, and flirts through onigiri vocabulary for anyone?”

“When you say it like that, I sound stupid.”

“You are stupid.”

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

You threw a pillow at her. She dodged it effortlessly. 

After that, the room settles into familiar nighttime routine. Pajamas. Teeth brushed. Nobara talking the entire time about potential outfits for your “accidental future dates.” You denying everything while secretly listening to every word. 

Nobara left to go to her dorm.

The lights go out. 

The room falls quiet. 

Sleep took longer than usual. Every time you closed your eyes, purple ones looked back. 

Morning came too early. 

You woke to sunlight pushing through the curtains and Nobara already moving around your room with aggressive purpose. 

“Up,” she said, tossing a sock at your face. “You have school and unresolved romantic tension.” 

You groaned into the mattress. “I hate you.”

“No, you hate mornings. Different thing.”

With far more effort than should be required, you dragged yourself out of bed and started getting ready. Uniform, hair, bag packed, shoes half-fastened while Nobara offered deeply unhelpful commentary from across the room. 

“Wear lip balm.”

“Why?”

“In case you see Inumaki.”

“We attend the same school, Nobara.”

“Exactly.”

You ignored her, which only encouraged her further. 

By the time you were ready to leave, your nerves had returned full force. 

Because somewhere on campus was Inumaki Toge. 

And apparently, today, you liked him. 

The walk to the main school building felt unfairly normal for a morning in which your life had, apparently, become complicated. 

Birds chirped. Students moved between buildings. Someone in the distance yelled about losing a training weapon. 

Meanwhile, you were trying to remember how to act like a person. 

You had almost made it to the entrance when a familiar voice called out. 

“Senpai!”

Yuji Itadori jogged up beside you with all the energy of someone personally blessed by the god of mornings. Megumi Fushiguro walked several steps behind him, hands in his pockets, already looking tired of everything. 

“You look weirdly awake,” Yuji said. 

“Good morning to you too.”

“It’s suspicious,” he continued. “Usually you look like you lost a fight with your alarm clock.”

“I did lose a fight with my alarm clock.”

Megumi glanced at you once. “You do look different.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why is everyone saying that?”

“Because you’re smiling,” he said flatly. 

“I am not.”

“You are,” Yuji said brightly. “Like… subtly. It’s creepy.”

Before you could defend yourself, Nobara appeared from the side path like she had been summoned by gossip alone. 

“There you are,” she said, falling into step beside you. “I was beginning to think you’d wandered off to write Mrs. Inumaki in a notebook somewhere.”

You nearly tripped on nothing. 

Yuji’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?”

Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“Yes,” Nobara said immediately. “Huge developments.”

“There are no developments,” you hissed. “There is slander before first period.”

Yuji spun to walk backward in front of the group. “Do you have a crush? Is it Inumaki? Wait, it is Inumaki!”

“How are you this loud before eight in the morning?”

“It’s natural talent.”

Megumi sighed. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t,” Yuji said. “This is important.”

“It is not.”

Nobara linked her arm through yours. “Ignore them. We have class.” Then, lower so only you could hear: “Tell me if he does anything cute.”

“He's going to sit in a chair, Nobara.”

“He could sit romantically.”

“You’re insane.”

“Correct.”

The four of you split near the stairwell, Yuji and Nobara peeling off toward their classroom while Megumi disappeared without saying goodbye, as was his custom. 

You continued down the second-floor corridor alone, trying to study your breathing for reasons you refused to examine. 

It was just class. 

A normal class. 

With your project partner.

Who had tucked your hair behind your ear. 

You’ve had class with him many times before, goddamn it, what was different now?

You almost turned around and went back to the dorms. 

Instead, you reached the classroom door and stepped inside. 

The room was empty. 

Almost. 

Inumaki was already there. 

Of course he was. 

He sat near the window in the third row, morning light catching in pale hair and casting soft shadows across the desk. His bag was nearly hooked over the side of the chair, books already stacked in front of him. One hand rested against the page he was reading. 

He looked up the moment you entered. 

Purple eyes met yours. 

And softened. 

Your pulse performed a deeply embarrassing maneuver. 

For a second, neither of you moved. 

Then he lifted one hand in a small wave. 

“Kelp.”

The single word landed somewhere directly in your chest. 

You swallowed. “Hi.”

Too breathy. Terrible start. 

You cleared your throat and tried again. “Good morning.”

He watched you for a moment longer, then reached over beside him and grabbed something. A takeaway cup. 

He set it on the empty desk next to him and nudged it into place. 

Your name was written on the side in near handwriting.

You stared at it. 

Then at him. 

Then back at the cup, just in case you were hallucinating before first period. 

“You brought me coffee?”

His shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. 

“Salmon.”

You approached on instinct, stopping beside the desk like it might vanish if you moved too quickly. It was still warm when you picked it up. 

Exactly how you liked it. 

Again. 

He tapped the seat beside him. 

Invitation. 

You sat before your pride could object. 

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

You cradled the coffee cup in both hands like it contained emotional support. He slid a notebook between you, already open to a page titled Project Progress in neat handwriting. 

Of course he had a system. 

You glanced sideways at him. “Do you schedule fun too?”

He wrote immediately. 

Thursdays, 4:15 to 4:30. You snorted into your drink. “Monster.”

His eyes crinkled. 

The classroom slowly began to fill around you. Students filtered in by twos and threes, conversations rising into a morning hum. A few people glanced your way, mostly because Inumaki Toge had company that wasn’t his usual group, and possibly because you were sitting too close to him to claim innocence. 

You chose not to notice. 

Instead, the two of you quietly reviewed project notes. He pointed out sources. You rewrote second headings. At one point, your sleeves brushed and neither of you moved away. 

You were pretending to be normal about that when the classroom door slammed open. 

“Good morning, beloved students!”

Gojo Satoru swept in twelve minutes late and carrying an iced drink the size of his ego. His blindfold was crooked, his uniform immaculate, and he radiated the kind of confidence only possible in people with no shame. 

Several students groaned. 

Gojo ignored them all, strolling to the front before abruptly stopping. 

He turned his head toward you. 

Then pointed dramatically. 

“Why do you look different?”

The room went silent. 

You nearly inhaled your own tongue. “I do not, bro. What?” “Yes, you do,” Gojo said cheerfully. “Something’s changed. You’re glowing. Moisturized. Spiritually suspicious.”

“I hate you.”

“That hurts me deeply.” He turned toward the class. “Class, does she look different?”

“No,” says one classmate. 

“Yes,” says another.

“Very yes,” says a third. 

Traitors. Every single one of them. 

Gojo snapped his fingers. “I knew it. Romance.”

“It is eight in the morning,” you said flatly. “Please seek help.”

He leaned over your desk slightly, peering down at the coffee in your hands. Then at Inumaki. Then back at you.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Ohhh.”

Your soul left your body. 

“Inumaki,” Gojo sang, “you sly dog—”

“Caviar,” Inumaki said calmly. 

You doubled over laughing while Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. “Did you just swear at a teacher?”

Inumaki took out his notebook and wrote something, then turned it around. 

Respectfully. 

Gojo wiped away an imaginary tear. “I’m so proud. Alright, books out. Today we’re discussing curse classification and apparently forbidden love.”

“It is not forbidden,” you mutter. 

Someone made a sound like a kettle reaching a boil. 

Somehow, class continued after that. Gojo lectured in loops, digressions, and unexplained diagrams. You took notes where possible. Inumaki occasionally nudged your paper when you missed something important because you were busy trying not to think about the fact that he’d publicly defended you with profanity.

By the time the period ended, your nerves were fried. 

Students packed up in a rush. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Gojo vanished mid-sentance without warning. 

You stood and adjusted your strap. “Well. That was humiliating.”

Inumaki shook his head once. 

Then wrote:

Funny.

“For you.”

He rose, slung his bag over one shoulder, and fell into step beside you as you left the classroom. 

The hallway bustled with changing periods, but somehow a quiet little pocket existed around the two of you. 

You walked side by side, sipping the last of your coffee while he occasionally nudged your arm to steer you around traffic. 

Hallways down the hall, he tapped your sleeve. 

“Tuna.”

You looked over. 

He held out his notebook. 

Lunch?

Your heart did something reckless again. 

“With the group?” you asked, trying for casual and failing terribly. 

He considered, then wrote another line. 

If you want.

You looked at him. Really looked. 

Then smiled. “Or?”

He met your gaze, entirely steady, and wrote one final word. 

Alone.

You nearly walked into a wall. 

He caught your elbow before impact, expression unreadable except for the obvious amusement in his eyes. 

You reached a classroom door he stopped in front of. 

You frowned. “Wait. This is your next class.”

He nodded. 

Realization dawned slowly. “You walked me to your class.”

A small shrug. No shame whatsoever. 

You stepped back as other students filed around you. “Lunch,” you said, because apparently courage had possessed you briefly. “You can find me at lunch.”

He tilted his head. 

Then, soft enough that only you heard it—

“Salmon.”

The door slid shut behind him. 

You stood there for a full three seconds before remembering you also had somewhere to be. 

Before you could overthink it further, the door slid open.

Inumaki stood there in a loose shirt, gray sweats, hair slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it moments earlier. 

He blinked once at your raised fist. 

Then stepped aside.

“...Salmon.”

You stared at him for half a second too long before remembering how legs worked. 

Right. Inside.

“Hi,” you managed, voice embarrassingly normal compared to the way your pulse had launched into a sprint. “Thanks for having me over.”

He gave a small nod and moved back to let you pass. 

The room was neat in a way that felt effortless rather than strict. Desk cleared except for stacked textbooks and a lamp. Bed made. Shelves organized. Not a single cursed took or suspicious stain in sight. Frankly unsettling for a teenage boy. 

You were still taking it in when he reached up absently and tugged his collar down. 

Just for a second. 

Long enough for your eyes to catch on the markings at the corners of his mouth, dark lines curving against pale skin, disappearing beneath the edge of his lips before the fabric slid back into place. 

The seal markings. 

You’d seen them before from a distance, glimpsed between collars and scarves in class, but never like this. Never close enough to notice how sharp and deliberate they looked, how they drew attention to a mouth he clearly preferred hidden. 

Your gaze snapped upward so quickly it almost hurt. 

` He was already watching you. 

“Sorry,” you said immediately, because apparently humiliation was free today. “I wasn’t staring. I mean— I was, but not in a weird way. Not that there’s a normal way to stare, I just meant—”

He lifts a hand. 

Stop. 

Then, to your surprise, his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Was he laughing at you?

Wonderful. 

He crossed to his desk, tore a page from a spiral notebook, and scribbled something down before holding it out. 

You can stare a normal amount.

You looked from the page to him. 

He looked entirely unbothered. 

Something in your chest did an alarming little flip. 

“This is going to be a long project,” you muttered. 

“Salmon.”

You were beginning to suspect that meant many things.

He set the notebook on the desk between you, then pointed to the chair beside it. When you sat, he moved with quiet efficiency, gathering textbooks, loose pages, and what looked like three separate drafts of the assignment rubric. 

So he was prepared. 

Of course he was prepared. 

You, meanwhile, had brought one notebook, three pens, and anxiety. 

Inumaki slid into the chair beside yours. Close enough that your elbows nearly brushed. Close enough that you became abruptly aware of your posture, your breathing, and the fact that your hair was doing something strange near your left shoulder. 

He pushed a sheet of paper toward you.

At the top, in neat handwriting, he’d already written. 

Field Observation Report

Division of Sections

Background Information

Curse Behavior Analysis

Countermeasure Proposal

Conclusion

Below that, beside section two, was your name. 

You blinked. “You gave me the hardest part?”

He glanced at you, then reached for the notebook again. 

You looked smart.

You stared at the page. 

Then at him. 

Then back at the page, just to be sure the words hadn’t rearranged themselves into something less dangerous. 

“That,” you said carefully, “was either very smooth or deeply manipulative.”

His shoulders lifted in what might have been a shrug. 

“Bonito flakes.”

“You can’t just say fish ingredients after flirting and expect me to recover.”

That got you another tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Definitely laughing. 

You hated how much you wanted to see it again. 

Trying to reclaim some dignity, you uncapped a pen and looked over the rubric. “Fine. Section two. But if I suffer, I’m taking you down with me.”

He nodded solemnly, then wrote:

  Accepted.

For the next several minutes, you actually worked. Or tried to. Every time you focused on the report, something else distracted you: the faint smell of coffee, the steady tap of his pen against the desk, the way he leaned over your notes to point something out without crowding you. 

He communicated mostly through gestures and quick notes. Efficient. Easy to understand. Surprisingly expressive for someone so quiet. 

At one point, you frowned at a sentence you’d written. 

“This sounds terrible.”

Inumaki leaned closer to read it. His shoulder brushed yours for half a second. 

Every coherent thought vacated your body. 

He crossed out one word, replaced it with another, then tapped the page twice. 

Better. 

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

He paused, then slowly reached toward your face. 

Your entire nervous system short-circuited. 

His fingers caught on nothing more scandalous than a strand of hair that had fallen into your eyes. He tucked it gently behind your ear, expression calm, as if this was a completely normal thing to do. 

Then he sat back down and resumed reading. 

You stared at your notebook. 

The words had become meaningless symbols.

Beside you, he wrote one more line and slid it over. 

Need a minute?

You stared at the note. 

Slowly, you lifted your eyes to his. 

He looked perfectly composed. Calm. Innocent even. As if he hadn’t just reached over and rewired your entire brain. 

“No,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine.”

A beat passed. 

“Probably.”

His eyes narrowed slightly in what you were beginning to recognize as amusement. He took the notebook back and wrote again. 

Liar. 

You gasped. “That is slander.”

He underlined the word once, then turned the note book back to you. 

Truth. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Salmon.”

There it was again— that impossible not-smile hiding in his eyes. 

You pointed your pen at him. “I still don’t know what that means. 

He considered this, then wrote carefully:

Depends on tone.

You stared. “You have tones?”

He nodded once. 

Then with maddening patience, he wrote beneath it:

Salmon. — yes

Salmon? — maybe

Salmon… — no

SALMON. — absolutely not. 

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “You’re making that up.”

He pressed a hand to his chest as though wounded. 

Then wrote: 

Would I lie during academics?

“Yes.”

Immediate nod. No shame whatsoever 

You laughed again, softer this time, and the room seemed to settle around it. Some of the nervousness that had followed you in finally began to loosen its grip.

Working with him became strangely easy after that. You wrote while he organized notes, occasionally tapping the page when you missed something obvious. He slid reference books your way before you had to ask, once, without comment, he switched your dying pen for a better one from his desk drawer. 

Thoughtful. Quietly attentive. Dangerous combination. 

At some point, you stretched your arms over your head and groaned. “Jow long have we been doing this?”

He checked his phone, then angled the screen towards you. 

An hour and forty-two minutes. 

“What?” you dropped your arms. “No, that’s fake. Time moved wrong.”

He tilted his head, then wrote:

You complain every ten minutes. It has been peaceful. 

“You’re rude.”

Efficient.

“You’re rude efficiently." 

Another eye-smile.

Then he stood and tipped his head toward the door.. 

“Tuna.”

You blinked. “Follow you?”

He paused, considered, then gave a small approving nod. 

Close enough. 

You pushed back from the chair and trailed after him into the hallway, trying not to look too interested in the fact that you were being casually led somewhere by Inumaki Toge. Very normal behavior. Entirely academic. 

The dorm corridor opened into a shared common area where the building split into separate wings. A low couch sat crookedly in front of a television that looked like it had survived several battles. Someone had abandoned a pair of socks on one armrest. The kitchenette along the back wall was cleaner than expected, though that was likely because at least one responsible person lived here. 

Maybe not the sock owner. 

Inumaki crossed straight to the counter and grabbed two mugs from a cabinet with practiced ease. 

You glanced around. “So this is where everyone hides.”

He nodded once. 

There were signs of life everywhere. A stack of magazines. A training glove tossed onto a chair. Instant noodle cups lined the trash. A brook leaning dramatically in the corner as though it had been abandoned mid argument. 

You pointed at the couch. “Please tell me that’s Panda’s spot.”

His eyes crinkled immediately. 

“Salmon.”

“Knew it.”

You pointed at the broom. “Maki.”

Another nod. 

“And the weirdly neat stack of textbooks?”

He hesitated. 

Then tapped his own chest. 

You stared. “You’re the organized one?”

He lifted his shoulder in a modest shrug. 

“That’s deeply threatening.”

He busied himself with the kettle, but not before you caught the end of another silent laugh. 

“So,” You said, leaning against the counter. “You’re close with them?”

He nodded again, this one softer. Then held up four fingers and tapped each down against the counter one by one. 

Him. 

Maki. 

Panda. 

Yuta. 

Something about the gesture felt fond. Automatic. 

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “That’s nice.”

He glanced at you, then away, like he wasn’t used to anyone saying things like that out loud. 

The kettle began to heat. 

You folded your arms. “Alright. Since we’re on neutral ground now, I need the full translation guide.”

He looked back.

“The fish words,” you said. “I can’t keep living like this.”

His shoulders shook once with silent laughter before he reached for a marker and a magnetic dry erase board from beside the fridge. Apparently this was not the first time someone had demanded explanations. 

You watch as he wrote in neat block letters:

CURSED SPEECH FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE BAD AT CONTEXT CLUES

You gasped. “Rude.”

He underlined the title. 

Then began listing terms. 

You read the board twice then slowly look back at him. “You can swear at people?”

His eyes gleamed. 

“Salmon roe.”

“Oh, so that’s where the personality is. 

He pointed the marker at you like a threat. 

You pointed back. “No, no. I’m learning so much. Quiet, organized, secretly mean—”

“Bonito flakes.”

“See?”

You laughed, and this time he didn’t look away from it. 

Instead, he set the marker down, reaching past you for the sugar and said quietly:

“Kelp.”

You frowned. “You already said hi to me.”

He held your gaze for one long second. 

Then wrong a single word beneath the others. 

Again.

Your heart, apparently, had decided to stop behaving altogether. 

He turned back to the counter as if he hadn't just altered your internal chemistry with a single word and began finishing the coffee. 

You stood there for a moment, collecting what remained of your dignity.

Then, because self-preservation had never been your strongest trait, you said, “You do this on purpose.”

He glanced over his shoulder. 

“Being charming and then pretending not to notice.”

“Bonito flakes.”

“Liar.”

Another eye-smile.

He handed you a mug a moment later, fingers brushing your for the briefest second. Warm ceramic. Warmer skin. You took the cup like it might save your life. 

The two of you settled at the small table near the kitchenette window. Outside, the campus grounds had darkened into evening, lights glowing along the walkways between dorm buildings. 

You took a cautious sip. 

It was perfect. 

Not too bitter, not too sweet, just enough cream. Exactly how you liked it. 

Your eyes narrowed over the rim of the mug. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

He froze for one suspicious second. 

Then slowly drank from his own cup. 

“You guessed.”

He looked away. 

“You asked someone.”

A pause. Then reluctantly, he reached for the board and wrote:

Kugisaki talks a lot.

You barked out a laugh. “Traitor.”

He added beneath it:

Very useful.

“That somehow feels ruder to me.”

“Salmon roe.”

“Well, well?” you guessed. 

His brows lifted. 

“Ha! I’m learning.”

He tapped the table twice in approval. 

You leaned back in your chair, studying him over your mug. “Ok. My turn.”

He tilted his head. 

“I bet you’re the one who keeps this dorm from becoming a landfill.”

Immediate nod. 

“Panda leaves dishes in the sink?”

A longer, suffering nod. 

“Maki threatens everyone with violence if they touch her stuff?”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter. 

“Yes,” you said smugly. “I’m incredible at this.”

You point at him. “And I bet Yuta apologizes when he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

He actually paused, then nodded, slower this time, eyes a little softer. 

You softened to. “Thought so.”

He wrote on the board:

Your turn.

“My turn what?”

Guess about you. 

You snorted. “Absolutely not. 

Too late. He was already writing. 

You act confident when nervous.

You stared. 

“That is vague enough to be cheating.”

He wrote another line. 

You overpack for simple tasks.

Your eyes dropped to the notebook, three pens, spare pencils, folded rubric, two highlighters, and emergency snacks spilling from your bag. 

“Ok, rude.”

Another line.

You talk more when flustered.

Heat crawled up your neck. “I do not.” 

He simply looked at you. 

You lasted three seconds. “Don’t make that face at me.”

His eyes crinkled. 

“Caviar,” you muttered. 

That startled a genuine laugh out of him. 

You nearly dropped your mug. 

“You can laugh,” you accused. 

He pointed at you as if to say your fault.

The coffee went too quickly after that. Conversation came easier than it had any right to, built from scribbled notes, gestures, and your increasingly reckless guesses about the meanings of his vocabulary. 

By the time you checked your phone, you nearly choked. 

“Oh no.”

He looked up immediately. “Tuna?”

“It’s almost curfew.” You shot to your feet. “Why is time evil in this room?”

He checked his own phone, then blinked once in surprise. 

“See?” you said, already gathering your notebook and pens. “Even you didn’t notice.”

He stood and began helping without being asked, stacking loose pages neatly, sliding the rubric into your bag, capping the pen you’d forgotten uncapped. Domestic competence was becoming a serious issue. 

“This is dangerous,” you muttered. 

He glanced up. 

“You being this helpful.”

He wrote quickly on the board and turned it around. 

You came prepared with three pens. 

“That was anxiety, not helpfulness.”

He nodded like he understood completely. 

Which, annoyingly, he probably did. 

Bag packed, coffee finished, heart unstable, you followed him back through the hall to the entrance. 

At your dorm building path, you turned. “Thank you. For the coffee and the project help.”

He nodded once. 

He wrote one final note and held it out. 

See you tomorrow?

Your pulse stumbled. Then you remembered. School. 

He held your gaze. 

“Yes,” you stammer. “Yes, tomorrow.”

“Salmon.”

“Salmon,” you echo.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. 

He stepped back, giving you room to leave. 

“Kelp.”

“Goodnight, Inumaki.”

You made it halfway to your dorm before realizing you were smiling like an idiot. 

Nobara was going to be unbearable about this. 

When class finally ends, chairs scrape back all around you. Bags zip. Conversations explode. You gather your things quickly, eager to escape before anyone can ask invasive questions. 

And then your name is called. 

You freeze. 

Professor Nanami is looking directly at you. 

“Stay a moment.”

Half the room suddenly develops hearing problems while lingering near the door. 

You walk to the front trying to appear like someone who has never done anything embarrassing in her life. 

Nanami closes his notebook. “You were distracted today.”

Straight to the jugular. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology.” He adjusts his glasses. “I’m asking whether something is interfering with your ability to perform at your usual levels.”

You blink. 

This is somehow worse than being scolded. 

“No, sir. Just… tired.”

“His expression remains unreadable. “Then rest. Because you’re capable of better work than what I saw this morning.”

Your spine straightens automatically. 

“Yes sir.”

A beat passes.

Then, more dryly: “And try not to concern yourself with what’s happening in the parking lot before class.” 

Your soul leaves your body. 

“I— what?” 

“The entire left side of the room was facing the window.” He picks up his briefcase. “You’re dismissed. 

You stand there in silence while he walks out another door like he didn’t just kill you neatly and professionally. 

Outside, the afternoon air is cool and bright. Students spill across campus in clusters, laughing and moving around you in waves. 

And there, exactly where he said he’d be, is Choso. 

His car is parked at the curb. Driver’s side window down. One arm resting casually along the frame. Rings glinting in the sunlight. 

He looks like a problem. 

Several people are pretending not to stare. 

You start towards the car before your dignity can stop you. 

Choso notices immediately. He reaches across and pushes the passenger door open from inside without a word. 

No smile. No wave. Just the quiet assumption that of course you’re getting in. 

Honestly, rude of him to be that attractive like that in daylight. 

You’re halfway there when a white Mercedes coupe swings into the loading zone like traffic laws are a suggestion. 

The driver window drops. 

White hair. Sunglasses. Too much confidence. 

“Princess!” Gojo calls. “Perfect timing.”

You stop dead on the sidewalk. 

Choso, still in his car, goes visibly still. 

The passenger door of Gojo’s car opens and Geto steps out carrying an iced coffee and the expression of a man who has accepted suffering as a lifestyle. 

“Hi,” he says pleasantly. “Sorry about him.”

“I’m never sorry,” Gojo says. 

“No one asked,” Geto replies.

Students nearby have slowed to the pace of people pretending not to watch a train derailment. 

You look between them, then towards Choso. “Do you all coordinate entrances?”

“No,” Choso says flatly. 

“Yes,” Gojo says at the exact same time. 

Geto sighs. “Unfortunately.”

Gojo steps out of the car like this is a game show. He steps up beside you, adjusts his sunglasses dramatically, then gestures towards campus like he owns it. 

He places a hand on your shoulder. 

“We’re here with a mission.”

“You’re here causing a disturbance,” Choso says. 

“Semantics.” Gojo points at you. “Party tonight. You’re coming.” 

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“A very selective invite-only event,” he says. “Which is to say anyone with shoes can enter.” 

“It’s at a friend’s place,” Geto adds. “Mostly harmless.”

“Historically inaccurate wording,” Choso mutters. 

You cross your arms. “And why exactly are you inviting me?”

Gojo looks scandalized. “Because you’re fun. Because Choso likes you. Because it would improve the energy dramatically.”

Geto takes a slow sip of his coffee. “The first reason was enough.”

You lance towards Choso, who now looks like he’s considering vehicular manslaughter. 

“Wait,” you say slowly. “He’s going?”

Gojo grins like a shark scenting blood. “Oh, he didn’t tell you.”

Choso opens his door and steps out. 

Everything about the atmosphere changes a little when he stands 

Tall. Quiet. Rings flashing once as he shuts the door. Expression unreadable. 

“I said I might stop by,” he says to you. 

“You said nothing to me,” you reply. 

“That sounds like omission,” Gojo says helpfully. 

“No one asked you,” Choso says. 

“I’m being community-minded.” 

You look back at Choso. “So… are you going?”

“For a little while.” 

“Then I can go.”

“No.”

The word lands immediately, calm, and certain. 

Gojo clutches his chest. “Ooooh.” 

Geto mutters, “He never learns.”

You raise your brows. “No?”

“It’s not your scene.”

“That’s interesting,” you say. “I don’t remember appointing you curator of my scenes.”

Gojo points at you proudly. “Excellent sentence.”

Choso ignores him. “Too many people. Too much drinking. Too much stupidity.” 

“That sounds like every college function.”

“This is worse.”

“How?”

He says nothing. 

Gojo slowly removes his sunglasses. “Ah.”

Get closes his eyes briefly. “Please don’t.”

“Tell her why,” Gojo says cheerfully. “Tell her why you don’t want sweet neighbor girl at one of your parties.”

“They’re not my parties.”

“But you’re always there when things get messy.”

You look between them. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Choso says. 

“It means, Gojo says, circling you both like a menace, “our stoic friend here gets very—”

Geto grabs the back of Gojo’s shirt. “Choose life.” 

“—busy,” Gojo finishes anyway. 

“With what?” You ask. 

“Gojo,” Choso says quietly. 

There’s no volume in it. Somehow that makes it worse. 

Gojo lifts both hands. “Fine, fine. Secrets. Mystery. Brooding. We get it.”

You narrow your eyes at Choso. “You keep doing that.” 

“Doing what.”

“Deciding things for me and then refusing to explain them.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to keep you out of nonsense.”

“What if I decide I like nonsense?”

“You don’t.”

“You sound weirdly confident for someone who met me recently.”

“I listen.” 

That annoyingly effective answer almost works on you. Almost. 

Before you can fire back, a loud engine growls across the lot. 

Every head turns. 

A low black sports car pulls crookedly into a faculty spot like rules are decorative.

The driver's door opens. 

Tall. Broad shouldered. Pink hair slicked back from his face. Black shirt half-buttoned like self-restraint was never taught in his household. Tattoos visible at the collar and hands. 

He steps out slowly, shuts the door with one hand, and surveys the scene like he’d bored already. 

Several girls nearby visibly forget how to stand. 

He noticed. Does not care. 

Then his gaze lands on your group. 

A grin cuts across his face. Sharp and amused. Dangerous in a frat-boy-with-money kind of way.

“Well,” he drawls, walking closer. “This looks annoying.” 

Gojo beams. “Sukuna!”

Geto says, “Unfortunate.”

Choso’s expression grows colder by the second. 

Sukuna’s eyes flick over you once, openly interested, then back to Choso.

“You hiding pretty things from the party now?”

Silence 

You inhale slowly. 

Oh. 

Sukuna stops a few feet away, gaze lingering on you with zero shame. 

“Well?” he says to no one and everyone. “You introducing me, or are we doing the weird silent jealousy thing again?”

Gojo lights up. “See? This is why parties need him.”

“This is why prisons exist,” Geto mutters. 

You’re still staring. 

Not because he’s hot. Though, annoyingly, that is a factor. 

Because— 

You turn sharply towards Choso. 

“Show me a picture of Yuji right now.” 

Everyone pauses. 

Choso blinks once. “What?”

“Your phone. Now.”

Sukuna barks out a laugh. “Oh, I like her already.” 

“Why?” Choso asks slowly. 

“Because your brother and this man have the same face.” 

Gojo doubles over instantly. 

Geto covers his mouth. 

Sukuna’s grin sharpens. “That is the rudest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” 

“It’s not rude if it’s true,” you say. “Same eyes. Same bone structure. Same pink hair. Just… one of you looks like he bites people recreationally.”

“I do,” Sukuna says. 

“See?” 

Gojo is nearly in tears. “Princess, marry me instead.”

“No,” Choso says immediately. 

You whip towards him. “That was fast. 

“It was correct.” 

Choso pulls out his phone with visible reluctance, opens a picture and turns it toward you. 

Yuji, smiling wide, holding Yukine upside down like a baby. 

You look at the phone. 

Then Sukuna. 

Then the phone. 

“Oh my god.”

Sukuna leans over to look. “That kid’s cute.” 

“He’s your evil twin if someone raised you with love,” you say. 

Gojo actually has to brace himself on the car. 

Even Geto laughs this time. 

Sukuna’s eyes narrow with amusement. “Careful. I might start liking you.”

“That would be your first mistake,” Choso says. 

There it is. 

The shift. 

Subtle, but instant.

Sukuna looks at Choso now, grin fading into something older and more interested. 

“Still doing that thing where you pretend you’re above everybody?”

“Still doing that thing where you mistake attention for respect?”

“Ohhh,” Gojo says softly. “History.” 

You glance between them. “How do you two know each other?”

Neither answers. 

Which is, unfortunately, an answer. 

Geto sighs. “Same circles. Different temperaments.”

“Meaning he was boring then too,” Sukuna says. 

“Meaning you were insufferable then too,” Choso replies. 

You fold your arms. “Everyone around me keeps speaking in riddles.”

“Welcome to the friend group,” Gojo says. 

“We’re not a friend group,” Choso says. 

“We’re absolutely a friend group.”

“We are a cautionary tale,” Geto corrects. 

Sukuna’s attention returns to you. 

“Party’s at my place tonight,” he says. “You should come.”

Choso answers before you can.

“She’s not.” 

You turn slowly. “Interesting.” 

Sukuna smirks. “Didn’t ask you.” 

“You never do,” Choso says. 

The air between them tightens. 

Not explosive. 

Worse. 

Familiar. 

You look at Choso. “Why don’t you want me there?”

He doesn’t answer quickly enough. 

Gojo whistles under his breath. 

Sukuna does it for him. 

“Because,” he says lazily. “He knows exactly what kind of people come to my parties.”

“And what kind is that?” you ask. 

“The kind who’d look at you too long,” Sukuna says. 

Choso’s jaw flexes. 

Geto pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you.”

You stare at Choso. 

“Oh.” 

He looks back at you, expression unreadable. 

“It’s not that simple.”

“It sounds incredibly simple. “It isn’t.”

You smile slowly. “So I’m definitely going.” 

Gojo throws both arms up. “YES.”

Sukuna grins. 

Geto says, “Of course.”

And Choso goes very still. 

The passenger door shuts quietly. You put on your seatbelt as Choso gets in and closes his own door 

Silence. 

Campus fades behind you as Choso pulls into traffic. 

You wait exactly twelve seconds. 

“So—” 

“No.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes I do.” 

You smile out the window. “Maybe I was going to thank you for the ride.”

“You weren’t.”

“Maybe I was going to compliment your communication skills.”

“You weren’t.”

You turn towards him. 

“Maybe I was going to say I’m going to that party.”

His grip tightens once on the steering wheel. 

“You’re not going.” 

There it is. 

No audience now.

No calm mask. 

Just certainty edged with something darker. 

You lean back in your seat. 

“And if I do?”

His eyes flick to you briefly, then back to the road. 

“Then I’m going to have a very long night.”