Daisy @observerdaisy - Tumblr Blog

Too Little, Too Late (ii)

Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: After the death of the Star Plasma Vessel, Satoru was never the same. The price of his rebirth was you. What happens when you meet again a decade later when he hires you for a job—older but none the wiser?

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: STANDALONE FIC. You don't have to read the first part.

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: Angst, Angst, and Angst. JJK s2 and manga spoilers. Friends to Lovers to Strangers. Exes reuniting. Working with an ex. Yearning tenfold. Mentions of blood, injuries, and illness. Happy ending. Long fic ahead! The real ending is optional for sanity’s sake.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 15.6k words

Part 1 ║ Part 2 ║ Part 3

You never meet the same person twice, not even in the same person.

The death of the Star Plasma Vessel took the sorcery world by storm.

Riko Amanai was the person entrusted to Satoru and Suguru. Entrusting her person—her soul—to the two teen sorcerers only solidified the substantial importance of her role.

“Satoru.” A stabbing sensation pulsed in your lungs from the lack of air.

His hair, an imitation of snow, concealed his eyes and consequently, the fragility of attempting to hold himself together within it. The threat of utterly fracturing was a fever he couldn’t shake off.

As soon as Satoru’s gaze beheld you, he heard a crack in his chest. His steps turned heavy as if he waded through thick mud knee-deep—his eyes kept steady on you. The relief he found in your countenance served to heighten the thumping threat because he knew his safe haven was near.

And he was yours.

The tears you couldn’t cry after seeing Haibara under a white sheet seared your eyes.

Satoru lunged for you, arms wrapping around your waist in a growing tight embrace as you looped yours around his neck. Tears burned through denial and fell freely.

His forehead drops onto your shoulder, nose pressed against the pulse in your neck.

Words weren’t able to carry the pain anymore. The tears were messengers of immeasurable grief and unspeakable love.

The cold of the dampness on your shoulder tapped at your skin, reminding you to hold him tighter. Neither of you said anything but also spoke of everything.

You hated seeing Satoru like this.

The limitless sky you found in his eyes found boundaries, his cheeks have sunken, and his skin dulled from any life, grayer than the usual pinkish healthful glow he held to him.

You hated how the only signs that he was still alive were the nights he zipped awake.

“..oru!”

“...Toru!”

“Satoru!”

Satoru shot up in half a second. Shallow, rapid breaths were being yanked from his lungs; the cold beads of sweat ran down the sides of his face.

The room was too dark, shrouded by the night. His hands frantically search out of instinct and his eyes dart before landing on your worried expression—something familiar, his anchor.

Your hand was warm against the crushing grip of his fingers. He expects a wince but your face is steady. He calls for you in less than a whisper.

“I’m here.” The heat from your body thawed the coils in his muscles.

You wrapped your free arm around his shoulders as you curled up to his side, “I’m here.”

His head falls onto your shoulder. All of his waking senses craved for the company of intimacy.

“Breathe, baby. It’s okay.” Your whispers were the balm to his guarded soul. The hands that scraped gently along his scalp soothed the fading panic.

You sighed in relief once he stopped shaking. The tea you brewed sat lonely and forgotten on the bedside table.

“It’s just a dream, Toru.”

The phantom weight of Riko Amanai’s body lingered on Satoru’s arms. The tantalizing scald of her blood painted his hands despite the cleanliness of his palms.

You knew what was running in his head when his arms clung to your waist with a desperate grip, nose pressed to the column of your neck.

“Stay. Just until I fall asleep.” His voice cracks at the end.

“Always, baby.” You murmur. He shifts his attention to the solace of your embrace; however, the nightmares outdo your comfort by a fraction.

He could break countless times because you would always be there to hold the pieces of him together.

In the morning, Satoru had a mission located in Nagoya. His bag was packed with breakfast you made earlier when the sun was too shy to show; extra clothes for his 3-day stay at the mission site; and all travel necessities one could ever think of.

He gives you a kiss on the cheek before he exits the Jujutsu High grounds. The kiss was cold, a thread between the two of you.

The tea you made for yourself last night remained filled to the mug’s rim and drained into the sink.

“Damnit,” The tears burned into the borders of your eyes. The shake in your shoulders was inconsiderate of your will.

Quiet sniffles paired with deep wheezes filled the dark dorm room.

A nightmare. The image of your friend, Haibara, was scorched into your mind, even if you didn’t want it to. The lack of a smile on his pale face, blood drained out of the fatal wound on his abdomen.

He blamed you. His usual jovial smile forgone as the words spill from his lips,

“It’s all my fault.” The tears furiously roll down your cheeks. One hand gripped onto the empty side of your bed, looking for something familiar.

Maybe if you had been there instead of choosing the easier route—a Grade 3 curse, you wouldn’t have to miss Haibara right now. If you had been stronger, you could’ve taken the mission yourself.

With the back of your hand, you pathetically wiped the endless tears.

The shaky apologies blubbered from your throat, uselessly, “I’m sorry, Yu.” Your knees curled up to your aching chest.

Unconsciously, your blurry gaze turned to your right. The bed was empty beside you, except for your hand that gripped onto the sheet.

Right, Satoru was still busy in Nagoya.

The Strongest. His plate must have been full—Being the strongest yet unable to save both Riko and Haibara. Calling him now, at this hour, would add another layer to his tall stack of problems.

So you don’t.

Time passes in a blur of cold water, thin sheets, and wounds around the skin of your nails; before you knew it, the darkness in the room had been washed out by the morning light.

“The curse is classified to be a Grade 2 curse,” The assistant manager—Ijichi—informs you as he manoeuvres the vehicle you were in.

Nanami sat beside you, gaze trained to the whirring trees. There was a space between the two of you as you hugged each end of the passenger seats.

The space between you two that used to be occupied was still reserved.

“Is that classification for certain?” Nanami’s voice is nothing but methodical.

The words hang heavy in the air, not settling right—in fact, they nudged the wrong way as if an uncomfortable jab to the ribs.

Breaths were taut in Ijichi’s words as he affirmed, “Yes. It has been thoroughly verified.”

Nanami’s frame remained stiff, rigid.

You found yourself checking your flip phone intermittently even if there were no pinging chimes from notifications—and even more so when they did.

“How’s the mission?” Sent 3 hours ago.

The breaks in between Satoru’s messages to you were periods of restless waiting, a constant push-and-pull of wanting to do something but also not at all.

Every time, you ended up on the torturous decision of waiting for his message that sometimes never came at all.

Too absorbed into scanning your empty inbox, you hadn’t realized the car had come to a stop until Nanami opened the door on your side of the car.

“We’re here.” He simply announces. His growing pale blonde hair swept to one side.

You quickly stuff the device into your pocket, the twin to the keychain on Satoru’s phone jangling. “Right. Sorry.”

“How’s the mission?” Sent 9 hours ago.

As you stared at the glowing screen of the flip phone, you wondered if it was too much if you sent another message. It was well within your rights to worry about him, right?

Your fingers type out a message faster than you expected. Brief and just enough to show your concern—the last thing you wanted was to be an annoying girlfriend that only added to his problems.

“Are you doing okay? I haven’t heard from you since yesterday afternoon.” Sent.

The reply came an hour later.

“Sorry sweets. Tired of chasing people for clues here. I have to extend my stay for another 2 days. I’ll make it up to you when I get back <3”

If you weren’t brought down by the fact that he’d be away for longer than you expected, you could have pictured the sweetness of his voice in between the lines.

“Stay safe. Love you, Toru.”

Cloaked by the shadows of the room, you folded the phone in half and set it down next to your pillow.

The darkness only emphasized the cold. You didn’t want to sleep tonight. Despite the exhaustion that weighed on your bones, it wasn’t enough to counter the fear.

For what felt like the nth time for the past weeks, you couldn’t and didn’t.

It’ll be okay, you consoled yourself, because you’ll be back to normal soon.

This is normal.

“Satoru’s in Osaka?” You echoed in surprise.

Shoko nods, cigarette in between her fingers—the third one of the day, you noticed. It was barely noon.

“Yeah,” She sighs, a puff of white smoke curling into the wind. She leans onto the wall behind her, “He told me yesterday.”

You nodded, unsure why your heart churned in your chest, “Then, what about his mission in Nagoya?”

“That? He finished that days ago.”

The ground felt unsteady, feet shifting against it.

Why didn’t he—you didn’t let the thought finish. You shouldn’t demand from a man stripped of stability.

“The cases of curses are rising in the Kansai region afterall,” Shoko lifts her cigarette to her lips, “But I worry he’s burning himself too much.”

Her eyes slide to yours, dark eyebags—almost purple—sagging the skin under her lashes. The fatigue that ages her countenance tells you that she doesn’t have much of the capacity to look after others anymore.

“Take care of him, alright?” Shoko says.

You should take care of him—everyone knew he had it the hardest. He needed you now more than ever, if anything, this was when you should be the most selfless, to be there for everyone at the cost of yourself.

A smile that felt wrong appeared on your face.

“Of course.”

The lack of sleep slowly caught up to you—first, it was the headaches; then it was the endless weariness; then, the dull ache in your chest that never really went away.

Shoko and Nanami were less and less involved in your schedule as the days passed on—you weren't sure if it was them or you who had detached.

You didn’t have time to process it because Satoru was finally returning to Jujutsu High, to you.

Rounding the corner of the building, you noticed a pile of boxes by a door.

“Nanami?” You called out, slowly approaching him, curious despite the thrum in your head.

He turns at your presence, eyes devoid of any life. He murmurs your name in acknowledgement before looking back at the boxes.

As you found your spot beside him, your feet suddenly sunk into the ground.

Haibara’s dorm.

It was being cleared out.

Your eyes darted to the boxes, flaps still open. Some boxes had his clothes—t-shirts he won at timed challenges for the most rice eaten in one sitting; some had small trinkets from his sister.

All were evidence that there had once been a boy called Haibara Yu.

And now, it was being cleared out like it was merely junk.

To be thrown out. To be forgotten.

You spent so much time in this room with Nanami and Yu that you practically memorized where things were.

The only thing that brought you back to reality was the stinging pain on your palms from digging your nails into them.

One day, this room will be occupied. And that student won't ever know who used to be there—who used to sprawl on that bed in snores, why the wooden desk was shattered on the edges and why there were three cup stains on the surface.

Your feet moved unconsciously, turning your heel and walking away without turning back.

Satoru newly climbed the stairs by the gates when your legs took you there.

Your throat tightened. The persistent squeeze of your heart acutely present.

“Satoru.” Nevertheless, a tight smile stretched across your lips like you were trying to hold your face together.

“Sweetheart.” He smiles, though it never quite reaches his eyes.

The natural pull between the two of you led to a soft embrace. But the way your heart twisted made his hug feel alien.

“Let me put my bag in my room then we can have lunch, alright?” He muses, pressing a kiss to your temple that barely registers in your head.

You nodded, watching as he picked up his bag and walked away from you.

It is when he moves further into the premises and leaves you by the gates that you find yourself blinking to keep the tears at bay.

Satoru brings you to a comfortable diner, a little deserted but relaxing.

You enter the small space a step behind him. Together, you sit at a booth across from each other.

The menu had words lined up top to bottom of the page—though you wouldn't know what they said because you weren't reading.

Your brain was too focused on holding onto that thread of composure.

The Jujutsu High students used to frequent this place. Yu and Geto used to come here too—before Geto started detaching himself and before Yu…

The booth was too cold. Too big.

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

You whipped your chin up, locking eyes with Satoru over the menu. You hadn't realized the server was already there, awaiting your order.

You cleared your throat, “I-I’ll have what you're having, Satoru.”

“Then, make it two.” He flashes his charming smile.

A tightness twisted in your chest.

The server repeats the order once and she goes off to the kitchen, leaving you and Satoru.

You downed the glass of water in front of you in an attempt to swallow the burn in your throat.

“How was your mission in Nagoya?” A sad attempt to initiate conversation.

Luckily, Satoru didn't seem to notice it. He lazily sprawls all over the cushions across yours, “It was so-so. Managed to get it done quickly.”

Despite his cheery appearance, there was something off about him. Something hollow.

But you didn't comment on it, fingers fidgeting on the sleeve of your uniform.

“As expected of Gojo Satoru.” Was all you could say.

Before conversation could continue, chimes accompanied by vibrations sounded from Satoru’s pocket.

He fishes out his buzzing flip phone. Something flickers on his expression—you managed to notice.

“I’ll be back. It's Yaga.” He says, promptly standing up and answering the phone on the way to the door.

It was as if you were on autopilot, eyes staring into nothing.

Thankfully, the food arrived quickly. Two bowls of rice with meat slid onto the table as you waited for Satoru.

The jingle of the door announces his return. He scoots into the seat in front of you again, “This looks good! Just as I thought, nothing really beats Tokyo meat~” He muses.

“But then again, nothing beats the Miso in Nagoya—” He starts to ramble but they drift from one ear to the other.

Every now and then, you throw in a,

“Is that so?”

“That's true.”

“You're right.”

You slowly eat the food in front of you though it tasted like sandpaper in your mouth.

“I have another mission tonight.” Satoru suddenly says. It makes you look up from your meal.

“Where?” You ask.

“Nara. I'll be there for 3 days.” He answers. A whole 4 hours away.

“You just got back from Nagoya.” Osaka—a petty part of you wanted to say but opted not to.

His elbows are on the table, looking at you with something a little less than a wince, “I know. But it's Yaga’s orders. I'll wrap it up quickly so I can get back faster.”

Satoru, please say something to stop the pain that ate away in your heart. You wanted to plead.

But your plea comes in a subtle way.

“Be safe, alright? Don't burn yourself out.”

He leaves that night again. You packed him fresh sets of clothes, snacks for his nightly travels, and a note.

“You don't owe anyone your life. I love you.”

If Satoru had the Six Eyes, you had something far greater. The ability to see the person hiding in his shell—the way he laughed a little too loud at lame jokes, the way he stared at nothing.

Maybe this one little note could make his days easier. You knew what it was like to need someone.

Carefully, the bag was zipped up and handed to Satoru. Like usual, he gives you a goodbye kiss and a promise to return quicker than expected.

And like usual, the emptiness of your room ate away at you.

The weeks that passed were a big blur to you, running on a state of numbness.

The mundane routine cycled itself: You wake up with a heaviness in your eyes, you get ready for missions, you do the missions, then you wash and try to sleep. Eat in between if you remember.

The halls felt less welcoming with each day—colder, even. Somehow, there was less life on the campus or maybe it was just you who felt it.

You'd find the others occasionally cheering and chatting in the open field while you retreated to your room.

Was it just you who felt the space?

“Damnit!” A particularly deep gash behind your thigh had you limping back to the company car.

The Grade 3 Curse managed to dig its sharp claws into your leg after a sloppy attack with your cursed technique. The fight was messier than it should have been and longer than usual.

How could you let a Grade 3 Curse even touch you like this?

The assistant manager that accompanied you on this mission exclaimed your name once she spotted your limping form. She quickly ran towards you, slinging your arm over her shoulder in a supportive stance.

“I'll call Shoko-san immediately.”

“No—no, no. Don't tell anyone. We'll go to a hospital.” You insisted with a hiss.

The searing pain that crawled up from your thigh almost made you reconsider but you couldn't risk Satoru knowing about this.

You knew this would only break him even more. Naivety didn't hold you tightly enough to make you think you held no importance to Satoru.

“But—” The young assistant manager tried to resist.

“No. We're going to a hospital and no one hears about this.”

It takes a minute for her to decide, lips pursed into a thin line as her eyes search if you were truly serious. With a hesitant nod, she holds in her sigh and helps you into the car.

She opens the trunk of the vehicle and returns with a thick blue towel.

“Here. Put pressure until we get there.” She presses the cloth against your wound, prompting an audible wince from you at the contact.

“And don't pass out! If you do, I'm taking you to Shoko-san immediately.” The poor assistant manager looked frightened out of her wits.

You nodded, holding the blue towel that began to collect your blood.

When you returned to Jujutsu High, there were stitches sewed into the meat of your thigh, thick gauze atop it, and a visible limp in your step.

Thankfully, you didn't run into anyone during your slow retreat to your room—a small reprieve from the endless hassles you seemed to face.

You flop down onto the bed, careful to lay on your side so as to not irritate the new addition on your body. Utterly defeated by today, you had no appetite or energy.

It has become a habit: before you knew it, your flip phone was already in your hand, browsing through your inbox.

Like what usually happens, there's nothing. The last message in the digital chat with Satoru was always yours.

With a sigh, you drop your phone onto the bed. The bright lights in the room burned through your closed eyelids—but you couldn't sleep without them anymore.

Tomorrow will be better.

Geto Suguru defected from Jujutsu High.

You couldn’t find Satoru when the official sentence had been released.

“In accordance to Article 9 of Jujutsu Regulations, he is subject to execution as a Curse User.”

An air of heaviness pulverized over the Jujutsu High premises. Searching high and low from morning to afternoon, you weren’t able to spot Satoru—not even a trace of him.

Your legs moved despite the punishing agony that shot up from your thigh. Eventually, you stayed with Shoko, offering your quiet presence without forcing conversation.

Geto Suguru, the mellow and composed senior that often strolled with his hands in his pocket, had killed 112 people?

The numbness was replaced with shock, another disengaging feeling that hauled you away from the reality you were already losing touch with.

Satoru returns in the evening.

The jokes and dented smirks that he made his armor was no rival to real vulnerability. He moved like a corpse possessed, arms that didn’t feel like his and legs that felt as if they’d buckle any moment.

He finds you waiting by the oak door of his room.

The way your eyes lit up in worry nearly sent his legs to succumb to the weight. You pushed yourself off the doorframe, “Satoru.”

His arms ached, as if dying to feel your warmth against him. You were already wearing your pajamas—long flowy pants and a shirt too big. Probably his.

“I got you your favo—”

“Not right now, sweetheart.”

You recoiled, stopping a few steps away from him.

Of course, he had just lost his best friend—the friend you knew that was attached to his hip the moment you met them. Where Satoru’s name was, Suguru’s was there.

The cautious expression on your face softened, your hands swung behind you.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m ju—”

“Sweetheart, please. I need to be alone and you're not helping.”

There were storms ravaging in the blue of his eyes, turmoil in every pull and crash of the tide. His shoulders were awfully slack yet the tense shakes of his fingers told you everything you knew.

He was a man unraveling in front of you.

You shrunk in front of him, a nail slipping down on the skin of your fingertips too fast and too harsh behind you.

Suddenly, you were no more than a child under the scrutinizing gaze of your father. A lump formed in your throat, ready to jump at any moment.

What he gave you now was certainty—certainty in that he did not need you. If anything, your presence was one to tolerate. What he needed was quiet, you gave him loud; what he needed was a step back, you gave him the spotlight.

Perhaps it showed on your face; perhaps it didn’t. Satoru’s expression did not change.

Indifferent.

“Good night, Satoru.” You murmured, exerting most of your force in keeping your voice steady.

He enters his dorm room and shuts it with a click. Not a slam. A gentle click.

“I love you.”

Maybe you would have preferred a slam, because then he’d have a reason not to hear the three words that left your lips.

When Satoru entered his room, it was spotless. Bedsheets changed, wafting the lavender scent of detergent, his blanket folded neatly on the bed, and his floor wiped clean.

The distinct scent of you ghosted under his nose.

His arms wanted to reach out for you, his chest wanted to burst with emotions right in front of you. But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t because he didn’t want you to see him like this, like a thread coming undone from what used to be a solid front. Reliable was what he was supposed to be; not this broken state.

His day was compressed into a mess of events he hardly remembered.

A weapon who failed again and again—in the name of protecting what he loved, he wasn’t there when it mattered.

The familiar darkness of your room felt like an embrace, a void that sucked you in without mercy.

Your feet expertly navigate the floor, stepping over takeout cartons and dodging unwashed uniforms. The shadows that haunted the four corners of your tiny room seemed to cave in more and more each day, determined to reach you.

The bed was a tempting deception. The sheets felt rough yet silky, dust collected at the folded lines of a bed that hadn’t been made in weeks.

Still, you sit in your messes.

The warmth on your calf had been bugging you. With the guidance of the moonlight from the crack in the curtains, you noticed the spreading wet patch on your pants.

Peeling them down, the crimson shone like wine under a chandelier with the moon. The thin threads that held your separated skin together had severed, allowing the burgundy waterfalls to stream down your leg.

The sigh that built up pressure in your lungs couldn’t escape. Instead, the tears rolled down your cheeks in hot rivers.

With a blurry vision, you slowly reached for the gauze and pressed it against the gash. You wrapped bandages around your thigh, holding it in place, sucking in your teeth from the stings.

Should you tell Shoko?

Then you remembered: the last time you saw Shoko, she barely spoke—the vestiges of her life clung to the remaining people in her life.

So no.

Maybe you’ll go to a hospital in the morning.

Satoru, from birth, was keenly aware of his potential—especially when the fact of it was shoved down his throat. His life was naught if not for the responsibility destined on his shoulders.

He was untouchable, a god who walked among the best.

He realized this. Yet he selfishly wanted to be with you.

With RCT, he rose to the pinnacle of his capabilities. The obstacles that scarred him were nothing but fuel to his hungry soul.

His undoing was not Riko, not Toji, not even Suguru.

But you.

“Where is Shoko?” Satoru stormed into Yaga’s personal domain. The boy’s hurried footsteps echoed in the generous hall.

Uncharacteristically, Yaga was not sewing, merely staring at nothing with folded arms.

The principal lifts his gaze to the panting white-haired sorcerer, “Shoko is heading to Kyoto at this very moment.” His voice is rough, but not unkind.

“What is it that you urgently require her—”

Satoru does not give another word before turning his heel and raging down the hall, seemingly disordered.

The gears in Satoru’s head refuse to turn, because if they did, he’d realize the mistakes he failed to notice. He enters your room, knocking over cans and stepping on your laundry.

“Baby,” His whispers cracked, far from reassuring. “I’m taking you to a hospital, okay?”

His calloused fingertips ran along your cheeks briefly. Cold.

“Lean into me, sweetheart.” Satoru’s hand slipped under your knees, the other cradled your back. Maybe you would have felt the prick of his chilly skin had it not been for the burning fever.

Satoru’s eyes shook as he took in the warmth that coated his fingers, the dried blood smeared all over one leg, the burgundy stains on the used bandages and sheets.

Your head lolled on his shoulder, far too limp for his liking. Shallow, trembling gasps fanned his neck, too warm against the cool skin.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” His voice is strained as his legs move.

The darkness of your room becomes irrelevant as he steps into the sunlit hall that seemed to mock him.

“You’ll be just fine,” His heart is in his ears.

The lack of a response sends his soul into a panic, “Talk to me, baby.” He begs.

He steals a glance at you for a moment, to check. Your skin was pale as if all your blood had been left behind in week-old sheets and curled strings of bandages.

He didn’t know how long you had been in this state. He didn’t check in on you until Nanami mentioned he hadn't seen you for a week.

He should've.

“Baby,” He lightly shakes you, “Say something.”

Satoru’s eyes tremble in fear—in real fear.

“Y/N, please.”

Then he hears the one thing his heart lives for.

“...Toru.” There. Faint and quiet but there.

“Yes, baby,” He affirms, shakily. The sleek black company car he had called earlier rapidly comes into view. “Keep those pretty eyes open for me.”

He looks down at you, “When you recover, you can tell me all about how big of an asshole I am, alright?”

Satoru sat beside your hospital bed, soaked in your blood.

The machine rhythmically beeped, a sound that would forever haunt him.

The doctor said the deep wound on your thigh had gotten infected. Satoru didn’t even know you were injured until it was almost too late.

He didn’t even know where or how you got hurt. You didn’t tell hi—No, he never asked.

He bows his head low, arms braced on your hospital bed as his eyes shook with exhaustion.

You cleaned his dorm room with that horrible injury for him? And he couldn’t even utter the three words back to you. The thoughts were recalcitrant behind his eyes, rumbling in a fierce guilt.

Fear and love were both foreign feelings to the Strongest.

The image of you lying in a hospital bed, an accumulation of his small mistakes proved the existence of the two emotions.

He knew love was real when it terrified him.

A terrible ache dawdled on every inch of your body, particularly concentrated behind your thigh. The sting pulsed irregularly and at different hostilities—despite their ill will, it was enough to rouse you from a sluggish sleep.

Your eyes peeled open, heavy and swollen.

“Sweetheart.” The voice brushed against your skin softly, familiar and tender.

You turn slightly, minding the ache in your lower half. A disfigured blob of white hair appears in your blurry vision.

But you knew, hazy or not.

“Satoru.” You called out, the word struggling.

“You’re awake.” He murmurs over the sound of beeping, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” You answer, you watch the skin folding in between his brows in real time.

He leans in closer, “Be honest, my love. None of that.”

The hesitation climbs up your throat but sincerity is quicker.

“Like shit.”

A soft smile breaks across his face, “That’s my girl.”

You manage a small chuckle. His hand is a comfort against yours—your hand is warm while the rest of your body is hollow and cold.

“You had me worried, sweetheart.” He admits, elbows on the bed. He drops his forehead against your intertwined hands.

His voice is throaty as he says, “I haven’t been scared like that before.”

“Don’t do that again,” He murmurs, heart spilling before you, “I don’t think I can take it.”

With your other free hand, you placed it on the crown of his head. His blue eyes peak over where your fingers connect, locking with yours.

There was a deep vulnerability in them, a sincerity that only came from a man utterly hagridden. The cobalt in them torrid with desperation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Toru.” You murmured, “Thought’ I could handle it by myself.”

He presses a kiss against your knuckles.

He murmurs against the skin, “Tell me everything next time.”

“I want to know how your days go. Don’t care what it is, I want to know.” He confesses, “If you exorcise a special grade, I want to know how you did it. Even if you just stub your toe, I still want to know.”

“If you ever feel like you need me, I’ll be there for you.” He places a kiss on your fingers, then on your palm, then on your wrist. “In a heartbeat.”

The tears did not register in your head until you saw his expression softening impossibly. His eyes turn gentle and the smile on his lips is fond.

The snivels racked your body, weeks of holding it in flooding out in one expression of relief. The tears roll down your cheeks, chest rising and falling in hiccuping motions.

Satoru releases your joined hands before slowly climbing into the hospital bed. With difficulty due to his large frame, he squeezes into the space beside you.

Instinctively, you curl into him. One arm becomes your pillow while the other trails up and down your back in a soothing pattern.

“Satoru, this bed isn’t made for cuddling,” You laughed wetly, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He presses a tender kiss on your forehead before grinning boyishly down at you.

“When has that stopped us?” He holds you even closer.

His nose is buried into your hair and he allows you to rub your tear-stained cheeks into his chest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He whispers, “I’ve neglected you without realizing it.”

“I'm sorry for what I said that night. I was just overwhelmed. You help me in more ways than one.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll be better for you, sweetheart. I promise you.” He continues, a covenant resting in between his words.

You nod against his chest, sniffling. The warmth of his words mends the nagging affliction that found roots within you, replaced by something deeply like him—hope.

“I love you, Toru.” You tilted your head up, resting your chin on him.

He holds the back of your head like you’re delicate, worth more than life itself.

The wonder in his eyes are epistles of adoration, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

“More than anything.” He nuzzles his nose against yours, eliciting tired giggles from you.

The first week after being discharged from the hospital, things were back to the days before Riko Amanai. As promised, Satoru took up less missions.

What used to be on hold were back running: Silly dates, random sneak-attacks and chases that ended in cuddles, and the sacred ritual of ice cream afternoon runs.

But there was something about Satoru that you couldn't quite reach. Time would heal all, you chose to believe.

The spark of flame burned passionately for days.

But like all flames, there came days where they flickered and dwindled.

“Sweetheart, they need me in Kanazawa. I’ll be back in two days.” He told you, guilt underlying the words.

You turned to him from your spot beside him, ignoring the way your mood fell. You think this was too familiar.

Like a blind believer, you hoped.

“Satoru, you don’t need to feel guilty about going on missions.” You laughed lightly, an attempt to exorcise the ugly feeling in his words.

“You’re too kind,” He kisses your temple, “I’ll finish it quickly and get back to you as soon as I can.”

Too familiar. You watched his back like a movie replaying—a part of you prepared for the fall, the sharp dagger to your gut.

Satoru had his eyes set on a world that did not limit itself to you, but to you, you looked at him like he was yours. Each day without him, a piece of you died, wasting away.

While you were there for him, who was there for you?

You knew dating him wasn’t without challenge—you knew that there were burdens far beyond your understanding. You thought you were ready to bear the load with him, that with him, nothing was impossible.

WIth each moment he spent away from you, there came a reminder. You were weak—Satoru would rather hide his problems because he knew you couldn’t take it; Satoru didn’t see you as reliable, he saw you as a liability.

You were another burden to him and like an idiot, you gave him obligations, more responsibilities past your station. You were weak, you were never dependable. It was for these same reasons that Haibara died.

Sleep escaped you more than you’d like to admit and your smiles were ironed out with each day you were left to be a victim of your mind.

One 2-day mission extended into a 3-day one; 3-day missions turned into 5 days; and 5 days turned into 7. Before you knew it, Satoru was gone more than he was with you.

Suguru was still at large, forming some kind of cult you didn’t quite understand. It was obvious that the rising tensions in the Jujutsu society were because of him. Satoru carried the weight of the world.

Couples always proclaimed about the hard patch of a relationship, that period of constant push-and-pull. Perhaps, that’s the label this interval had.

A tug of war.

With your anniversary nearing, you cleared your schedule for the exciting date.

All you needed was a reminder in the midst of mundane days. You always believed that you and Satoru could connect like nothing changed even after a spell of absence.

Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was hope—you couldn’t tell. It’ll be better. You only needed a reminder to rekindle that flame.

“I’m heading to the restaurant, Toru! I’ll see you there.” The chime of the message being sent vibrated onto your fingers.

You smiled down at the screen, butterflies fluttered in wandering loops inside your stomach.

Donning a navy blue dress, the excess effort proudly displayed itself in your appearance: a new style of makeup, and hair done in the way that you’ve always wanted to try. A necklace hugged your neck, heavy with meaning.

A small way of making you feel like yourself again.

The restaurant was straight out of a romance movie. A classic luxury restaurant in the heart of Tokyo that made you smooth your dress intermittently.

Satoru said he made a reservation and to dress nicely but you didn’t expect this.

With the help of the hospitable staff and without the help of your apparent shyness, the reserved table came into view.

Amidst the hushed chatter and clinks of metal, a table for two sat, overlooking the cityscape of Tokyo. The wine glasses beautifully reflected the incandescent light of the candles on the table, a color of love—golden.

You sat down, cheeks aching from the smile you wore. You accompanied the ripened laughs and clinks of intimate toasts between lovers and families with an awkward gulp and wide, excited eyes.

The table cloth was nice to the feel as you ran your palms along it.

7:32 pm. He’ll be here soon.

“Good evening, miss. Would you like to order?” A kind server in a neat uniform approached you, a notebook and pen in hand.

You flashed a polite smile—far too youthful and vibrant—to the gracious server, “I-I’m waiting for someone. He’ll be here soon.”

The server nods with a smile and strolls to another table.

You checked your beat-up flipphone again. There’s a message from Satoru.

“Something came up with the mission, baby! I’m wrapping it up now <333 !”

7:57 pm. There’s a stupid cheshire smile on your face.

The pair of lovers on the table beside yours get up to leave. Her purse is slung on his shoulder as they walk to the exit with smiles drowning in love.

You nibble on your lip, tapping your foot beneath the table.

8:14 pm. Tokyo traffic is no joke afterall.

Your glass of water has been refilled four times and three different servers have approached you to take your order, you counted.

The keychain on your flip phone feels oddly taunting, your eyes burning holes into the white bunny.

8:33 pm. It’s been an hour.

You’ve been late hours after a fixed meetup time before. This was the exact same thing, only that you were the waiting party.

Your hands reach over to adjust the positions of the utensils on Satoru’s side for the nth time.

He’ll be here soon.

“Good evening, miss,” A server—from earlier, you recognize—nears you. He stands in front of your table with a remorseful expression, “I apologize for bothering you, miss. I would like to inform you that we have a restaurant policy that customers must order to prevent loitering and free up space for walk-in guests.”

You shot up in your seat, “O-Oh, is that so…” You quickly pick up the menu.

The numbers on the handheld board had the potential to drain your bank account dry—right after you recently paid for your mother’s trip abroad.

You immediately point to the cheapest option, knowing exactly where it was on the page. “This, please.” It was a slice of cake though it barely looked like one. More like half a slice of cake. The server jots it down and nods, promptly retreating to fetch your order.

A deep sigh eased from your tense lungs. Your attention returns to the empty inbox of your device.

You reread his message for what felt like the millionth time.

9:05 pm.

The cake tastes like shit.

Too much of everything and lacking everything all at once.

Just as you thought, it was ostentatious with its gold leaves and dried chocolate lines on the plate. The ceramic took up more space than the cake did.

At least it took your mind off Satoru, even if it were only a couple minutes.

The chatter of other guests have become quieter as the conversation reduced into romantic whispers that belonged only to their spheres.

As you pushed a too-hard strawberry across the plate, you could hear the phantom voice of Satoru complaining about the cake.

9:49 pm. Your heart begged Satoru to prove you wrong.

Before the last table could leave, you decided to save what little of your dignity was left and exited the establishment. You gave a brief, quiet thanks—in a pathetic attempt to hold in your sadness—to the valet.

The servers’ and staff’s gazes were piercing hot against you, like stabs to the violent tears that threatened to burst.

They must have seen you waiting all night at the table. They must have thought how pitiful you were, hoping for a man that never showed his face until the restaurant closed.

The place was already far above yourself. They already probably thought you didn't belong.

Embarrassment lingered within you but it was no rival to the heavy hurt that roped your spine.

The cold that bit your skin as you walked down the streets of Tokyo was a slap to your face.

What a fool you were.

“Satoru? Is the mission holding you up?” 8:21 pm.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you’re done!” 8:46 pm.

“You still coming, baby?” 9:01 pm.

“Their cake tastes bad.” 9:53 pm.

“I’m going home.” 10:41 pm.

Tears collect in the pockets of your lids but you stubbornly don’t let them fall. You hug yourself tighter.

Jujutsu High seemed like a hostile place to return to, because Satoru would be there.

A sudden wet, chilly droplet falls onto your hand. Then another on your nose, then more of its siblings on your head. The clicks of your heels on the pavement stopped as you held out your hand.

Passersby quickly clear the streets at the tease of rain. A woman rushes past you with her bag on her head.

“Just great.” You cursed through an exasperated gasp—almost laugh—as the droplets rapidly increased in frequency.

You hailed the nearest taxi before the rain could sour your dispirited soul.

The yellow vehicle drops you off at your childhood home. Luckily, your mom still keeps the key under the potted plant in the windowsill.

The key turns and permits entrance into the house you grew up in. The lights were closed and the shadows that stretched along the walls were accompanied by the muffled splashes of rain outside.

Right, your mom was still abroad. Maybe you were glad for that much.

Your chest tightened, teetering on the edge of breaking—but you don’t let it. A short intake of breath follows your trembling lip.

The space felt too small as if someone held your head down in a full well. Suffocated, you barely process the fact that you kicked your heels off and trudged into your room.

Your phone had been blowing up since the taxi ride—though the chimes were pointless now.

The obsolete vanity in your room, you noticed, wasn’t thrown out.

The old stool complained as you sat down. The young woman who stared at you was unrecognizable. Tears collecting at the rims—and the natural pinkish joy in your cheeks was replaced by artificial powder.

Who was she?

The pressure in your lungs crushed your windpipe.

The door swings open, the sound of the heavy rainfall and Satoru’s heaves bleeding into the room.

The white-haired man spots your back, facing him, as you sit in front of your vanity. From his angle, he can’t see your reflection in the mirror, sending his heart to thump faster.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Satoru rushes in deep breaths, quickly stripping his coat and dropping it onto a nearby chair, “I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have—”

“I have no excuses. I’m so sorry, sweets,” He rambles, trying to close the spot between the two of you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You only unclasp the necklace around your neck.

“I’m sorry, baby,” He breathes, “Are you mad?”

He steps beside you, finally seeing your unmoving expression.

“If you’re mad, you can yell at me. You can even hit me! As much as you want.” He insists. If you didn’t move in time, Satoru might have grabbed your hand.

You stood up, heading to your closet to change out of the suffocating navy blue dress.

“Baby, please.” He pleads, hands landing on your shoulders.

You pause. The corners of your eyes burned and the tears you spent all evening stopping flooded down your cheeks.

“Hey, Hey, Hey—” Satoru murmurs, soft and ridden with guilt. Your legs beneath your knees grow weak and you slowly crouch onto the ground.

Satoru quickly moves in front of you and drops down to your level, hands on your shoulders.

“Baby,” He tries to brush the tears away but you don’t let him, “Sweets, don’t cry.” He shushes in lulling tones.

Your throat burns with salty tears as you gasp and the broken feeling in your chest feels like glass puncturing your lungs.

“Baby—”

“I’m so tired, Satoru,” Your voice breaks at the end, “I’m so so fucking tired.”

Satoru froze, brows stitched together in belated guilt. It’s as if it hurts him to watch you cry.

“I’m tired of waiting for a sign. I’m tired of waiting for you to come back only for you to go away the second you do.”

“I’m tired of pretending like tomorrow’s going to get better when time and time again, it doesn’t.”

Your words feel like poison on your tongue, cracking and painfully honest, “I’m tired of feeling so alone,”

“You’re there, Nanami’s there, Shoko’s there, I’m surrounded by people all the time,” You sniffle, “But I don’t know why I still feel so alone.” Your voice shatters.

Satoru's face is scrunched in pity, the skin around his eyes turning red.

You lifted your gaze to him, cheeks glistening with tears, “I trusted you that we could pull through this, Satoru.”

“And now I’m beginning to think that was a mistake.” You hiccuped.

Your lover seems as if someone ripped his heart out from him. The maturity on his face crashes into pure emotion.

The tears kept falling, “I’m tired of waiting for your promises to come true.”

“I’m tired of being an afterthought. Being there for everyone without getting the same back. I’m tired of being your fool.”

“Give myself back to me, Satoru.” You cried hoarsely with your hands on your face, like you’ve lost something so dear.

Satoru’s hands ball into fists beside his thighs. His head looks down at you, hurt rooted deep in the cerulean blue as if he can’t believe he did this to you.

There was a brief pause, merely filled by your sniffles and cries.

“Do you regret this?” He whispers.

“I’m sorry, Satoru.” You say in broken words.

“Do you want to end this, Y/N?” He asks, as steady as he could be though his eyes betray him.

The lump in his throat bobs. “Do you want me to go?” He asks, voice cracking.

The pause stretches, seemingly infinite until slowly, you make small nods, shaky.

“Just go. Leave! Just leave.”

But what you really meant was Stay. Please stay. Choose to stay.

Your eyes fell to the ground, waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, to fight for you.

His hands linger on your shoulders, hesitant, before pulling away. He stands up and his shoes disappear from your line of sight. His footsteps echo and merge with the hiss of rain outside.

The door closes gently, too gently. The quietness floods in, settling deep and heavy with uncomfortable clarity.

Tears fall onto the back of your hands as your knees land onto the floor. The silence seemed to mock you.

Your eyes dart to the door, blurry and desperate. “Toru?”

It’s closed shut, his coat is still on the chair. When the room falls too quiet and the four walls close in on you, you rose and ran for the door.

The street was dark with only streetlights flickering in the space. The rain on the ground splashes onto your legs, drenching your dress. Hair stuck to your face and the cold breeze from running nipped at your skin.

You searched, turning left and right, breathless. The tears mixed with the rain as you ran.

“Satoru!” The crash of the rain hid the calls of his name.

You wanted to tell him you took it all back. You would give him a chance if he stayed.

“Satoru!” You cried.

That you still loved him.

But he was gone.

And you were alone, running in the midst of mourning the finality.

Shoko sat beside Satoru, his eyes trained on nothing.

“Y/N’s been declared AWOL.” Shoko murmurs, a forgotten cigarette rests in between her fingers. The bags under her eyes were heavier than usual.

Satoru’s gaze was unfocused, hands laced loosely as he rested his elbows on his knees.

Shoko continues, “You’re an idiot, Satoru.”

“I know.”

“The biggest one. The worst kind.”

“I know.”

Silence idles in sore resolution. The smoke fizzles from the cigarette, wafting towards Satoru. But the man doesn’t move.

Shoko sighs lightly. Her limbs move in languid motions as she stands.

Her eyes are focused on something far in the distance. “If you see her again, don’t even bother.” She says with one hand in her pocket.

The gravel crunches under Shoko’s weight, moving further from Satoru.

He doesn’t move. Not an inch.

His coat is still in your house.

Satoru left when you told him to because he believed that he was the one hurting you. He caused you to cry and he was the one who neglected you promise after promise.

If giving you peace meant removing himself from your narrative, Satoru would gladly spend the rest of his life repenting with the punishment of your bruising memory.

You deserved someone who didn’t have his problems; someone who could fulfill promises, someone who didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. He shouldn’t be selfish now, he can’t chase you after all the wrong he’s done to you.

As his final act of love, Satoru lets you go.

Satoru met you when he wasn’t looking for love and lost you when he loved you the most.

11 years later.

The society of sorcerers remained at a steady, relative peace. The number of curses fluctuated across different seasons and new batches of sorcerers graduated and entered.

Peace was shattered when Sukuna’s vessel had been found.

“Gojo-sensei!”

“Sensei!”

Satoru grew from an immature teenager into a reliable teacher. The wild youth on his face had succumbed to the mature serenity he now carried.

“Gojo-sensei, have you ever been in love?” Yuji asks, the light of the TV flashing across his face. One of Yaga’s dolls, Tsukamoto, sleeps peacefully in the boy’s arms.

The movie plays a dramatic scene of a girl running to the love of her life, suspenseful music bouncing off the walls in the tiny basement.

Gojo sits beside Yuji, one long leg crossed over the other. The boy can’t tell if his teacher is thinking or reminiscing, the blindfold obscures much of his thoughts.

“Once.” The now 28 year old sorcerer answers in a lazy drawl.

Yuji’s face lights up. His chest turns to Gojo, curiosity swimming in his wide eyes. The movie becomes nothing but background music.

“Really?! Where is she now? Is she still i—”

Pow! Tsukamoto lands a harsh upper cut on Yuji’s jaw, sending the boy slacking against the couch.

Gojo manages a small chuckle, “You have to focus if you don’t want Tsukamoto doing that again.”

Yuji grumbles a gruff “I got it.” while rubbing the growing soreness on his jaw. He turns back to the movie as Tsukamoto flops back onto his lap.

Love? Gojo thought. There was only one person who came to mind.

“Seriously?!” Nobara exclaims, hands braced on the arms of the chair she was on. Megumi, as usual, doesn’t look surprised.

Yuji nods fervently, “Gojo-sensei told me himself!”

“Well, we obviously have to find her!” Nobara trudges towards Yuji, a woman on a mission. She flops down onto the couch beside him.

Whipping out her phone, she begins by searching through her teachers’ social media platforms—if there were any. Yuji peeks over her shoulder, watching and observing her quick fingers.

“Hey, Fushiguro, do you know anything?” Nobara asks, gaze trained on the screen of her phone.

Megumi answers in a flat tone, “Shoko-san definitely knows about it. From what I overheard, she was Nanami-san’s classmate.”

“Nanamin?!” Yuji exclaims, surprised.

“That makes it a whole lot easier!” Nobara tries to search up their names.

The 20-minute online investigation was, in fact, not easy. The trio forgot one crucial factor: none of their teachers had social media accounts because Jujutsu society was highly secretive.

Except for Gojo, of course, who didn't know what a threat was. He had every social media account he possibly could—sometimes, he'd even instruct them to like his new tiktoks.

But even then, their teacher didn't follow anyone aside from his alt accounts.

“Of course, you guys.” Megumi sighs, “Why did you think they’d post at all?”

“Don’t forget you were looking for it with us, Fushiguro!” Yuji countered as Megumi looked away.

Nobara shoves her phone into the pocket of her skirt. “Well then, all that’s left is to ask Shoko-san, huh?”

“Satoru’s first and only love?” Shoko echoes the question. The two of them nodded eagerly—Megumi was on the side, pretending like his ear wasn’t perked up.

Shoko hums as she ponders. Her deep brown locks had grown past her shoulders; the features of her face became sharper; and the tiredness of her eyes never went away after all these years.

The years gave something that nothing else could: the quiet expertise on her expression.

“Well, there’s definitely only one person.” She leans into her office chair. An opened pack of cigarettes rested on her desk.

Nobara and Yuji nodded, leaning in closer.

“If you want to look for her, don’t.” Shoko states, “She left Jujutsu High when we were second-years.”

“For all we know, she’s probably dead.”

The smiles on the two excited students crashed to the floor, the sparkle in their eyes were blown out like candles. Megumi’s head turned to the door, arms crossed.

“Dead?” Yuji echoed.

Nobara wouldn’t back down, “Could we at least know her name, Shoko-san?”

They didn’t miss the way a small, fond smile appeared on her face,

“Y/N.” Shoko answered.

“Find anything, Kugisaki?” Yuji asks with a mouthful of burger.

The three young teens were in a comfortable diner, burgers and plastic drinks with straws decorated the table.

Nobara shakes her head, leaning into the red cushions of the booth.

“Absolutely nothing.” She groans.

Megumi has crumbs near his mouth when he says, “You probably won’t find anything about her since she’s a sorcerer.”

“If what Shoko-san said was true, then we won’t find anything even if we ask around.”

Nobara pouts and Yuji looks down at his half-eaten burger.

“Right.” Yuji sighs, “That’d be unfortunate.”

Nobara swipes her drink with unwavering determination, “Well, well, that’s just an if! What if we choose to believe the alternative that she’s actually alive!”

Megumi groans while Yuji affirms her drive by nodding excitedly.

“What do you two plan on doing then?” Megumi sighs.

Nobara and Yuji turn to their spiky-haired friend, grins growing slowly in enthusiasm.

“Absolutely nothing!” The two exclaim in unison.

Megumi slaps a hand over his eyes.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji yelled out, body unable to move in time. The Grade 2 Cursed Spirit barrelled towards Megumi; with the rate it’s going, it was going to land a sure hit.

Megumi turns, eyes widening at the sight of the Curse coiling in satisfaction after cornering him. He lifts his hands to summon Nue but the Curse’s reach was faster than his hands could connect.

Yuji nearly slips as he runs towards Megumi from across the room.

Shi—

Megumi closes his eyes, bracing for the impact.

He pants and his heart thrums in his ears.

For a force that never came.

In confusion and pants, the sorcerer cracks his eyes open to find the Curse stunned in front of him. Its flesh starts to swell in odd parts; the discolored skin stretching beyond its limitations before bursting in front of him.

Purple blood rains in the room, splattering all over Megumi and his wide eyes.

What the hell?

“So dirty.” An unfamiliar voice says.

The remnants of the spirit began to dissipate into ash. Yuji stops at the voice, planting his heels firmly on the ground. He holds his tight fists up in a stance.

The two turn to the source of the voice. A figure stands in the crumbled doorway of the abandoned building.

A woman?

“Who are you?!” Yuji exclaims, threateningly.

The woman was certainly beautiful—in her late 20s, Megumi thinks. In one hand, she held a sharp blade. Her hair frames the sides of her face that held nothing but calmness even in the face of two threats.

Unless… She didn’t think of them as threats. Megumi grits his teeth.

You raise your hands, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“If I did intend to, I would have done so and started with him.” You flickered your eyes to the black-haired sorcerer on your right.

As you beheld his appearance, the boy had open wounds on his body, bleeding from his side. It seemed there had been more curses than the one you just exorcised.

You stepped into the room. The pink-haired one raises his fists and the other has his hands ready to summon more of his shikigami.

“I wouldn’t have killed that curse if I wanted to hurt you,” You offered a gentle smile, “You two… you are from Jujutsu High, aren’t you?”

Yuji’s brows furrowed further. His hands drop by a fraction. “How do you know that?”

“Itadori! Fushiguro!” Another voice, a girl’s, echoed from Yuji’s end of the concrete halls. Nobara appears and freezes just behind Yuji upon noticing you.

The girl, with blood running down half of her face, draws a strong posture. She sported the familiar deep blue skirt and top.

“Man, they really didn’t change the uniforms one bit.” A mellow chuckle escapes you. Your arms fall to your sides.

You lean on one hip, “Say, how’s Nanami?”

The three tense, defense stances strengthening. Yuji holds one leg behind the other while Megumi has both hands in front of him, ready to cast his shikigami, and Nobara grips her hammer in a firm fist.

“Nanamin?” Yuji says under his breath.

Something about your expression shifts after what Yuji muttered, Megumi notes. A calm change, a little softer.

“My name is Y/N. I was a Jujutsu High student like you.”

“You’ve become so mature, Shoko.” You smiled, taking a seat beside your old friend that had become a full-fledged doctor.

Fushiguro, you’ve come to know his name, was on one of the beds you spent quite a bit of time on back in the day. Kugisaki was on the adjacent bed.

“Do you still smoke?” You teased.

A reminiscent and fond smile stretches across her face as she crosses her arms, “Four a day.”

Her voice had become smoother—softer in the way that it was mature.

“Some things never change, huh.” A gentle laugh escapes you. “That can’t be healthy for a doctor.”

The warmth in your chest was unmistakable when you were with Shoko, one of the dear friends that you found to miss deeply after you left.

“Trust me, I need it. It was hell after you left.” She utters, throwing one leg over the other.

“I can imagine.”

Her gaze slides to you, “And how are you? Where have you been this whole time?”

“I’m a freelancer now. Of course, no jobs that don’t sit right with me.” You answered, “Life’s been fine I guess.”

“Why don’t you come back here?” She offers, ever so calm.

A chuckle eases out of you, “To Jujutsu High? I think the reason’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” The mellow smile on her face hasn’t disappeared.

Unsynched footfall echoes from the hallway that connected to the room you were in, growing closer with each second.

The door swings open, revealing Itadori and a face you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. Chin tilted high like he owned the room with his shoulders pushed back.

Gojo Satoru.

“Sa—Gojo.” You corrected yourself.

A part of you that remained stuck in the past felt unraveled.

“[Last Name].” He returned with that nostalgic teasing lilt, only deeper and older.

The tension that ballooned in your lungs began to deflate slowly, allowing for a small, reminiscent smile to appear on your visage.

“You’re still the same as ever.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He asks with a smirk.

You leaned into your seat with a smile, “Still an idiot, I see.”

Itadori’s gaze bounces back and forth from Gojo and you. The gears in his head seemingly turned with each statement perfectly countered.

The boy definitely confirmed that you were the girl Gojo had once mentioned.

“Thank you for saving my student.” He starts, after shutting the door.

The golden afternoon light filters into the room, curtains framing the sides of the window. The strong features Satoru grew into caught the light, bathing him in something familiar.

The jaw you used to trace was sharper now, his skin on his cheeks tauter having lost that teenage baby fat. Instead of the circle glasses, he wore a black bandana across his eyes.

You settled into the chair in front of him. He plops down, lazily sprawling as he used to do.

“Shoko told me he’s Toji’s son.”

“He is.” Satoru admits. The bandana outlines the shape of his eyes.

Your heart that was conditioned to stay in place had suddenly learned how to beat again.

“How have you been?” You ask, your hands on the arms of the chair.

He is silent for a moment. You can’t quite read him from the item that concealed the eyes that used to pour out in shameless emotion.

How does Satoru even begin?

He was convinced that he’d lost the one good thing in his life. How does he tell you of the nights he spent drowning in regret, whispering vows to your ghost—how he should have noticed every shake in your smile, the cups of tea that were never drank.

He should have been more selfish—should’ve had more time with you and damned the missions he believed the world needed.

He should have chased you.

How does he tell you that for the past 11 years, he didn’t know where to go after you?

“Good.”

You smiled, “I’m glad you’re happy.”

It killed him. To see your smile flooded in amber light, how the flecks in your eyes didn’t change over the years, reflecting how utterly foolish he was and still is.

Your smile was a clear x-ray of a life he could’ve had if he chose to be with you.

The slight softening of his smile didn’t pass without getting noticed by you.

You start, “Goj—”

“Satoru.” He corrects you.

“Excuse me?”

“Please call me Satoru.” His voice is deep, throaty as if begging.

A pause falls between the two of you for a moment. A fond huff leaves your lips as you lift your gaze to him.

“Satoru.” You nodded.

That name was the subject of your tearful curses at 2am over the past 11 years. A name that you found yourself lamenting in moments where mourning a love so profound got too loud.

“You’ve got a stupid blindfold.”

“I guess.”

“Your shit fashion taste hasn’t changed.” You commented with a small chuckle.

The pitches of your laugh were stabs to his chest. Satoru should have stayed with you. He should have pulled you in closer instead of leaving that night.

But instead of being honest, he slings an arm over the back of the cushioned chair, “What do you mean? My taste has always been great,”

You cock a brow, “So you say.”

The tension in your fingers relaxes, a macabre relief springing in the person you were now.

“You grew up well, Satoru.”

The Strongest’s throat bobs with much difficulty.

“I only came because Fushiguro looked like he was about to drop dead.” An explanation more for yourself than him. You rose from the velvet chair across the man.

Sweat beads at his palms, pulse racing in his throat.

“Bye, Satoru. It was… nice seeing you again.” You smiled, a bag swung over your shoulder as your footsteps abated towards the door.

Before the doorknob makes contact, a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you back. Followed by a scent too familiar and the shadow casting over you.

“I think we can be brutally honest with each other, Y/N.” He whispers, quietly.

“I apologize for what I’m about to say,” His voice rings in your ears, “If you ever want to try again, I’ll be waiting here for you.”

“But if you don’t,” His words struggle to come out.

“Be happy. Please.” His breath fans the back of your neck, sending the hairs on your skin to stand.

11 years had passed but you two were nothing more than stupid teenagers trying to navigate through messy feelings. More breaths leave you than enter your lungs, an undeniable red on the tips of your ears.

You were supposed to hate him. You were still a fool.

You tear your wrist from his grasp, directing a glare in between sequences, “You’re still the same jerk all those years ago.” Sharp. Unforgiving.

He keeps his tingling hand to himself, electricity shooting up his arm as an unreadable smile appears on his face.

“I know.”

You detested how the sound of your name falling from his lips made your heart do leaps in your chest.

Without turning back, you exit the room and shut the door.

11 years had passed. Both of you were older.

But none the wiser.

A few days after your appearance, Shoko had called you for a mere favor; as old friends newly reunited, the feeling of longing for a friend was stronger than you realized.

And so, you returned to the seemingly adversarial facility.

Moreover as you adjusted to the modifications in the establishment, it was also a foreign sensation having to adjust your gaze upwards whenever Satoru’s voice greeted—he was tall before but even more so now.

If there was one thing that didn’t change, it was the way he joked and annoyed you.

“Won’t you accompany me to Sendai, Y/N?” He asks like a child, trailing behind you with his hands in his pockets.

“No thanks.” Your eyes were trained forwards.

“Then how about to Shibuya?” Satoru continues, leaning in to take a peak at your expression every now and then.

A knot formed in between your brows, “Even if it were next door, I’m not joining you, Satoru.”

“I’ll pay for your Kikufuku mochi.” He tries.

“Who says I want mochi?” The groove in your brows deepens. Your hands lift to push a door open but Satoru beats you to it.

He grins at you, bending down to your eye level with a hand on the wood, “Everyone loves mochi.”

Your eyes linger on him in mock disdain, a second too long. Just brief enough that you caught the slight lopsidedness of his smile and for a glimpse of his younger version to flicker through your mind.

You rip your gaze from him as you enter, “You only say that because you want me to go with you.”

The man follows behind you, “You’ve always been smart, Y/N.”

“I’m still not going, Satoru.”

His relentless attempts of stoking the innocent past did not fail to roast the coals in your blood. As you near Shoko’s office, your throat burns from virtually exclaiming at him while he provides a charming smile each time.

“Gojo-sensei is…” Nobara trails off to her two listening friends. The trio had been watching their teacher chase after you like a pup who didn’t know how to give up.

“Terrible at talking to women.” She concludes grimly.

Yuji nods in agreement while Megumi allows a deep, tired sigh to represent him.

Meet me at 10:00am.

A few days after that fateful encounter, life was back on track. It would return to normal, you surmised—Satoru would remain a teacher, surrounded by jovial students and colleagues who praised him, and you would stay doing unstable jobs without the presence of anyone else in your life.

Living what used to be your fears felt less daunting than you expected—because they didn’t invoke the feeling of standing on a cliffside. Instead, fear elicited a skill: the skill of detaching yourself.

Sadness, anger, joy, greed, pride were emotions you stowed away, vowed to lock in a vault in an attempt to remove that godforsaken illusion that drove people mad—love.

That didn’t stop the way your steps faltered at the sight of a lady’s white purse; the way your eyes made a double-take when a brand released a blue and white clothesline in their shop windows; or the way you stopped and stared at a gleaming crystalline pond under the summer heat of Tokyo’s parks.

You pushed open the doors to a café.

Swallowing the distractions down, you willed yourself to focus on the job at hand.

You needed this job. The money gained from the previous job was dwindling to its last few bills; if possible, you didn’t want to live on the savings you had put aside from it.

The aroma of brewing coffee beans greeted you, accompanied by the hushed chatter of other guests. The space was small enough that you could view the heads of customers from your spot at the entryway.

A guy wearing blue. You had to search for a guy wearing blue, the one who hired you.

“Y/N, right?” A voice called, merely a few paces away.

You turned to the source.

Your heart stopped like someone had stepped on it.

Because in the booth right beside you, Satoru was there.

The white-haired sorcerer wore a baby blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The glasses perched on his nose was low enough to reveal the cobalt behind that gazed at you.

No way. You hastily scanned the rest of the café, desperately searching for another person donning a blue shirt.

It can’t be Satoru. It must be a coincidence.

Blobs of brown and black-haired individuals were in your vision, a mess of neutral colors but not blue—never blue.

“If you’re looking for the one who hired you, you’ve already found him.”

You turned back to Satoru with a slit in between your brows, teeth crunching together.

The man, with a small teasing smile, lifts his phone where your text conversation flashed brightly on the screen.

“Meet me at 10:00am.” Written blindingly on the device with hostile clarity.

The hands on beside your thighs balled into tight fists, nails digging into your palms.

“You’re the worst, Satoru.” You hissed, taking a step back to leave the café.

“Wait-!” He exclaimed, promptly standing up.

His too-loud voice gathered the attention of the customers in the small establishment. The gentle chatter dimmed into murmuring silence. The red burned brightly on the tips of your ears, too many eyes suddenly focused on the two of you.

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his stance to a more dignified one, “Hear me out. It’s a serious request.” His gaze never left yours, solid and unyielding despite the noise.

Your knuckles turned white. Something in his expression compelled you to stiffly march one foot in front of the other and slide into the seat across him.

The other guests returned to their own conversations and gradually, the background noise returned.

Stuffing the embarrassment down into the pits of your stomach, you found the courage to muster a glare towards the man in front of you.

He flashes a charming smile in return.

He grabs a menu and slides its twin towards you on the table. “What would you like? My treat.”

“Satoru.” You warned.

He doesn’t stop, his blue eyes roam the pages of the menu. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that images of sweets dominated the laminated board.

“Have you eaten? They have brunch options—salads, sandwiches, pasta. There are also sweets. If you plan to get the milkshake, I’d recommend the chocolate one, the strawberry flavor is way too artifici—”

“Satoru!” You warned him again, louder, slamming the menu onto the table. The cutlery and glass clatter at the force.

The nearby guests turned to look at you, curiosity swimming in their eyes.

He lifts his gaze towards you, peering over the edge of the menu in his hands.

He doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t click his tongue. He sets down the menu back onto the table, “Two plates of pasta it is.”

You swear you almost got up and left if he hadn’t pointed at the sign stipulating the café’s policy: No loitering, must order.

You sat stiffly, wallowing in growing frustration as Satoru went to order at the counter. His tall figure, with muscles and shoulders emphasized by the fitted shirt, captured the sparkling eyes of ladies at other tables.

A heavy sigh came from you as you rested your cheek onto the palm of your propped up elbow.

Satoru returns with a circular buzzer in his hand.

“You hired me?” You began without a hint of friendliness.

He smiles, “Correct. I did.”

“To have lunch?”

“Yes.”

“You’re paying me 10 million yen to have lunch with you.”

“You’re smart, Y/N.”

“Forget it. Cancel the job.” You placed your palms onto the table, a little too loudly, and moved to the exit. “I don’t want to see you again ever.”

Before you could slide out of the booth, Satoru’s foot reaches out and blocks your path. Your eyes threw daggers at the man who was too calm. Curse his long legs!

“That’s not all.” He adds, eyes peeking above his dark glasses.

“Then get to it.” You warned.

Satoru leans towards you, “You know about Yuji, don’t you?”

You settle back into the cushions, “Itadori?” Your brow raised.

“Yes, exactly. Itadori Yuji. But not just him.”

“I want all my students to become Grade 1 sorcerers,” He explains amidst the sounds of utensils and ceramics clinking.

“And you’re a graded sorcerer.” His hand unravels, gesturing to you flippantly. Piecing the puzzle together, his intentions seem to grow clearer.

“I want you to go on a mission with each of them. Just until you’ve witnessed all of them once. Then make a recommendation to Yaga.” He states.

You crossed your arms firmly, “You want a Jujutsu High exile to recommend your students?”

After withdrawing from Jujutsu High, you weren’t sure what Yaga or the other higher-ups thought of you. As far as you knew, they probably thought you were conspiring with Suguru due to the timing of it all.

“You’re a graded sorcerer, regardless. I don’t think it matters who the recommendation comes from.” He has that lazy drawl, as if he couldn’t care less.

“Why not Nanami? Why me?” Your glare grew deeper from confusion.

Satoru lets out something in between a whine and a groan, “Nanamin’s way too principled to accept my money like this. He said he’ll recognize them when he sees the talent blah blah blah.”

You sighed. Even if it were an excuse, it did seem like the sort of thing Nanami would do.

“10 million yen.” You echoed.

With one arm slung over the back of his seat, a growing smile stretched on his face, “10 million yen.”

The calculations ran in your head at a rapid pace. 10 million yen would be enough to cover your current, somewhat frugal, lifestyle for the next 5 years. If you took other jobs during that time, more money could be added to your savings.

Satoru’s smile softened at your thinking expression, a visage too similar to quiet adoration.

The buzzer vibrated on the table, cutting your thoughts short. Satoru swipes it off from the table before promptly standing up.

“I’ll get our orders,” He offers that familiar smile—only now older—that elicited a momentary churn in your stomach, “Think about it over pasta.”

Satoru strolls casually to the counter, paying the lovesick stares not an ounce of attention.

You stared at his back.

10 million yen was certainly a lot of money. Money that you needed.

While he was mid-slurp of a pasta noodle, you said, “We have a deal.”

The noodle slaps across his lips, painting the surrounding skin orange. His sparkling gaze found you too engrossed in the meal.

A smile full of sauce crossed his face.

“Then, I’ll let you know when the first mission starts.”

You nodded, turning your fork and watching the noodles curl around the metal.

“This pasta is terrible, Satoru.” Your nose crinkled.

He chuckles, “I’ll buy you a slice of ice cream cake to make up for it.”

“You really do know how to strike a deal.”

“I’ll also eat your leftovers if you can’t stomach it.”

“Now, you’re just being greedy.”

Satoru told you that he’d be texting you about the mission. What you didn’t expect was him letting you know on the day of and arriving on your front door five minutes after.

The chime of your doorbell bounced off the walls of your 1 bedroom apartment. You had just gotten his text, no way it was him, right?

Clad in your mix-matched pajamas and unruly hair that you were flattening with your palms, the view of the door grew nearer as your soft slippers padded across the space.

The door swung open. You hadn’t expected to crane your neck up so early in the morning.

Much less due to Gojo Satoru.

“Morning!” He beams, a too enchanting grin under his usual blindfold.

You squinted, a flicker of a frown downturning the corners of your mouth. The smile on his face only grows.

With an elbow on the doorframe, he leans over you.

“I see you still get grumpy in the mornings.” He teases.

The frown on your visage deepens, an annoyed recess in between your brows.

“That’s because you gave me such a short notice!” You barked.

He grins, “I’m sorry, Y/N,” But he doesn’t seem apologetic at all.

He pushes off the doorframe, “Can I come in?”

The door slams a few inches away from his nose.

Your shoulders shake with seething anger, nostrils flaring. The booming noise of the doorslam still lingers in the small apartment.

“I’ll see you at the car downstairs!” His voice, annoyingly, is still loud and full through the panel.

After being rudely awakened by a rushed text and his grating presence at 7:30am, you were now in a sleek, black car—one of Jujutsu High’s company cars, you noted.

Your shoulder was pressed against the passenger car door, Satoru was on the other end.

Despite the established nature of the mission, it didn’t help the brick lodged in your stomach at the rigid air in the car.

Satoru’s presence only added fuel to the flame.

“Look, Y/N! It’s the restaurant we used to g—”

“How are your injuries, Fushiguro?” You turned to the black-haired student in between the two of you.

“I’m alright now.” The boy answers, notably frustrated by the loud, full voice of the man beside him. The persistent frown on Fushiguro’s countenance was an indication he’d rather crouch in the car’s trunk than sit between two ex-lovers.

“Man, I still remember they had the best crepes in town,” Satoru continues rambling, head thrown back onto the headrest with a smug smirk, “They always added a little bit more whipped cream. You liked the mixed berries, didn’t you, Y/N?”

“They closed down years ago, Satoru.” You sighed, leaning onto your fist that mounted onto the car’s windowsill. The blur of bold, forest green trees and the occasional buildings whizzed past.

“Oho, does that mean you visited them regularly?”

“No comment.” The thrum in your temple was starting to build into a headache.

“Does no comment mean yes?” Satoru prodded, “You said the same thing when I asked you to be a teacher at Jujutsu High.”

A groan rose deep from your soul while the two students turned to look at you. Yuji twisted from the front passenger seat, hazel eyes looking at you with a sparkle.

“You’re going to be a teacher, L/N-san?” Yuji asked—his voice was exactly like Satoru’s, complete and optimistic. The way his eyes light up reminds you of the stray dogs you fed during jobs.

You couldn’t suppress a fond smile, “No. I haven’t accepted Satoru’s offer yet.”

“Yet? That gives me hope, Y/N.” Satoru finally turns to you, the blindfold still concealing the eyes you haven’t seen properly—aside from the small peeks at the cafe.

You haven’t seen them since that conclusive night.

Were they darker now? Were they the same complete crystalline blue that was made to reflect under the planet’s beam? It struck you that the two of you were no longer the teenagers that hollered in laughter at the back of Ijichi’s car.

His wild hair had been tamed into an undercut; the wideness of his shoulders carved by years of training. Likewise, you didn’t remain the same.

The quirk of your lips dropped and your eyes drifted back to the passing buildings in the window.

“Who knows?” You murmured.

Upon arriving on the mission grounds, a revelation came quickly: Satoru Gojo didn’t hold back on his training.

Because the aforementioned teacher was using multiple Grade 1 curses to impart whatever wisdom he was planning to the two students.

“Is this really okay?” You stood on a ledge inside the abandoned hospital beside Satoru, looking down at the two students' attempt to exorcise the gruelling Grade 1 curses.

His hands are shoved into his pockets, head tilted in their direction.

“It’ll be fine.” He answers in a sing-song manner.

Two Grade 1 curses and two students that were no more than Grade 2 sorcerers. This too felt familiar, reeling at the back of your mind—something you’ve forgotten.

A boy with Itadori’s sunny smiles, around the same grade as Itadori now.

Right. Haibara.

Your classmate could have been standing here beside you two. While the world continued to turn, Yu remained stuck in the past. Forever. You slowly lowered yourself and sat on the edge of the precipice, feet dangling in the air.

The cursed tool you often brandished—a sword—became a pillar to rest your head on.

How would Yu have looked grown-up?

Your chin rested on the butt of the sword, eyes sliding towards Satoru.

Would Yu’s expression have the same quiet experience Satoru carried? Would he have grown taller like the sorcerer beside you? Perhaps, he’d also grow to love rice even more as the years go by.

Haibara Yu, the boy regretfully frozen in time. The boy who was your dear friend, the brother-type who would fail at many things except when it came to stealing all your toothpaste.

Satoru turned at the sound of your unconscious chuckle.

“If you feel like it, go on and save them. I’ll be right behind you.”

The wistful thoughts in your head faded at the cut of Satoru’s voice. You lifted your gaze up at him, “Isn’t this supposed to be training?” You asked.

He sets himself down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush for a moment.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Satoru muses with a deep, teasing lilt, “But by the looks of it, the curses will actually kill them.”

You manage a snort, cheek falling onto the butt of your sword as you gaze at him.

“You’re a terrible teacher, you know that?” Though the soft smile on your face offered otherwise.

Despite the black cloth wrapped around his eyes, even a blind man could tell he was looking at you. The corner of his mouth snags up into a smirk, “I’ve been told.”

“I’ve also been told I’m devastatingly handsome, have the strongest techniques there i—”

“And you’re also a blabbermouth.” You interrupt with a growing smile.

“Especially that.”

An unconscious giggle left the smile on your face. Satoru’s shoulders fall ever so slightly, the smile on his face parting at the sound—an angelic tune that he had almost forgotten.

He missed this. He missed having your giggly smiles beside him—especially when they were because of him. He missed the way your nose crinkled slightly, how the sound of your laughter triggered warmth to bloom in his chest unashamed.

You were so beautiful to Satoru.

Even more so now that you were older, now that he knew what he shouldn’t let go of ever again.

The smile on your face mellowed at the sight of his stunned frame. The heat quickly crawled into your cheeks and your pulse began to race in your neck.

No way you just laughed in front of him—because of him.

“Sensei!” Itadori’s voice echoed through the booms of debris crumbling and the blasts of punches flying. Your attention flies to the two boys who were currently flipping and dodging supernatural attacks.

A third Grade 1 curse had appeared just as one was about to be exorcised.

You stood up before the noise in your chest could formulate words. Satoru seems to snap out of what he was thinking, directing his gaze elsewhere. The tip of your sword ran along the concrete in a grating drag as you adjusted your grip.

The lump in your throat was difficult, “Right. They need us.”

Satoru nods without looking at you. The thick air between the two of you began to loom heavier—too uncharacteristic of the proud sorcerer beside you.

You nodded awkwardly before leaping down onto the concrete plain Fushiguro and Itadori were in. The concrete curses as your heels make contact, cracking at the sheer force of the landing.

Fushiguro had wounds drawn along his arms, uniform tattered in numerous places. Itadori had long splits of skin along his chest. Neither injury was enough to impair the performance of the two.

But you were sure to hear from Shoko after.

The clicks of Satoru’s footsteps echoed from behind you, calm and unhurried.

He stops beside you, just enough to catch a comforting earthy aroma and to send your pulse thrumming in your wrists.

If he was awkward, he did well not to show it. He leans down to your side with a small smirk, “Show me what you’ve been doing for the past 11 years, sweetheart.”

The two Cursed Spirits were left to the two students while you and Satoru dealt with the third surprise.

You swung your blade through the air, sending the purple liquid on the metal splattering onto the cracked concrete.

The spirit, a maggot-like figure that was twice the size of you, succumbed to the injuries and crumbled into a pile of ash in the ebbing purple blood running along the ground.

“Looks like we still make a great team, huh?” Satoru boasts with a proud chuckle.

You nudge his side with the blunt end of your sword before sheathing it. The sorcerer feigns a yelp, exaggerating.

The two students were still fighting the cursed spirits—however, they were on the winning end with minimal injuries.

“Your students do deserve the recommenda—”

Tap. Satoru’s finger swipes along your cheek. You flinched at the cold sensation before catching the color on his finger—purple.

A dripping purple liquid from the puddle of the exorcised Grade 1 spirit.

“Satoru,” You seethed while the 28-year old sorcerer scurried off like a middle school girl.

“Childish idiot! Get back here!” You grumbled, running after the giant amidst the crumbling and distorted screams of curses behind you.

You scooped up a handful of the purple blood before chasing after him.

Satoru’s rich laughs echoed through the abandoned hospital.

Yuji pants, red scrapes decorated along his cheek as he stands victorious over the Cursed Spirit he had conquered.

“Where’s Gojo-sensei and Y/N-san?” The boy asks, strangely energetic after the fight.

Fushiguro pats down his tattered sleeve, likewise overcoming his own opponent, “Beats me.”

Striking at an opportune time, the two of you appear from a dark hallway. Satoru was covered in purple blood—the liquid about to disintegrate into ash—while your arm had an odd purple handprint.

“Oh, are you two done?” Satoru chimes from the hallway, casually approaching the two students.

The boys shared the same awkward expression.

“I think we should be asking you that, sensei.”

Back at the Jujutsu High grounds, Gojo was the first one out of the company car, followed by Fushiguro and Yuji.

As soon as you stepped out of the car, a bouquet of flowers bombarded your senses. The petals were shoved up against your nose, forcing you to take a slight step back. A powerful arrangement of your favorite colors, each flower competing in beauty.

Your eyes looked past the bundle and found Satoru behind them. You were about to reject it until you found the receipt of money transferred to your account underneath them.

Your fingers brush against his as you take the bouquet into your arms, “Thank you, Satoru.”

“The rest will follow after every mission with a new student.” He smiles.

You hug the flowers to your chest with something resembling reluctant loathing in your chest—like you want to resist, like you want to turn away.

“You don’t have to give flowers.” You murmured.

“I know. I don’t have to.” He says.

But I want to.

He doesn’t even need to say the words for you to fill in the lines.

“I’m going home.” You quickly say, turning on your heel and dodging him.

The roads surrounding the Jujutsu High campus were sufficiently embedded into your implicit memory that you didn’t need a phone to return to your apartment. The bickering of the two boys were gradually drowned out by whirring engines from passing cars and the silence offered by the orange sky.

However, there was another set of footsteps in sync with yours.

“Satoru.” You fumed.

When you found your feet unwilling to move, he caught up with you, halting right beside yours.

“I’m going home.” You stated, volatile under your bleak words.

He tilts his chin down, as if to look at you through the blindfold, “I know.”

The grip you had on the bouquet’s gathered stems tightened.

“Then why are you here?”

“To walk you home.” He replied, casual like it was a given.

“You have no obligation to do so.”

The way the muscle that feathered in his jaw loosened and how his arms slackened into his pockets re-echoed his answer before he even said anything:

Because I want to.

That didn’t sit right with the rapid tremors in your chest, the breathlessness of your lungs. He doesn’t get to try again, he doesn’t get to make you his fool one more time.

The familiar feeling—the butterflies in your stomach you loathed with an agonizing fury—rushes you, only unsettling the unstable ground you stood upon. The indignant look in your eyes should have chased him away, he should turn around before the curses that began to dance on your tongue took form.

“Go away, Satoru.” You ripped your glare from him and followed the straight road painted in lonesome gold.

Satoru watched your figure draw further from him, his heels rooted into the ground.

He didn’t understand why he began to escort you home in the first place. The second he spotted your person walking home from the dropoff point, all he knew was he didn’t want you to walk alone.

He couldn’t place a name to the magnetic urge, the pull that never failed to make him gravitate towards you.

That was why he found himself walking a step behind you, even as you warned him off.

Each tap of his shoes on the pavement was a jarring clangor to your ears. The resounding noises prodded open an old wound you desperately tried to stitch up.

11 years of trying to undo what he had done to you.

Only for him to unravel you in a few moments.

“Satoru.” You bit out.

But his footsteps don’t relent.

“Satoru. Please.” You croaked.

He stopped abruptly.

Maybe if you pleaded, he’d stop. He’d stop doing all these things for you and send you off with what little of your dignity you had left.

Please. Satoru was always weak to that word if it came from you.

You took the chance and vanished at the bend in the road.

The sigh that left his lungs was heavy, full of a chronic ache that broke him. He ran a hand through his white hair.

The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off when he finally got you in front of him.

You turned corners and took familiar shortcuts. The same vibrant posters from 11 years ago were strung along the bricks of the alleyway, only now torn and dull. Trees that used to be saplings had grown into towering beasts of green.

If focusing on micro-details on the way home was enough to get rid of the ugly sensation in your chest, you’d have been cured completely.

But it wasn’t. Instead of distracting you, the white and blue details only burned your eyes.

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Because of I've reached the block limit for this post. The rest + the ending will be posted on part 3.

First line is a quote from Mahmoud Darwish!

Main inspirations for this fic: Laufey's "Too little, too late" and Taylor Swift's "You are in Love" and "The Prophecy"

As always, interactions are welcomed and appreciated! <3

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