#ieri

But Tuesdays were different.

Tuesdays were dangerous.

Because Tuesday was Day Two.

He'd memorized your cycle three months into dating.

Not on purpose — okay, maybe completely on purpose. He couldn't help it. He noticed things. The way you'd start craving salty stuff instead of sweet. The way you'd curl into a tiny ball and refuse to be touched, then cry because he wasn't touching you. The way you'd text him "i love you", then five minutes later "actually i'm annoyed at you" and then "no i'm not come over"

He'd started marking it on his phone after the third time you'd burst into tears because he "looked at you wrong."

(He had looked at you. Normally. With his normal eyes. It was terrifying.)

So yes. Satoru Gojo — the strongest sorcerer alive, the honored one, the man who could stop a bullet with his brain — had a recurring calendar notification on his phone.

Day One: heating pad. chocolate. do NOT make jokes about her appetite.

Day Two: TREAD LIGHTLY. DO NOT EXIST TOO LOUDLY. BUY MORE CHOCOLATE. oh and maybe a stuffed animal. something round.

Day Three: she'll be hungry and sad. prepare offerings. do not take it personally if she cries at you.

Day Four: almost over. you survived. you did good. buy yourself a treat.

Today was Day Two.

Satoru stood outside your apartment door — your apartment, not his, because he'd learned the hard way that you needed your own space when you were hurting — and listened.

Silence.

That was either very good or very bad.

He knocked. Soft. Gentle. The way you'd knock on a door you weren't sure would open.

Nothing.

He knocked again. "Sweetheart?"

Still nothing.

He used his key — you'd given it to him after he'd camped outside your door for three hours because you'd texted "don't come over" and he'd learned that "don't come over" actually meant "please come over but i'm too proud to ask."

"Just come in," you'd said afterward, exhausted and tear-stained. "Even if I'm mad. Even if I say I don't want you there. Just... come in. Please."

So he did.

The apartment was dark.

Not the nice kind of dark. Not the "let's watch a movie and cuddle" dark. Not romantic dark. Not sleepy dark. The kind of dark that said "I've been lying here for hours thinking about how much everything hurts and also I hate the sun."

He found you on the couch, wrapped in approximately seventeen blankets, with your face shoved into a pillow.

"Hey," he said softly.

The pillow moved. He thought maybe you were looking at him. It was hard to tell.

"I brought things," he said, holding up the bag like a peace offering.

The pillow shifted again. This time, he was pretty sure you were glaring.

"What kind of things," you said. Your voice was flat. Emotionless. Terrifying.

"Good things," he said carefully.

"Define good."

"Chocolate things. Warm things. Soft things." He pulled out the offerings one by one, like a man trying not to startle a wild animal. "Your favorite tea. The expensive one. And- look- I found that heating pad you said was better than your old one. And-" He held up the last item. "A friend."

You sat up.

The blankets fell away from your face. Your eyes were red. Your hair was a disaster. You looked like you'd been crying and also like you wanted to commit murder.

"That's not a friend," you said. "That's cinnamoroll."

"He's friend-shaped."

"He's a stuffed dog, Satoru."

"He's round," he said defensively. "And soft. And he has blue eyes like my eyes. And you said you wanted something to hold onto at night when I'm not here, so-"

"I said that months ago."

"I remember everything you say."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Your lip wobbled.

Oh no, he thought. Oh no no no.

"Don't cry," he said. "Please don't cry. I'll do anything. I'll buy you twenty cinnamoroll plushies. I'll fight the moon. Just-"

You burst into tears.

He was on the couch in half a second.

Not touching you — he'd learned that lesson the hard way (you'd thrown a book at him. it was a paperback, but still). But close. Present. There.

"I hate everything," you sobbed into your hands.

"I know, pretty girl."

"I hate my body. I hate that it hurts. I hate that I'm crying over a stuffed dog that looks like you and I don't even know why."

"I know, baby."

"I hate that you're being so nice because it makes me feel guilty for being mean to you earlier."

He bit back a smile. "I know, sweetheart."

"And I hate that you know."

He paused. Considered his options. "...I'm sorry?"

You looked up at him, tear-streaked and furious and absolutely beautiful. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because you're crying?"

"Don't apologize for my feelings, Satoru."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

You stared at him for a long moment. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. He could see the war happening inside you — the anger and the sadness and the exhaustion, all tangled up together.

Then you pointed at the floor.

"Sit."

He sat.

"On the floor?"

"You're too tall. You make me feel small. Sit on the floor."

He sat on the floor.

From below, he could see your face better. The redness in your cheeks. The way you were holding the stuffed-toy to your chest now, even though you'd pretended not to want it.

"I'm not gonna hit you," you said quietly.

"I know."

"Even though I thought about it."

"...I know."

You let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, my love."

"You just said-"

"I know what I said. I'm allowed to change my mind." He tilted his head, looking up at you. "I'm not scared of you, you know."

You raised an eyebrow. "Liar."

"I'm not scared of you. I'm scared of... hurting you. Or making it worse. Or breathing too loud and having you cry harder." He paused. "Okay, maybe I'm a little scared of you."

Your lips twitched. "A little?"

"Terrified," he admitted. "Absolutely terrified. I'd rather fight a thousand curses than watch you cry and not know how to fix it."

You were quiet for a long time.

Then you reached down and grabbed his hand.

"Come here," you said.

He climbed up onto the couch — slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a small angry animal — and you immediately curled into his side. Your face pressed against his chest. Your hand fisted in his shirt. Cinnamoroll was squished between you.

"Cinnamoroll is stupid," you mumbled.

"I know, princess."

"He has blue eyes like your eyes."

"I know, baby."

"That's why I love him."

His heart stopped. "Yeah?"

"Don't sound so surprised." You looked up at him, and your eyes were still red, but you were smiling. Just a little. "I love you even when I'm angry. Especially when I'm angry. Because you don't leave. Even when I tell you to."

"You told me to leave once."

"And?"

"You texted me 'come back' before I got to the elevator."

You buried your face in his chest. "I was emotional."

"You were," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your hair. "You were also holding a spatula and crying about eggs."

"I don't want to talk about the eggs."

"Okay, sweetheart."

You stayed like that for a long time — him holding you, you holding cinnamoroll, the heating pad warming your abdomen and stomach and the chocolate waiting on the table.

"Satoru?"

"Hm?"

"I want the chocolate now."

He reached for it without moving you from his chest. Because he'd learned. He always learned.

"You're doing that thing," you murmured, mouth half-full of chocolate.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're all gentle and it makes me want to cry again."

"Should I stop?"

"No." You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "Never stop."

He pressed a kiss to your hair. "Wasn't planning on it, pretty girl."

Later — much later — you were asleep on his chest. Still on the couch. Neither of you had moved. The blanket was pulled up to your chin, tucked around you like a cocoon. Cinnamoroll was tucked under your arm — soft, round, white, with little blue eyes. You'd looked at it with swollen eyes and said "His eyes look like your eyes." and he'd almost cried. The heating pad had been kicked somewhere into the blanket nest. The chocolate was gone. There were crumbs on his shirt. He didn't care.

His phone buzzed.

Satoru looked down at you — at your messy hair, your tear-stained cheeks, the way you were holding little Cinnamoroll like it was the most precious thing in the world. A strand of hair had fallen across your face. Very carefully — so carefully — he tucked it behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the curve of your cheek. You didn't stir. Just breathed softly, warm against his chest.

A/N. satoru's replying to shoko!!

He put his phone down and wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. The apartment was quiet. The only light came from the street outside, filtering through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold.

You stirred, just slightly. "Toru?"

"Go back to sleep, my love."

"Mm." You nuzzled closer, the plushie squished between your chests. "Love you."

"Love you too, pretty girl."

"Even on Day Two?"

He smiled into your hair. "Especially on Day Two."

You laughed softly, breath warm against his neck. "You always say that."

"Because it's true."

"Still." You tilted your head up, eyes half-closed, lips curving into a sleepy smile. "You're gonna wear it out."

"Then I'll find a new one." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Day Two and a half. Day Two point five. Day Two-"

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Kiss me and go to sleep."

"Yes ma'am."

He kissed you — soft, slow, tasting like chocolate and your lip balm and something that was just you.

"Go to sleep," he whispered against your mouth.

"You first."

"That's not how it works."

"Don't care."

He laughed quietly, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. His fingers found your hair again — just playing with it now, twisting the ends around his fingertips, feeling how soft it was against his skin. You sighed, melting deeper into his chest.

Cinnamoroll watched from between you, blue eyes round and unblinking, white ears flopped to the side.

"Goodnight, my love."

"Goodnight, Toru."

You were asleep in seconds — your breathing slow, your body heavy against his, your hair still tangled in his fingers.

He stayed awake a little longer.

Counting your breaths. Tracing the shape of your shoulder. Memorizing the way you fit against him. Letting your hair slip through his fingers like silk.

He pressed one last kiss to your hair.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Especially on Day Two."

A/N. SO CUTE !! and yes, i wrote this since im on my period and i need this man to comfort me 🥹💞