#yuuji

it hadn’t even been a real fight. nothing explosive. no yelling. just a stupid disagreement that grew teeth because neither of you wanted to back down. you’d eaten dinner on opposite sides of the dorm common area, went to bed turned away from each other, limbs stiff, pride burning hotter than the blankets.

and now, standing shoulder to shoulder on the crowded train, neither of you moves first.

megumi reaches up for a strap.

you don’t step closer.

instead, you brace yourself against the pole near the door, jaw set, eyes forward. the train sways again, harder this time, and you wobble, just slightly, but you catch yourself.

you feel his attention shift instantly.

another lurch. closer. sharper.

your shoulder knocks into his chest.

his hand comes out of instinct, fingers closing around your arm before you even register losing balance.

you huff and pull away immediately, “i can do it myself.” you mutter, glaring at him like it’s his fault gravity exists. because at this point it might as well be

megumi’s mouth tightens. “couldn’t tell.”

he lets go.

that hurts more than you expect. because you wanted him to insist on holding onto you.

the train slows to a stop, doors sliding open with a hiss as a cluster of people shove their way out. they’re laughing, careless, not looking where they’re going. one shoulder slams into you, then another.

you stumble forwards, skidding on your feet. but before you can hit the floor, megumi’s there.

this time, you don’t have the chance to protest.

his grip is solid, arm braced around your waist, the other steadying your elbow. you cling for half a second longer than necessary, heart racing, embarrassment flushing hot up your neck.

the group doesn’t even stop.

one of them snickers.

megumi looks up.

his expression goes cold. dark eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jump.

“watch where you’re going,” he snaps.

the laughter dies immediately.

they don’t respond. they don’t apologise. they just hurry off the train as the doors close again. he can see them through the window cackling like it was the funniest thing ever.

megumi watches them go with tense shoulders, fury simmering just under the surface. he exhales through his nose once.

then he looks around the carriage, spots an empty seat, and guides you toward it with a hand between your shoulders.

“sit.”

you want to argue.

but don’t.

you sink into the seat with another irritated huff, folding in on yourself, arms crossed tight as you stare down at your hands. your fingers are still trembling, though you’re not sure if it’s from the stumble or the fight or the fact that he caught you anyway.

megumi doesn’t move to take a more comfortable spot.

instead he plants himself right in front of you, arm braced against the window behind your head, body angled protectively despite himself. like he’s daring the train to try something again.

you don’t look up. even if you want to because he probably looks way too good like this.

then you feel your bag shift.

you blink, confused, as he lifts it from your lap and unzips it without asking.

“h-hey—” you start.

he ignores you, rummaging once before pulling something out.

a protein bar.

he presses it into your hands.

you stare at it, then at him, “when did you—”

“you didn’t eat breakfast.” he says flatly.

your mouth opens. closes.

he’s right.

you’d spent too long standing in front of the mirror with your curling iron, replaying the argument in your head, muttering all the clever comebacks you didn’t think of last night. time slipped. you came out with perfectly bouncy curls but no time left to eat.

you scowl anyway, “shut up.”

you tear the wrapper open and take a bite, chewing more aggressively than necessary.

megumi looks away, eyes on the reflection in the window. “there’s yoghurt in there too.”

you pause mid-chew. your eyes shoot up to his, "so you think i eat too much." it's an accusation. not a question.

he sighs, exhausted at this point, pinching his nose bridge, “yeah.” he says sarcastically.

you almost laugh, because you missed annoying him like this. you swallow, throat tight. “…thanks.”

he doesn’t respond, but when you glance up, just for a second, you catch it; the smallest curve of a smile, adoring and fond, gone the moment you notice.

ଳ i. yuuji

tending to your training wounds

yuuji doesn’t look at you while you train.

neither do you. you're busy. punching.

the gym echoes with the dull, rhythmic thud of fists hitting leather. yours hit harder than necessary—sharp, angry strikes that rattle the chains holding the bag. every punch lands with something extra behind it, frustration bleeding through your knuckles, your shoulders, your breath.

yuuji notices.

of course he does.

he’s on the other side of the room, working another bag, movements usually loose and energetic now stiff and off-tempo. his punches are strong, but unfocused. like he’s holding back from putting too much thought into it. like if he does, he might walk over to you and say something stupid.

again.

and make it worse.

so he doesn’t.

neither of you say a word when training ends.

you peel your gloves off with a scowl, fingers already sore, skin red and tender. yuuji wipes sweat from his neck, sneaks a glance at your hands, then quickly looks away when you catch him.

the walk out of the gym is quiet.

too quiet.

normally he’d be yapping about how hungry he is, or how he definitely nailed that last combo, or asking if you wanna grab food after you've retreated to the showers. now there’s just the hum of the vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the floor.

he stops suddenly.

you keep walking for half a step before realizing he’s not beside you anymore. your head snaps back, annoyed. “what.”

“uh... hold on.” he scratches the back of his head, already digging into his pocket.

you watch him punch in the code on the vending machine. coins clink, one drink drops. then another. then he crouches and pulls out a paper cup, filling it with ice from the dispenser nearby.

he hands you your favourite drink first without thinking, wedging his own between his side and his arm while he makes sure the lid of the ice cup is shut tight.

you stare at it. “what’s that for.”

he finally looks at you.

his eyes are soft and worried and a little sad around the edges.

“your hands,” he says quietly.

you scoff. “they’re fine.”

he steps closer anyway.

gently, he takes your wrists, thumbs barely brushing your skin like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, before pressing the cup carefully against your knuckles.

you hiss despite yourself. the skin's broken and raw from the friction of your knuckles and the inside of the gloves. of course, the gloves were supposed to prevent this from happening. but there wasn't really much they could do when you were punching so hard your humerus rattled inside you.

“see?” he murmurs in response to the small wince of pain on your face, “not fine.”

you want to yank your hands back. say something snippy. keep the wall up just a little longer.

but the way he’s holding you; carefully apologetic, like he’s trying to fix something without knowing how—makes your shoulders sag, a little with guilt and a lot with adoration. he's really cute like this.

you let in, allowing him to tend to your wound.

he presses the ice a little more firmly, eyes flicking between your face and your hands. “you looked really cool,” he says, trying to lighten your mood. “i thought that bag was gonna start crying.”

you snort before you can stop yourself.

he smiles a little at that. relieved.

“you’re not supposed to take it out on yourself,” he adds, quieter now.

you look away. “…i wasn’t.”

he doesn’t argue.

he just nods, like he knows better but won’t push. his grip stays steady, grounding. the cold numbs the sting in your knuckles, and with it, some of the tension curling tight in your chest.

“i hate fighting with you,” he admits suddenly.

you glance back at him.

his shoulders slump, like the words weigh something. “i never know what to do. i don’t wanna make it worse. but i also don’t wanna ignore you.” he laughs softly, awkward. “i’m bad at this.”

“yeah,” you mutter, “i know.”

he winces. then chuckles. “i deserve that.”

the silence settles again— but this time it’s different. softer. easier.

after a moment, he exhales, long and dramatic. “thanks for not turning me into the punching bag.”

you finally meet his eyes. they're hurt, but there's a hint of hope in them.

“…you’re lucky,” you say. “i considered it.”

he grins, bright and familiar. “i knew it.”

he keeps holding your hands until the ice melts down into the cup, until the wounds start to scab and stop aching so much.

and when he finally lets go, he stays close—like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far away again.

ଳ n. kento

making you sleep instead of doomscrolling

the room is dark and quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of nanami’s breathing beside you.

it’s been two hours since the fight.

not a dramatic one. no raised voices. just clipped sentences and carefully chosen words that still managed to bruise. enough to leave you lying stiffly on your side of the bed, back turned to him, arms tucked close to your chest like you might fold in on yourself if you don’t hold tight.

nanami is asleep.

at least, you think he is.

he lies on his back, glasses placed neatly on the bedside table, one arm resting where you usually curl into him. his face is calm. peaceful, strong chest rising and falling deeply. like nothing’s wrong. like he doesn’t care that you’re still wide awake, chest tight, eyes burning as you scroll mindlessly through your phone.

like he doesn't care that you're still sad. cold. lonely. wanting to be held and comforted.

the blue light stings. it hurts to blink.

you’re not even reading anything. just letting the screen fill the silence so you don’t have to think.

you’re halfway through another dumb cat video when the phone is suddenly lifted from your hands.

“hey!—” you protest, startled.

the screen goes black.

nanami places it on the bedside table with quiet finality, face still turned toward the ceiling.

before you can protest, his other hand comes up, broad palm covering your eyes, blocking out the dim glow of the room.

“sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with drowsiness.

you freeze.

“…you were awake?”

“i am now.”

his arm slips around your waist, firm and unyielding, tugging you back against his chest where you belong

you squirm weakly, “i’m not tired.”

his hand stays over your eyes, thumb brushing once over your brow. grounding. warm, “you are.”

you huff, “you don’t get to decide that.”

“i do,” he replies simply. “it’s past midnight. you have an early morning.”

that almost makes you smile.

your shoulders sag despite yourself.

he shifts closer, breath warm against the back of your neck. his voice drops, softer now. “we can finish talking in the morning. when you’re rested.”

you swallow. “what if i’m still mad.”

“then you’ll be mad after eight hours of sleep.”

his logic is infuriating. as usual.

you’re quiet for a long moment, listening to his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. the hand over your eyes relaxes, fingers threading gently through your hair instead, slow and careful like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again.

“…i'm cold,” you murmur, barely audible and a little whiny.

he breathes out a small laugh, “come.”

you shift closer to him, and he lets you snuggle while he pulls the covers fully around you, tucking them snugly under your chin and back so no cool air can sneak under.

"do you want another blanket?" he offers, ready to get up and go down the hall to the linen cabinet at your call.

you shake your head, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt, "no. stay."

he smiles fondly, "i'm here."

you let out a shaky breath, the last of the tension bleeding out of you as exhaustion finally wins. your eyes close beneath his hand. your body melts back into his, fitting where it always does.

nanami presses a brief kiss to the crown of your head.

“sleep,” he repeats, quieter this time.

and this time, you do.

ଳ g. satoru

keeping you warm in the snow

the argument ends stupidly.

not with closure. not with an apology. just too much ego crashing into too much ego in the narrow hallway outside his dorm, words tripping over each other until you snap and turn on your heel.

“i don’t wanna talk to you right now.”

satoru blinks, offended, then smirks infuriatingly, “aww, no?”

you don’t dignify that with a response. turn on your heel before he can remind you that he's a man anymore.

you storm outside instead, the doors whooshing shut behind you, the cold winter morning air slapping you full in the face. only then do you realise—

shit.

your jacket.

you stop for half a second. consider going back. imagine his stupid grin, the way he’d tease you for forgetting it, the way he’d act like he won something.

not happening.

you keep walking.

the track is unusually empty, lights buzzing overhead, the red and white rubber ground cold even through your shoes and socks. you plop down on the sloped grass edge, hugging your knees to your chest. your breath fogs in front of you in quick little puffs.

it’s freezing. the breeze bites your cheeks rosy.

and you’re mad.

and annoyingly, you’re kind of… really sad, actually.

your shoulders start to shake before you can stop them. you sniff hard, scrubbing at your face with the heel of your hand, mortified at yourself for crying over something so dumb.

you don’t hear him approach.

but feel it.

warmth settles over your shoulders, heavy and familiar. fabric brushing your neck. sleeves being tugged over your arms.

you stiffen.

“go... away,” you mutter weakly, not really meaning it all the way.

too late.

he’s already kneeling behind you, methodical in the most satoru way possible. your uniform jacket goes on first. then your scarf, wrapped twice and tucked in snug like he’s done this a hundred times. mittens pulled onto your hands, thumbs squeezed for good measure. lastly, your beanie, tugged down over your ears.

he hums softly, pleased with himself. “there. crisis averted.”

you turn around, glaring up at him. “i didn’t ask.”

he gasps, hand flying to his chest. “wow. i'm just trying to make sure you don't turn into a popsicle.”

“you’re being annoying.”

he grins. “and you’re being cute.”

“satoru.”

he leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “you know you get this little wrinkle right here when you’re pouting?”

he reaches out and pokes your nose.

you flinch back instinctively, swatting at his hand, “don’t touch me!” the truth is you don't care about the way he's babying you. a stupid part of you actually likes it. you just don't want him to look close and notice your watery eyes.

he laughs, bright and shameless, then stills and softens when he really looks at you. his tilts his head.

“hey,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i didn’t mean to upset you.”

you look away, jaw tight. “you treat everything like it’s a joke.”

he sits beside you on the cold track without a second thought, long legs stretched out. “yeah,” he admits. “and sometimes i forget you don’t always wanna be the punchline.”

that shuts you up.

he bumps your shoulder lightly. “i’m sorry. i didn't mean to make you cry. i'll do better.”

you steal a glance at him. he’s not smiling now. not really. just looking at you, waiting for a response.

“…you’re still annoying,” you mumble.

he perks up instantly. “i’ll take that.”

you huff, trying to stay mad, but the warmth he wrapped you in and the way he stays makes it hard.

he nudges your shoulder again. you're shivering. teeth chattering quietly. “c’mon. let’s go inside before you freeze.”

you stand, brushing off your pants, still refusing to look at him. he reaches out automatically, fixing your scarf where it’s slipped, brushing small snowflakes from your hair, then cradles your face in his slender fingers and rubs the last of the tears from your eyes with his thumbs, pressing his lips to your hairline gently.

you turn your head away before he can see your smile, no longer upset, but still not wanting the ego-maniac to win.

ଳ r. sukuna

making you take your medicine

you’re sick.

not the cute kind. not the “stay in bed and be babied” kind. the ugly, miserable, aching, feverish kind where everything feels too loud and your bones hurt and your head won’t stop throbbing and you feel your skull rattle every time you cough into your arm like a poorly victorian child.

and sukuna will not stop hovering. it's sweet. you know it is. you're the only one he's ever this nice and caring to. and you appreciate it. he literally held your hair back while you threw up three separate times today. but you're also moody and you want someone, something to be mad at.

“you have to take it, babe.”

you glare at the small bottle of fever tablets in his hand like it personally insulted you. “i don’t want it.”

“it’s gonna help you.”

“it tastes disgusting.”

"it's a pill, you're not even gonna taste it." he pinches the bridge of his nose, jaw tight. “just take the damn medicine.”

that’s when it slips out. sharp. defensive. ugly.

“you’re always trying to control me.”

the room goes quiet.

sukuna straightens slowly, eyes narrowing. “…control you?”

“yes,” you mumble, already regretting it but too stubborn and miserable to take it back. “i can take care of myself.”

something hard flashes across his face.

“fine,” he says flatly, setting the medicine down with a little more force than necessary. “then i won’t worry about you anymore. i'll go home.”

and then he leaves.

the door clicks shut.

the silence after is worse.

half an hour passes. sukuna's left by now. or so you thought. he's actually sitting in the living room. he couldn't leave you, especially not in this state. he knows you probably feel like shit for saying that. it hit a nerve, so he'll let you stew in it for a little.

you roll onto your side, staring at the wall, throat tight. the fight replays in your head, every word sounding harsher now that your fever’s cooling off just enough to let guilt seep in.

you didn’t mean it.

you’re just sick. and cranky. and tired of feeling like a sweaty wad of snot under the covers.

another ten minutes pass.

you’re still staring at the same spot on the wall when the door opens again.

sukuna comes back in without a word, a mug in his hand. steam curls up from it, smelling faintly of honey and something herbal. he sets it on the bedside table, then nudges it toward you.

“drink.”

"you're still here..?" your eyes widen. you push yourself up, wince, head still heavy with congestion, and take it. “…i’m sorry,” you start quietly. “i didn’t mean—”

“shut up,” he says, not unkindly. “drink.”

you do.

the tea is warm. soothing. it goes down easy, easing the scratch in your throat. you finish it without thinking, not having realised how thirsty and dehydrated you were, then hand the empty mug back to him.

he looks at the empty bottom.

then at you.

then smirks. way too satisfied.

something clicks.

your eyes widen. “…kuna.”

“mhm.”

“…did you just drug me.”

he snorts, clearly proud of himself. “you’re welcome.”

you stare at him, betrayed. “i’m calling the police.”

he rolls his eyes, already pulling the blanket up around you and tucking it tight. “yeah, yeah. do it after your fever's gone.”

you grumble, sinking back into the pillows, "i actually felt bad."

"good." he says, smugly unbothered, putting the mug down on the bedside table and laying beside you.

"i hate you." you whisper softly, as he wraps an arm around you, patting your back soothingly as the medicine finally kicks in, getting you drowsy.

"why, 'cuz i'm controlling?" he mocks. you bury your face in his shoulder with an embarrassed noise, voice muffled as you whine at him to shut up, "alright, alright. go to sleep, stupid."

the last thing you see before drifting off is sukuna watching you, expression softer than he’d ever admit.

prettiest dividers by @anitalenia & @bhavihelps here and here !

​“so,” you murmured, leaning your cheek into your palm, the oversized cuff of his red hoodie bunching up around your wrist. you watched the subtle shift of his jaw as he stared at a fraction. “do you know how to solve for the vertex, or are you just trying to intimidate the numbers into changing themselves?”

​yuji broke out of his trance, his head snapping toward you so fast his neck made a faint popping sound. “what? oh! no, i totally got this. it’s just… a tactical delay. you gotta analyze the enemy before you strike, right? this equation is pretty tricky, but if you look at the… the little slightly curly guy next to the letter… you just gotta move him oveeeer there!” he pointed a broad, calloused finger randomly at a parenthesis, giving you a bright, incredibly confident grin that didn’t reach his wildly panicked eyes. “boom. solved.”

​you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “yuji, that’s a parenthesis.”

​“exactly! a parenthesis! which is basically the cage where the numbers live until we liberate them,” he shot back seamlessly, his chest expanding with pride as he saw the corners of your lips curl upward. he was completely into you. if you told him to fight a special-grade curse with a plastic spoon just to hear your laugh again, he’d already be running down the hallway looking for the cafeteria utensils. “alright, let’s look at the next one. i’m a great tutor. gojo-sensei says i have great spatial awareness, which is basically the same thing as geometry.”

​“we’re doing algebra, yuji.”

​“it’s all connected in the grand tapestry of life,” he insisted, his voice dropping into that breezy register he always used when he was trying to sound reliable.

​you leaned in a little closer, the fabric of your his hoodie brushing against his shoulder. you could feel the heat radiating off him; he’s like a human radiator, a constant source of comfort that you had become entirely addicted to over the past few months. you took a slow sip of the chocolate drink through the straw, letting the sweet, crunchy pieces of meringue dissolve on your tongue before you spoke again, your voice carrying a sudden, playful lilt.

​“hey, yuji?”

​“yeah?” he answered instantly, his hand already tweaking toward the napkin of peeled oranges just in case you needed another piece.

​“what were you and nobara yelling about in the corner earlier?”

​yuji’s entire skeletal structure seemed to lock up. the casual, easygoing posture he had vanished, replaced by the rigid tension of a soldier who had just stepped on a landmine. his fingers froze against the edge of the textbook, the tips turning slightly white.

​“oh,” he squeaked, his voice cracking on the single vowel before he forcibly dragged it back down into a normal register. “that? nothing! totally nothing! just… jujutsu business. tactical strategies. hammer and nail stuff. she was just… giving me a performance review on my… teamwork.”

​“really?” you turned your head on your palm, staring directly into his large, honey-brown eyes. you let a small, knowing smile play at the corners of your lips, your voice dropping into a teasing hum. “because it sounded a lot like she was asking why we weren’t dating. and it sounded a lot like you said you were just a big dummy who follows me around like a stray dog.”

​yuji’s brain completely detonated.

​the flush started at his collarbone, rushing up his neck like a wave of adrenaline before settling into his cheeks, turning his skin an identical shade to his pink hair. his eyes went wide, the pupils shrinking as his mouth opened and closed several times without a single sound coming out. he looked like a fish that had been unexpectedly tossed onto dry land and asked to explain the theory of relativity.

​“i— uh— well— the thing is—” yuji stammered, his hands flying up to chop the air in a series of frantic, disorganized gestures. his internal organs were currently liquefying. he was convinced his heart was beating so hard it was going to burst through his uniform jacket and land right on top of your work. “kugisaki was just… she has a very vivid imagination! very creative! she reads a lot of those magazines with the shiny covers! it’s the humidity, i think! the training room was cold but the air pressure—”

​“yuji,” you chuckled, your heart doing a happy flip at how incredibly affected he was. you reached out, your hand gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic air-chopping. the contact made him shudder, his breath hitching in his throat. “you’re talking gibberish.”

​“gibberish? no! i’m speaking the… the language of… smart people! you— you should know this! because of course! you’re the smartest!” he blurted out, his chest heaving as he tried to process the feeling of your fingers wrapped around his wrist. his brain was rapidly short-circuiting, sending random sparks of vocabulary to his tongue. “the roundness of the orange was… i just wanted to make sure the white strings didn’t… because the fiber can be very aggressive..? on the digestive tract! and the hoodie! the hoodie is a type of clothing! but— but— um! it belongs to the jujutsu high inventory! i’m just the— uhh what do you call that again? uhm— the courier!”

​“the courier?” you teased, leaning even closer, your face just inches from his now. you could see the way his eyelashes were trembling. “so you don’t actually like me? you’re just doing your civic duty?”

​“no! i mean yes! i mean—” yuji stopped dead in his tracks. his mouth stayed open, his chest freezing mid-inhale as he stared at your pretty face, completely trapped by the warmth in your eyes. he wanted to tell you. he wanted to tell you so bad that he thought about you every single second of the day, that his favorite part of waking up was knowing he’d get to walk you to class, that he kept a mental checklist of every single food item you disliked so he could make sure it never touched your plate. he was so desperately devoted to you that it felt like an ache in his bones, mainly his knees.

​he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he tried to form a real, human sentence to explain the sheer magnitude of his feelings. “i just… you’re so incredible. and i didn’t want to ruin—”

​hic.

​yuji clapped both hands over his mouth instantly, his eyes flying open even wider, if that was humanly possible.

​you blinked, staring at him. “did you just—”

​hic.

​his entire shoulders jumped with the force of it. the sudden, massive spike of romantic panic had caused his diaphragm to completely spasm. he sat there, both palms pressed firmly against his lips, his face so red he looked like a ripe tomato, his chest lifting with another muffled hic against his palms.

​you lasted exactly two seconds before you buried your face in your sleeves, your shoulders shaking violently as a loud, delighted burst of laughter echoed through the quiet break room. it’s the most endearing, ridiculous thing you had ever witnessed in your life.

​“yuji,” you gasped out between giggles, lifting your head to look at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “are you hiccuping because you’re nervous?”

​he slowly lowered his hands from his mouth, looking at you with a expression of tragic defeat. “it’s an involuntary physical reaction to extreme uhh.. emotions,” he whispered hoarsely. hic. “my grandfather told me it happens when i’m… overwhelmed by… a pretty girl.”

​“oh, so i’m a pretty girl now?”

​“the prettiest,” yuji blurted out before his filter could stop him. the honesty of it hung in the air between you, raw and sweet and completely genuine. he didn’t try to take it back this time. he just looked at you, his shoulders dropping as his gaze softened, the frantic energy leaving his body even as his cheeks remained bright pink. “i’m really bad at this. i wanted to be smooth. like those guys in the movies who just… say something cool and lean against a sports car. but i don’t have a car, i can’t even drive. and i can’t do a math problem either.”

​you slowly stopped laughing, your gaze softening until it felt like the entire room was wrapped in a warm blanket. slowly, deliberately, you slid your hand down from his wrist, letting your fingers slip into his palm, weaving them between his calloused fingers until your hands were completely locked together.

​yuji looked down at your joined hands, his breath catching again, but this time, the hiccups didn’t come back. his large fingers squeezed yours back instantly, a instinctive, protective grip that he never wanted to loosen.

​“i don’t need you to have a sports car to charm me, yuji,” you said softly, using your free hand to pull the collar of his giant hoodie up a little higher around your chin. “and i don’t need you to know calculus. i just reallyyy like the guy who peels my oranges and makes sure my chocolate drink has the good meringue.”

​yuji stared at you, a slow, radiant warmth spreading from his chest all the way to the tips of his toes. the joy that crashed over him was loud enough to drown out every doubt he’d ever had. a massive, goofy, close-eyed grin broke across his face, his thumb rubbing sweet, comfortng circles against the back of your hand.

​“yeah?” he whispered, his voice incredibly soft as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, sinking into your space with a happy, contented sigh. “then… can i carry you too? even if your shoes are tied?”

​“only if you promise to hold my hand once you put me down,” you murmured, leaning your head against his pink hair.

​“deal,” yuji beamed, completely melting into the fabric of his own hoodie, entirely won over and exactly where he belonged.

a/n: this is so self-indulgent even from the first part. i was gonna specify a business exam, but it might’ve been to specific so i just went for the chocolate drink, ahem. ok, gojo next cs huehue my birthday is later.

‘ perm. tags , @sh0dor1 @beereadzzz @v4mp1r3b4tzz @yukiyaaaa