Chapter Text
“And how does that make you feel?”
You blink, momentarily taken aback, as her question settles into the air between you—a question that seems plucked from every therapy scene you've ever imagined. You can’t help but feel the irony as it brushes up against the complexities of your life. A hum slips out as you search for the right words, as if your mind is rifling through a dusty attic, looking for a thought that captures it all without saying too much.
“About... how I feel opening up to him?” you ask, your words slow and tentative. She nods, her gaze steady, waiting. You exhale, running a hand through your hair, the strands catching at your fingers as you gather your thoughts.
“It feels... liberating,” you say, and the word feels fragile on your tongue. “Like, I don’t know, some invisible weight has loosened its grip.” You realize, with a small, almost hidden smile, how ridiculous it sounds, yet the words ring true.
Of course, you tread carefully, avoiding any mention of the life you lead beyond this quiet room—the world of curses and sorcery that has woven itself around you. Instead, you speak in veiled terms, trying to capture the depth without unraveling the threads. You talk about the weariness that has seeped into your bones, the lingering sense of being pulled in two directions. About the cost of leaving behind that life, only to find yourself drawn back to it like an inevitable tide.
“And do you see him as someone you can trust? Someone who could help you carry this burden?” she presses, her voice soft yet probing, peeling back another layer.
You pause, considering the question with a mixture of caution and curiosity. The answer swirls inside you, elusive but insistent. “I…,” you begin, feeling the words tug at you, demanding honesty. “I don’t want to lean on him, not really. These challenges are mine to bear. But yes… I trust him.” You’re surprised at how true it feels. “He’s… kinder than he lets on. Beneath the walls he puts up, there’s something real.”
“Kind?” she echoes, her voice expectant, urging you to continue. You shift in your seat, feeling her gaze pull at the parts of your thoughts you’ve barely begun to explore.
“He’s… a good listener,” you begin, feeling your words come together carefully, each one like a piece of a puzzle. “Maybe he’s not the best when it comes to offering advice, but he’s always there, quietly supportive. Thoughtful, in his own way.” You let yourself linger on the memories—those small, everyday moments. “He puts our students’ needs first, like, always. And if he catches me zoning out or looking stressed, he’ll crack a joke, something silly, just to lighten the mood. It works, most of the time.”
Your therapist nods, pen gliding over her notepad. “So, you’d say he’s a positive presence in your life?”
“Yeah,” you respond, feeling the weight of the word settle in your mind. “He is. But… he has his moments. Sometimes he’s a bit childish, you know? Like he’s still learning how to express what he’s feeling.”
She nods knowingly. “That’s common, especially with men. Many find it challenging to tap into their emotional language.”
You give a slight shrug. “Yeah… I get it. I mean, it’s not like I have all the answers either.” You chuckle, a hint of nervousness coloring your laughter, as if revealing more than you intended.
“Have the two of you ever discussed what you’re looking for in… this relationship?” she asks, her tone gentle but inquisitive, like she’s trying to bring something hidden to the surface.
A frown settles over your face as you look down, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on your knee. “No, we haven’t. It’s just… it’s never come up.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Your gaze drops, darting around the room, landing on anything but her eyes. A hot wave of embarrassment creeps up your neck, prickling under your skin. When you let yourself truly examine your relationship with Satoru, you can’t help but feel a strange mix of thrill and regret. It was like a game you’d stumbled into, two people hiding behind emotional walls, teasing each other, pushing limits, daring the other to see beyond them. There was an exhilaration in the flirtation, a rush in the secrets and half-spoken words—but it left your heart twisting, unsure where playfulness ended and honesty began.
“I…” You hesitate, then let out a long, quiet sigh. “I guess I’m afraid of what he might say. Of what I might hear.”
Her brow lifts, a small signal that she wants you to keep going. “Do you think there’s a chance he doesn’t want the same things you do?”
You swallow, feeling a pang of self-consciousness. “Yeah,” you admit, feeling silly even voicing it. “I mean, maybe this… whole thing between us was a mistake.” You run a hand through your hair, fingers pressing into your scalp as if the motion might clear your thoughts. “We’re coworkers. Sometimes he’s completely unreadable. And the rest, he’s this… jokester, always brushing things off like nothing ever gets to him. Sometimes I think he uses that playful mask to hide what’s really going on inside.” You can’t stop the words tumbling out now. “And it’s like we’re on totally different levels when it comes to… everything. He’s got this strength—power, really—that I can’t even imagine. And—”
“Power?” she interrupts, her voice sharpening with interest as she leans forward, eyes narrowing as though she can see the thoughts you’re holding back. “What do you mean by that? By ‘strength,’ ‘power’?”
“S-status!” you say quickly, scrambling to redirect. “He comes from a… very prestigious family.” You stumble over the words, careful, wary. “I’m… well, I’m no one special. He’s got all these… connections.” You trail off, the final word coming out almost as a question, hoping she’ll let it go, let you slip past without digging too deep.
She raises an eyebrow, clearly aware you’re leaving pieces out, but she simply nods, giving you the grace of silence.
“Ah, I see.” Her pen scratches lightly against the page as she notes something down. “And I take it that makes you feel uneasy?”
You nod, grateful she can sense the weight of it without you needing to spell out every detail. “Yeah, it does,” you admit, a small current of relief coursing through you.
She leans forward, her expression softening, offering a comforting smile that feels like a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty. “Communication is essential in any relationship,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “If you want things to move forward with Satoru, honesty about your feelings is the place to start. And remember,” she adds with a reassuring glint in her eye, “rejection, if it comes, doesn’t diminish your worth. You’re navigating something unique, something delicate.”
Unique, you think, though her words brush close to calling it what it is—messy. But there’s a warmth in her voice, a recognition of how much he means to you, and it stirs a flicker of hope. “I can see that he’s important to you. I want to see you happy, whatever that looks like.”
You thank her, letting the conversation drift to other subjects, moving away from the tangled web that is your almost-relationship. You talk about the nuances of daily life, touch briefly on old wounds and the scars they’ve left behind. She offers advice, weaving words of reassurance, and you take it in, absorbing what you can. It’s comforting, despite how much of your life remains hidden from her—the part where you spend your days and nights confronting forces most people can’t even imagine. But that’s a secret you can’t share; the risk is too high, both for her and for you.
When your session ends, you thank her once more, feeling a shade lighter than when you arrived, like some invisible weight has shifted ever so slightly. On the walk home, her words echo in your mind, a reminder of the steps you’ve been avoiding. You think about what it would mean to open up to Satoru, to tell him what’s buried beneath the layers of flirting and banter. It’s a nerve-wracking thought, stirring a strange twist of excitement and dread deep in your stomach, but you know the conversation can’t stay unspoken forever.
Today is your day off, and you’re determined to spend it without the looming shadow of complicated relationships or the emotional knots that come with them. A low-key hangout with Shoko and Utahime seems like the perfect antidote, a chance to recharge in the company of friends who won’t pry too much—or so you hope. But the moment you slide into your seat at the pub, Utahime’s eyes flash with all the fiery energy she’s been saving just for you.
“I heard about your… situation… with that… disrespectful idiot.” She spits out each word as though it tastes bitter, her tone sharp with judgment. A tiny vein pulses on her forehead, and you have to bite back a laugh, her outrage both sincere and slightly comical. But the chuckle slips out anyway, and it only stokes the fire in her eyes.
“This is not funny!” she snaps, her voice rising, hands clenched on the table. “Do you not have even an ounce of self-respect? Why would you possibly want to get involved with that reckless, arrogant—”
“Utahime,” Shoko interrupts, her tone as mellow as ever, raising her hands in a casual attempt to diffuse the tension. “Let them live their life. They’re adults.” A lazy grin tugs at the corners of her mouth, and though she’s not as vocal as Utahime, there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes that suggests she’s found this whole ordeal rather entertaining.
You throw your hands up in mock defeat, feeling cornered but not entirely without humor. “I don’t know!” you groan, your voice mingling with the sounds of clinking glasses and the low hum of laughter that fills the pub. “It just… happened! It’s not like I went out looking to get entangled with him.” You know you sound like you’re grasping at straws, and the excuse feels flimsy even to you, as if it might dissolve in the hazy pub air.
Around you, the scent of spiced food and beer drifts lazily, the music a soft thrum in the background, just loud enough to make your conversation feel private. Utahime lets out a long, frustrated sigh, crossing her arms as she shakes her head, the disapproval in her narrowed gaze sharp enough to cut through the thickest armor. Shoko, on the other hand, leans back, observing you with that drowsy, cat-like grin, the kind of expression that says she’s seen it all before and isn’t too fazed.
"Well, whatever. Honestly, I thought if anyone could pull you, it’d be Nanami, not that… weirdo.” Utahime rolls her eyes, her expression a blend of resignation and amusement. She throws back a shot of sake, her face contorting as the bitterness hits. “Anyway, we’re closing in on figuring out who the mole is. Definitely someone from the Kyoto branch…” Her words trail off as her gaze shifts, clouded by a hint of sorrow, the kind of look that holds too many unspoken suspicions. “But don’t start asking a million questions yet. We don’t have all the facts, so I can’t name names.”
You sigh, taking a long, contemplative sip of your drink. Emotions churn inside you, caught somewhere between loyalty, frustration, and a strange sense of yearning. Shoko and Utahime are your closest friends, the people who see you without your walls up, yet there are days you wish for a simpler life—a life where your biggest dilemma is the awkwardness of love, not the precarious balance of secrets and allegiances. And the mole situation, as urgent as it may be, feels like one more weight piled onto an already heavy stack.
“Can we, I don’t know… talk about something other than sorcery or jujutsu, just for tonight?” you groan, the frustration seeping out as you slump forward, dropping your head onto the sticky, worn bar table. The faint, sour smell of stale beer and lingering spills mingles in the air, and as your forehead meets the tacky surface, a jolt of instant regret prickles through you, the sensation less than comforting.
Shoko chuckles, a playful glint sparking in her eyes. “Alright, alright. Let’s turn down the intensity for a bit. How about that new drama that’s been on lately? It’s actually really good.”
Utahime’s face lights up immediately, her usual sternness melting away. “Oh! You mean Unrequited Love? I was hooked from the first episode!” She leans forward, her enthusiasm breaking through the tension like sunlight piercing through clouds.
And just like that, the conversation shifts, steering away from the heavy undertow of curses and conspiracies. You let yourself sink into the ease of it, finding comfort in the laughter, gossip, and the shared moments that have nothing to do with the pressures and complexities that usually crowd your life. For a while, you’re just three friends, wrapped in the everyday joy of good company, letting the night slip by without a second thought to anything beyond this booth, this laughter.
The following day starts with a field mission, but this time, Gojo has enough freedom in his schedule to join you in the field. Together, you stand back, observing as the first-year students navigate their latest challenge—a chaotic dance with a throng of grade three curses. Each student's movement is focused and precise, though tinged with the natural hesitance of those still finding their footing in this dangerous world. You lean against the sturdy trunk of a nearby tree, arms folded, your gaze sharp and attentive, absorbing every shift and stumble. At your side, Gojo stands relaxed, hands in his pockets, his head angled just enough to imply both interest and detachment.
Your mind races with silent assessments, cataloging potential strategies and mental notes, yet beneath that practical layer thrums a quiet tension, a sense of unease. You push away from the tree, your focus tightening on the students, particularly on one. "Hey!" you call out, your voice lost in the harsh clash of energy and sound. "Itadori! Watch your flank! Left—your left, for crying out loud!"
A sigh escapes your lips as you catch Gojo’s amused glance, his eyes concealed behind that familiar strip of dark fabric. "Relax. They’re handling it. You really think I'd let them be here if they couldn’t?" His tone is light, self-assured, each word a gentle nudge to ease your concern.
You shake your head, murmuring, “I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier.” You fall silent again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him as the battle plays out before you, but your mind drifts elsewhere, to fragmented conversations from the past; your therapist's steady voice urging you to open up, not just with anyone but with him. It’s an idea that lingers, unsettling and yet oddly compelling.
You glance sidelong at Gojo, contemplating the mysteries you’ve never quite been able to unravel about him—the chapters of his story that remain closed, the tragedies you sense beneath his easy smile, the dreams that flicker behind that indomitable gaze. And standing here, you’re unexpectedly reminded of everyone in your life, of Shoko’s quiet resilience, of Utahime’s sharp humor. It dawns on you that, together, you all form something resembling family—an odd little group bound by something you can’t quite name.
Family. A word that has always felt out of reach to you, like an intangible concept made for others but not for yourself. It’s as if you’re always at the periphery, observing but never truly belonging, watching from outside a circle you can see but never touch. The warmth of it, the purity of it, has always been just that—a warmth others felt while you stood beyond its edges, feeling only the cold.
"What’re you thinking about, huh?” Gojo’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting the vague suggestion of his eyes through the black fabric, and a laugh bubbles up despite yourself. “What’s so funny?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, the faintest hint of curiosity glinting in his hidden expression.
"Ah, just thinking about you," you admit, letting the words slip out with a casual shrug, though there’s a spark of something deeper beneath the nonchalance. The reaction is instant—his face brightens, a glint of mischief lighting his eyes, and a small, self-assured smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, really?" he drawls, a teasing edge laced through his curiosity. "Care to elaborate?"
You pause, letting a trace of amusement color your voice as you deflect, “Yeah… I was just thinking about how big your head is.” A playful dodge, an easy mask, hiding the quiet tangle of thoughts you aren’t ready to untangle in front of him. The truth—that there’s something compelling you to know him more, to uncover the chapters of his life hidden behind his usual swagger—feels too vulnerable, too delicate, as if the smallest breeze could scatter it.
His grin widens, and though his eyes are veiled behind that dark blindfold, you can sense the knowing look in his gaze. “Oh, no, no, no,” he chides, wagging a finger at you with exaggerated playfulness, as though he’s calling you out on a harmless prank. "That can't be it. You're not getting off that easy!"
Heat flushes across your cheeks at his insistence, and you struggle to keep your expression in check as he turns to face you fully, closing that small gap between you. But just as the moment stretches into something quieter, more charged, the clamor of curses dispersing pulls you both back to the present. You exhale softly, shifting your gaze from him to the scene beyond, where Yuji and Nobara, triumphant and exhilarated, wave as they bound toward you, their eyes bright with the thrill of victory.
A smile spreads across your face as you watch them, pride swelling within, filling you with a quiet satisfaction. Seeing these students hold their own without your intervention—it’s a feeling that surpasses mere accomplishment. They still have room to grow, but even now, despite everything they’ve endured, they shine with a resilience that refuses to dim.
“You did it! How’re you feeling?” you call, a touch of warmth slipping into your voice. Yuji glances around, his gaze sweeping over the area, double-checking for any stray curses before looking back with a grin.
“Good practice, right?” he replies, his enthusiasm radiating. Training sessions light him up, a boundless energy that sometimes strays off course but never fades. Focus is something he’s working on, and each day, you see the small shifts in him, steady as the march of time.
Fushiguro steps closer, his expression composed as always, quietly joining the group with a nod. He exchanges a few words about everyone’s performance, his observations concise, his tone measured. Just then, a hand ruffles your hair, and you start, turning quickly to find Gojo standing beside you, smiling down with that easy, unflappable grin. You hadn’t even noticed him slip behind you, his presence so effortless it borders on ghostly.
“Looks like they won’t be needing us much longer, huh?” he remarks casually, though something in his tone tugs at your heart, stirring an ache you can’t quite ignore. There’s more to his words than the simple idea of independence. A pang settles in your chest at the thought of it—the prospect of separation, of watching them move forward without you there by their side. You’ve grown accustomed to their presence, and even though they’re stronger now, the thought of not being there when they need you most knots your stomach with an unshakable worry.
“Yeah, I suppose… one day,” you murmur, unable to mask the apprehension in your voice. You glance out at them, feeling the weight of the future settle on your shoulders. These moments, standing with them on the field, watching them evolve—it’s a chapter that won’t last forever. Soon enough, they’ll step beyond this place, out of reach, carrying only the lessons and memories you’ve shared. And though the idea fills you with pride, it leaves an ache behind, knowing these days will eventually drift into something only you’ll remember.
Yuji bounds over, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in with a playful shake, his laughter bright and infectious. "Aw, don’t even worry about it! Like we could ever forget you!" he teases, his grin wide and boyish, radiating warmth. "She’s basically our mom, right, guys?" He throws a glance over to Fushiguro and Nobara, eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.
Fushiguro quirks an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation. “No,” he corrects in his usual dry tone, “more like the responsible older sister.” His words, though simple, carry a sincerity that catches you off guard, and a gentle warmth spreads through you at his uncharacteristically sweet remark.
Nobara snickers, hands resting on her hips with that trademark confidence that never seems to falter. “Exactly! A strong, independent woman—smart, fearless, and way too good to be held back by any stupid boys!” she declares, thrusting a finger toward you as though announcing some universal truth. Her gaze is fierce, but there’s an unmistakable fondness behind it.
Yuji pretends to gasp, clutching his chest in mock offense before retaliating with a playful noogie on Nobara’s head. She swats at him, launching into a series of lighthearted insults, and the three of them devolve into cheerful bickering. The lively energy around you is contagious, drawing a soft laugh from you as you reach up to smooth your hair, still ruffled from Gojo’s earlier antics.
The late afternoon light has slipped into a warm amber glow, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, casting everything in deep orange and red tones that paint the world in fiery beauty. Realizing the hour, you give the trio a nod and tell them they’re free to head home. They offer quick, grateful goodbyes before darting off together, laughter trailing in their wake, blending with the rustle of autumn leaves as the cool breeze brushes your face.
You stand there a moment longer, watching their figures recede down the path until they disappear around the bend, their chatter lingering in the air like an echo. A quiet contentment settles over you as their words play back in your mind. Somewhere along the way, you’ve become a trusted guide, an older sibling—or even a surrogate parent—to these students, shaping their lives as much as they’ve touched yours. And the realization is both humbling and extraordinary.
“You know,” Gojo’s voice slices through the quiet, jolting you from your thoughts. "I’m feeling a bit peckish." He pats his stomach with exaggerated drama, his face contorted in mock hunger. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, an unmistakable glint in his eyes. You roll your eyes, fully aware of where this is headed, yet you don’t resist. This, after all, is Satoru’s way of bridging the gaps, of making an ordinary moment his own.
“Strange,” you muse, glancing pointedly at your watch as if in deep contemplation. “I’m feeling a bit hungry myself… what an uncanny coincidence.” As if on cue, your stomach emits a small, incriminating growl, lending weight to your words. You look up at him with a smirk, sharing in the unspoken jest.
Gojo lets out a hearty laugh, pulling you closer with an arm draped just a little too tightly around your shoulders, his usual blend of warmth and mischief. "Well, if that’s the case, let’s not keep our stomachs waiting, shall we?” He steers you down the path, the two of you weaving through streets bathed in the gentle glow of evening, with the sky fading from soft gold to deep blue.
Your journey is filled with the easy rhythm of banter, playful arguments, and the occasional jab that leaves one or both of you chuckling. It’s a reprieve from the relentless demands of sorcery, a momentary escape from curses and chaos—a chance to just be.
As you near your destination, Gojo’s grin shifts into something wry, laced with a touch of feigned superiority. “You know,” he starts, tilting his head down to meet your gaze, “you’re my assistant, but I’ve yet to assign you any actual ‘assistant duties.’ I’d say I’m an incredibly generous boss, wouldn’t you?”
You scoff, eyebrows raised, as if the very idea borders on the absurd. Shaking your head with an air of playful defiance, you see right through his act, this familiar, cheeky ploy to win you over.
“Assistant Instructor,” you correct, fixing him with a piercing look. “As in, I help you teach. Not your personal errand runner.” You cross your arms defiantly. “If you ever expect me to bring you snacks during class, I swear I’m going to lose it.”
He throws his head back, laughter echoing down the empty streets, and pulls you closer with an arm slung snugly around your shoulders, his tone taking on a playful warmth. “Oh, but would that really be so terrible? Think of the possibilities… you could pick up my dry cleaning, restock my groceries, maybe even cook me a meal now and then. In fact,” he adds, smirking down at you with that infuriating glint in his eyes, “I might even splurge on a cute little maid outfit for you.”
“A what?” you sputter, caught off guard. Your cheeks flush at the suggestion, and you quickly avert your gaze, feeling the heat rise as an unwelcome image forms in your mind. He’s just teasing—of course, he is—but somehow, the thought still makes your heart skip a beat. Swiftly shaking yourself out of it, you huff, squaring your shoulders in mock indignation. “Excuse me? I am not here to play maid! If anything, I’d be the breadwinner in this scenario. You’d be the trophy husband, staying at home, taking care of the kids—”
The words freeze on your lips as the implication sinks in, hanging in the air like an unexpected confession. The mere mention of kids, marriage, a life shared together—it’s as if you’ve cracked open a door neither of you were prepared to step through. Your stomach flips, and you can already feel the color draining from your face, betraying the brief lapse of control. Gojo’s grin stretches impossibly wide, his expression twinkling with unrestrained amusement at your discomfort.
“Oh, so you’ve thought this all through, have you?” he asks, his voice lilting with barely contained laughter.
“No!” you blurt, too fast, your voice an octave higher than intended. “That’s not what I meant!” You shake your head furiously, your face burning as you try to brush it off. “It was purely hypothetical. Completely hypothetical.”
“So… am I the one wearing the maid dress, then?” he asks, tilting his head with an exaggerated innocence that only amplifies the mischief glinting in his eyes.
You groan, rubbing a hand over your face in exasperation. “No—no, just… forget I even said that—”
“Oh, come on,” he persists, his grin widening as he continues the relentless teasing. “How many kids do we make, then? Two? Three? Do they look more like you or me?” Each question is more outlandish than the last, and with each one, your face flushes a deeper, more mortifying shade of red.
“I am not answering that!” you shoot back, desperately pushing him away, though a part of you can’t help but feel a thrill beneath the embarrassment. “I haven’t even thought—there are no answers!”
His laughter rings out, rich and carefree, echoing against the empty streets. You march ahead, determined to put some space between yourself and the source of your torment, yet his laughter lingers in the air, mingling with the hum of the city.
As you walk, the streets around you begin to transform—the buildings shift from quiet, shadowed structures to vibrant storefronts, windows aglow with the welcoming light of evening business. Street lamps flicker on, casting a warm amber hue over everything, making the city feel alive and somehow more intimate in the fading daylight.
He catches up to you in a few effortless strides, falling into step beside you with his hands tucked into his pockets, a subtle but unmistakable enthusiasm in his gait. “So, what’s for dinner, then?” he asks, his tone light and casual, as though he hadn’t just been imagining a domestic life together.
You shrug, still pouting slightly, a little like a petulant child, and glance up at the restaurant signs lining the street. Your gaze drifts over illuminated awnings and chalkboard menus, each promising something delicious, their aromas mingling in the crisp air—the scent of spices simmering, the warmth of freshly baked bread, the subtle sweetness of sizzling teriyaki. For a moment, your irritation melts, replaced by the soft rumble of hunger that follows you as you scan the inviting options around you, grateful for a reason to let the teasing moment slip away.
"Anything at this point—I’m absolutely starving!" you exclaim, your voice half a plea. As if echoing your sentiment, your stomach growls, loud and insistent. Gojo chuckles, reaching out to pat your back in sympathy.
"Guess we’d better see where our feet take us, then!" he says with a grin. His hand slides to your shoulder, giving it a playful, reassuring squeeze. Despite the roughness of his calloused fingers—proof of countless battles—his touch holds a surprising gentleness, an unspoken kindness. You find yourself leaning into him, drawing comfort from his familiar presence, as if he’s a warm anchor in the evening’s growing cool.
Together, you stroll down the bustling street, the night air cooling your skin as you pass restaurants and bars, their laughter-filled chatter spilling out onto the sidewalks. Music drifts through open doorways, mingling with the rich scents of soy and charcoal, grilled meats and simmering miso, tantalizing and welcoming.
Eventually, you’re both drawn to a cozy, traditional izakaya tucked between larger, flashier places. The fragrant smell of grilled fish and savory broth wafts from within, enticing you across the threshold. Sliding open the wooden door, you step inside, and a comforting warmth envelops you, along with the hum of voices and the clang of ceramic plates. Paper lanterns hang low from the ceiling, casting a soft, amber glow that touches everything in a familiar, nostalgic light. Patrons, both old and young, fill the low wooden tables scattered throughout the room, their faces animated as they talk and laugh, immersed in their own little worlds.
Settling into a table near the back, you sink into the well-worn cushions, soft and yielding beneath you, providing a moment of quiet relief. You lean back, taking in the lively scene, your gaze wandering over the animated faces, the rising steam from bubbling pots, and the gentle strumming of a shamisen from a musician tucked in the corner. The sound blends seamlessly into the background, creating a melody that feels timeless, an echo of countless nights like this, each one unique but somehow familiar.
Across from you, Gojo sits with his legs crossed, his posture effortlessly relaxed.
“The students are really coming into their own,” Gojo remarks, his voice low yet somehow carrying over the hum of conversation filling the restaurant. You nod, recalling the fierce dedication you’d witnessed during the recent training session. Just then, a waiter arrives, and you order drinks and a spread of familiar, comforting dishes that fill the table with fragrant steam.
“Especially after that whole ordeal with the Death Paintings—and ‘the fingerer,’” he adds, grinning as he uses the ridiculous nickname. You can’t help but roll your eyes, popping a pork dumpling into your mouth to mask your amusement.
“I’m impressed, honestly,” Gojo continues, picking up his drink. “Megumi and Nobara have made huge strides. Even Yuji’s control is sharpening—though he still has some rough edges.” He takes a thoughtful sip before turning to you. “What do you think?”
You swallow the last of the dumpling, letting the savory flavor linger as you gather your thoughts. “I’m proud of them, of course. They’re great in the field, but… they could use a little more polish on the academic side. Especially Yuji. I think they’d all benefit from dedicating a bit more time to studying, maybe honing their strategies.”
Gojo chuckles, shaking his head in that playful way he always does. “You Kyoto folks and your love for the books,” he teases, picking up a piece of grilled meat from the platter. “Experience is worth more than theory. How can you be prepared to take down a curse if you haven’t faced one?”
You hum thoughtfully, leaning forward as the rising steam from the dishes warms your cheeks. “True, but if they don’t have the knowledge to guide them, they might falter when they’re forced to think on their feet. In those moments, a strong foundation can mean the difference between a solid plan and blind guessing.” You pause, meeting his gaze. “And that could make all the difference in a tight spot.”
As you speak, the muffled clamor of the bustling street outside filters through the window—a symphony of honking horns, snatches of laughter, and the distant hum of city life. Gojo tilts his head, his chin resting thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger as he studies you. “What makes you think that?” he asks, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Sounds like you don’t have much faith in them.”
His words strike a nerve, and a spark of irritation flares in your chest, rising to color your cheeks. “I do,” you reply, the intensity in your voice catching even you off guard. Gojo’s brows lift in mild surprise as he leans back, hands raised in playful surrender.
You take a calming breath, steadying yourself before continuing. “I’m sorry,” you say, your tone softer. “I do believe in them. I have complete confidence in their abilities. But I just… I want them to be ready for anything. I don’t want to see them get hurt.” Your voice drifts off, edged with a vulnerability that surprises even you. The words linger in the air, and for a moment, a silence falls between you, heavy and unspoken.
Memories stir, resurfacing from the shadows of your own youth, a time marked by choices that felt impossible yet inevitable, each one carrying consequences that still weigh on you. Perhaps, without realizing it, you’ve begun to project that history onto your students, wrapping them in a protective armor of caution, despite knowing that the path of a sorcerer is fraught with peril, a life where danger is a given, not a possibility.
Gojo watches you, his gaze softening as though he sees the thoughts you haven’t voiced. In this life, certainty is rare, and each step forward is shrouded in shadows, the next threat lurking around any corner, waiting to pull them into the depths. It’s a reality you’ve accepted for yourself but struggle to accept for them.
"Trust," he says, his voice a steady anchor, drawing you in. "Trust in me, trust in yourself, and, most of all, trust our students. We’re guiding them forward, showing them the way, not carrying them down it." His words carry the weight of experience, a wisdom woven with quiet confidence. "They’re not fragile, and we’re not here to shield them from every danger. We’re their mentors, not their babysitters. They’re sharp, capable, and I have no doubt they can handle whatever challenges come their way."
There’s a spark of optimism in his tone—a rare lightness that feels out of place but somehow comforting. In the solemn world of sorcery, his faith feels like a breath of fresh air, stirring something deep within you. His words tug at the memories you’ve kept locked away, all those nights spent sleepless, tangled in worry, caught in the endless loop of your own overthinking. Yet here he is, reminding you to let go, to have faith.
You draw in a quiet breath, letting his words settle, and after a moment, you nod, feeling a newfound calm seep in. “You’re right,” you murmur softly, reaching for a dumpling, the savory aroma a welcome distraction. As you pop it into your mouth, the rich, satisfying flavors offer a grounding warmth that feels like a balm for your restless thoughts.
Gojo watches you, his gaze softened, thoughtful, as though he sees the shift within you, the quiet acceptance you hadn’t quite allowed yourself until now.
The conversation drifts into lighter waters—tales of the second years’ latest pranks, Satoru’s enthusiastic critique of current trends, even the mild absurdity of the recent weather patterns. He’s surprisingly talkative tonight, and you find yourself more than willing to sit back and listen. His voice flows like a soothing melody, and his laughter rings out, filling the spaces between topics. The food is delicious, the atmosphere is warm, and for a moment, you can forget about the weight of your responsibilities and just be present with him.
You absently trace the rim of your glass, feeling the fizz of soda against your finger as tiny bubbles pop and dance in the amber liquid. Droplets of condensation trail along the tabletop, leaving faint damp marks in their wake. And then, a shift—a question brings you back into the heart of matters. “So… how’s the search for the mole going?” you ask, voice cautious. “Any headway?”
Gojo’s lighthearted expression darkens slightly as he sets his glass down with a soft clunk. “Yes,” he replies, his voice edged with a seriousness rare for him. “I’m thinking of having the first years confront the mole when the time’s right.” His gaze is steady, his lips forming a tight line. “But Utahime’s taking the lead on this one, and she’s made it clear—no one’s to talk about it unnecessarily. Especially when her own students are involved.”
Your brows lift in surprise. The thought of Gojo actually respecting Utahime’s boundaries, given their usual banter and sparring, is a small shock. But there’s something admirable in it; a rare, quiet respect beneath their dynamic.
“I understand,” you say softly, nodding. “I won’t press for details. I was only a bit curious, that’s all.”
He lets out a sly smirk, leaning forward, his elbow braced on the table as he rests his chin on his palm.
“Good. The last thing I need is Utahime hunting me down because I let something slip,” Gojo chuckles, and the image of Utahime chasing him, reprimanding him like a misbehaving schoolboy, brings a laugh from you. You can tell from the grin on his face that he’s imagining the same thing, savoring the shared amusement. But just as the laughter fades, he shifts in his seat, his expression taking on a certain gravity that fills the air with a subtle suspense.
“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says, his tone deceptively casual, but there’s a spark that tells you this is anything but.
You blink, caught off guard, trying to recall what he could mean. He leans forward, his grin widening, and your heart skips as he continues, “The kids,” he murmurs, voice playful yet deliberate. “How many did you picture us having in that little fantasy of yours?”
A wave of mortification washes over you, and you immediately look away, staring at anything but him, mentally berating yourself for letting him get under your skin. Why did he have to bring this up now? You’d been having a wonderful time—the food, the cozy ambiance, the sense of ease—and now he’s dead set on flustering you at every opportunity. Your face goes pink, your thoughts a chaotic scramble as you try to form a response, but all that emerges is a pathetic stammer. “Uh... I… don’t know. I don’t think about… stuff like that,” you mutter, barely coherent, feeling like a fool under his amused gaze.
Gojo’s laughter is hearty, his eyes glinting with mischief as he takes a sip of his soda. “Alright, alright—no kids discussion,” he relents, though he hardly seems disappointed. Instead, he points to himself, a playful smirk quirking his lips. “But, just to clarify, you did say I’d be the trophy husband?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly relishing the banter. “Can you really see me as the type to stay home, cooking and cleaning?”
He leans back, grinning like a cat who’s caught the canary, and you can’t help but let out a huff, feeling both exasperated and entertained by his antics.
“No, I can’t picture you as the stay-at-home type,” you admit, crossing one leg over the other with a playful smirk. “I just wanted to turn the ‘career woman becomes stay-at-home mom’ stereotype on its head.” You gesture toward him with a lazy wave, grinning. “You’re far too restless for that role.”
He arches a brow, caught somewhere between amusement and mock offense. “Restless, am I?” he repeats, feigning indignation as he leans back. After a moment’s thought, he shrugs, conceding with a grin. “Alright, maybe. But you know what I could definitely see myself as? A sugar baby.”
“A sugar baby?” You stare at him, incredulous, before a laugh bubbles up. The image of Gojo—wealthy, powerful Gojo—wanting to be a sugar baby is so absurd, you can’t help but shake your head in disbelief. “Isn’t being a millionaire enough for you? You really need someone else’s wealth, too?” you retort, sarcasm lacing your words.
He flashes a broad grin, the low light of the restaurant catching on his teeth, giving him an air of shameless mischief. “Why settle? I’d much rather be spoiled rotten by a wealthy, powerful partner. I’m exceptionally good at… being pampered,” he says, lifting his blindfold just enough to give you an exaggerated wink.
You roll your eyes, chuckling despite yourself, the image of him as a pampered sugar baby both ridiculous and, somehow, perfectly fitting. He certainly has a knack for basking in attention, enjoying every bit of adoration he can get.
“Yeah, right,” you scoff, finishing off the last bite on your plate. “I don’t think I could ever keep up with your endless demands.”
He gasps, hand flying to his chest in an exaggerated show of injury, his eyes widening as if you’ve just struck him down.
“Oh, but I’m very much worth the effort,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a smooth, velvety tone that sends a jolt through you. “Just think—having me all to yourself, with all the benefits that come with it.” His gaze is intense, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans forward, inviting you into the playfulness of his words.
You bite the inside of your cheek, a small grin lifting your mouth as your eyes meet his, unwavering. “Hmph. So… what’s stopping you from giving yourself to me now?” The question slips out, both a challenge and a dare, meant to draw that familiar laugh, that next witty retort, to keep the banter alive and unbroken. Yet, instead of his usual teasing, you see a brief flicker of surprise—a pause so subtle it could almost be missed—before his expression settles into something warmer, a smile that holds a quiet, confident promise.
His gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, the noise of the restaurant fades away, the bustling clamor dimming around you. The way he’s looking at you—focused, as though you’re the only person in the room, the only thing worthy of his attention—sends a rush of thrill and uncertainty pulsing through you. He’s always been so assured, always the one driving the conversation, leading the way. Yet now, the possibility that you might have caught him just a little off guard makes you feel strangely empowered, filling you with a giddy excitement.
“Nothing.”
…And somehow, that’s how you end up back at his penthouse, riding him in the reverse cowgirl position on his plush leather sofa, the city lights casting dim, ethereal patterns across the room. You’d barely made it inside before he’d pulled you into a heated kiss in the hallway, every brush of his lips urgent, hands exploring your curves as if he couldn’t wait a second longer. The intention to reach his bedroom quickly faded, replaced by an unrestrained hunger that has you both sinking into the soft leather, the world outside fading to nothing.
Gojo’s hands grip your hips with possessive strength, guiding your rhythm, his cock stretching you in a way that sends shocks of pleasure radiating through you. The feeling of him hitting that sweet spot within you has you seeing stars, clutching the armrest in a desperate attempt to steady yourself against the relentless waves of sensation.
Your mind is a blur, and the only reality you can grasp is the heat and friction, his body beneath yours, and the heady sound of his low, raspy voice murmuring into the air. His words are rough but encouraging, urging you to take more, to move faster, harder, to use him however you want—giving himself over entirely to your pleasure.
And he is worth it, every bit. He's so attentive and generous, always thinking about your needs and desires before his own. But it's more than that; it's the way he seems to understand you, to know exactly what you crave even when you can't find the words to articulate it.
You gasp his name, a soft whimper slipping from your lips as you roll your hips against him. His grip releases, and his fingers slide up, tracing the curves of your torso with a slow, deliberate touch that leaves a trail of heat in their wake. When his hands reach your breasts, his palms press into you, kneading your tits gently before his thumbs and fingers pinch your nipples. The sensation draws a loud, uninhibited moan from you, and you feel him twitch inside you in response, his control wavering for just a heartbeat.
"Just like that—keep saying my name," he murmurs, his voice rough with pleasure.
"Satoru..." you moan, your voice catching as your legs begin to burn from the strain. His hands release your breasts, fingers gliding up the length of your back, sending shivers along your spine. And then, suddenly, he thrusts upward, meeting you with a powerful stroke that forces a sharp gasp from you, pleasure radiating through every nerve.
His fingers reach the top of your shoulders and press into your skin, his strength making it hard to keep yourself up. But you want to keep riding him, you want to keep pleasing him. You need to. It's a strange mix of emotions that swirl within you, and you're too preoccupied with him to even begin to decipher what any of them are trying to say.
His breaths come heavy behind you, a low groan vibrating from his chest. “Turn around,” he demands, his voice rough with need, sending a shiver down your spine. You pause, letting his words settle, then slowly pull off of him, turning to face him. In one swift movement, he flips you onto your back, hands pressing your legs back, spreading you wide with an intensity that leaves you breathless. A gasp slips from your lips as he wastes no time, slamming back into you with an urgency that’s almost overwhelming.
A soft whimper escapes you, and his hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, not to constrict, but to steady you beneath him, his grip firm over the delicate pulse point. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, tender and possessive, before his mouth claims yours in a deep, searing kiss, his hips moving in a rhythm that drives you both closer to the edge. You moan against his lips, hands clutching his biceps, feeling the powerful muscles flex with each movement.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice a breath against your lips, filled with a command that sends heat spiraling through you. You break away, meeting his gaze with a look full of desire and defiance, a small, knowing smile tugging at your mouth. It’s thrilling—this power to unravel him with just a word, a way to make him yours in the most primal way, if only for an instant. And so, with a voice both soft and strong, you give him what he craves.
“Satoru…” you whisper, your voice thick with longing, each syllable heavy with lust. “Satoru... S-Satoru...” His name falls from your lips like a spell, casting a smoldering heat that seems to ripple through him, unraveling his composure. You feel the effect of your words in the way his movements grow more intense, each thrust laced with a desperate need, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to remind you of his control—a delicious rush that leaves you breathless.
It’s intoxicating, the way he responds to each soft utterance, every quickened breath. He buries himself in you, and the sensation is overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and surrender that has your legs shaking and your mind racing. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the tension in his muscles, tracing the hard lines of his shoulders until they reach his face. Your fingers cradle his cheeks, your touch tender yet demanding.
His eyes meet yours, and he leans into your touch, his expression open, a silent plea for more.
It doesn’t take long before you’re pulled over the edge, your body arching as a wave of ecstasy rips through you, a desperate, breathless moan escaping your lips. He follows moments later, his rhythm losing control, each thrust more erratic as his breathing turns into short, shallow gasps against your mouth. His body trembles, a deep groan resonating from his chest as he presses his hips flush against yours, and you feel him spill into you, each throb of his cock igniting another ripple of pleasure that leaves you shivering.
You pull him into another kiss, passionate and languid, savoring the taste of him, the warmth of his lips against yours. His hands drift from your neck, slipping between the sofa cushions as he grips them, steadying himself as though holding onto something tangible while riding out the aftershocks. As the passion fades, he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, his breaths hot and uneven against your skin. You giggle softly, still basking in the glow, as his weight settles over you—not heavy, but a comfort that feels impossibly intimate.
“I… came inside you,” he murmurs into your neck, a flicker of worry laced with a hint of sheepishness in his tone. You hum in response, too blissfully dazed to worry, your mind still tangled in the haze of satisfaction.
He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with a flush coloring his cheeks, his lips quirking into a slightly embarrassed grin. “Wanna run to the convenience store?” he asks, his voice playful yet carrying a touch of urgency, the contrast drawing a laugh from you. The mere thought of heading out into the world, surrounded by the ordinary bustle of life, feels absurdly surreal.
“Yeah,” you nod, feeling a mix of contentment and practicality settling over you. “We probably should go.”
Draped in his oversized clothes, you both make your way to the convenience store in comfortable silence, the cool night air refreshing against your flushed skin. Inside, you gather a few essentials—bottles of water, onigiri, and, with a quick exchange of glances, an emergency contraceptive. You try to stifle a laugh at the mundanity of it all, the quiet intimacy in picking out snacks together in the harsh, fluorescent light.
Back at his place, you settle on the sofa, a quiet comfort surrounding you both as you watch a random drama flickering on the television. He sits close, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder, the heat of his body a welcome counterpoint to the cool stillness of the room. You curl your legs beneath you, leaning into him as you take a bite of your onigiri, savoring the simple flavors.
“It’s late, you know,” he mentions casually, glancing at the clock on the wall. Past midnight already. As you register the time, a gentle wave of weariness starts to creep in.
“Ah, damn,” you sigh, pushing yourself up from the same sofa where, not too long ago, you were riding him like your life depended on it. You stretch, reaching your arms above your head, feeling his shirt ride up to reveal the faint marks on your hips left by his hands. As you bend back, savoring the release of tension, you catch him watching, his gaze lingering over the curve of your ass with an appreciative glint.
“I should head out. We’ve got work tomorrow,” you say, reluctant but practical.
He frowns, a hint of displeasure flashing across his face, and sets his half-eaten onigiri on the coffee table. Leaning back, he crosses one leg over the other, his gaze never leaving you. There’s a trace of amusement in his expression.
“It’s Friday, remember?” he says, his tone easy, his head tilted just so, waiting for the realization to dawn on you. “And I’m not going to work, so… neither are you.”
“You don’t have to go in?” you ask, still adjusting to the thought. And then, quietly, you realize something else: you’ve stopped counting down the hours as you once did, stopped feeling the incessant need to fill every empty minute. Time moves differently around Gojo—less like something to escape and more like something to savor. What used to feel confining now feels open, full of unexpected possibility, the gray world brightening with each moment he’s near.
He chuckles softly, his laugh pulling you back to the present. “Even I get a day off now and then,” he says, his lips curving into that familiar smirk. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The plan?” you repeat, quirking an eyebrow before letting yourself sink back onto the couch. “I don’t know, maybe we just… chill?” Your fingers tap idly against your leg, betraying a subtle restlessness, your mind racing with the thought of a day together, unburdened by responsibility.
He rolls his eyes, giving you an exaggerated look of exasperation, as if you’ve suggested the most boring thing in the world. Clearly, he’d expected something a little more inspired.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he declares suddenly, springing to his feet with a surge of energy that surprises you.
"But it’s past midnight—" you begin, but he’s already halfway to the door, snatching his keys off the counter in one smooth motion.
“So what?” he calls back, his voice carrying a thrill of reckless excitement. “It’s Tokyo—there’s always something open.”
Before long, you both decide on an arcade, and the instant you step into the neon-lit space, the unspoken challenge between you ignites. The air is thick with the sounds of electronic chimes and pulsing beats, a cacophony of digital soundtracks blending with the whir of machinery, each game cabinet a beacon of vivid light and color. Gojo makes a beeline for the token machine, exchanging a generous handful of yen for an almost comical load of arcade tokens, a mischievous glint in his eye as he hands you a cup full of coins.
“Don’t spend them all in one place!” he teases, his grin bright and boyish.
You roll your eyes, the weight of the cup in your hand sparking your competitive spirit. A smug grin spreads across your face. “Alright, then. Bet you 10,000 yen I’ll beat you at Street Fighter.”
He snorts, jingling his own cup of tokens like a taunting rattle. “Oh, really? You sure about that?” he challenges, leaning in close, his eyes meeting yours with a spark of playfulness. “I don’t think you’d ever financially recover. But if you insist on throwing away your money, who am I to deny you that privilege?”
You brush off the fact that he called you broke in the most condescending way possible with a scoff, sticking your tongue out at him in a defiant, almost childish gesture. The lightheartedness of it makes you feel alive, the banter electric. Setting your cup down, you cross your arms, leveling him with a determined stare. “Who said anything about losing? I’m going to kick your ass.”
And with that, the games begin. You start with Street Fighter, squaring off beside him at the cabinet, fingers flying over the controls. In the first round, you manage to snag a victory, a fact that seems to amuse and mildly annoy Gojo in equal measure. The second round, however, is his, leaving both of you leaning into the controls, laughing and taunting each other as the third round turns into an all-out battle.
“You totally cheated!” you accuse, playfully shoving his shoulder as his character lands another brutal combo.
“Oh, please,” he scoffs, his eyes gleaming with a devilish spark. “This is pure talent, unfiltered genius—” With a quick flick of his wrist and an infuriating grin, he finishes you off with a final devastating move. “—and unmatched skill,” he concludes smugly, Ryu victorious over your Chun Li. You narrow your eyes at him, unwilling to let it end in a tie. Losing just isn’t an option.
“We’re definitely not ending it here,” he says, reading your determination, and you nod, fully in agreement.
You move on to the next game, each victory and defeat heightening the tension between you. The air grows charged as you battle it out at the air hockey table, where the puck ricochets back and forth at breakneck speed, the electronic scoreboard flashing with each hard-won point. The noise of the arcade fades as the game consumes you both, laughter and insults flying as you throw yourselves into the competition. You don’t even notice the bored arcade attendant glancing your way, his phone hanging lazily in his hand as he watches your antics with mild amusement.
With a final, triumphant swing of your mallet, the puck sails across the table and slams into Gojo’s goal. The table lights up in a burst of celebratory LEDs, and a triumphant sound blares from the speakers as you throw your fist in the air.
“Ha! Suck my dick, motherfucker!” you shout, your voice echoing across the arcade floor.
Gojo drops theatrically to his knees, burying his face in his hands as if overcome with shame. His shoulders shake with exaggerated despair, and a dramatic, sorrowful wail leaves his lips. “Oh, woe is me! Defeated by a mere peasant!” His voice echoes through the arcade, drawing a few curious glances.
You laugh, thoroughly amused by his antics, and catch the bored arcade attendant rolling his eyes before muttering something half-heartedly about “keeping it down or leaving.” The words barely register, too soft and too indifferent to be taken seriously.
"Don’t worry," you say, grinning down at Gojo’s ‘fallen’ form. “Your secret’s safe with me. No one will ever know of your humiliating defeat tonight.” You can’t help but bask in your victory as he stays kneeling, his head bowed in exaggerated submission.
Gojo lifts his head slowly, his smirk breaking through the mask of mock sorrow, and he rises to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his pants. A glimmer of mischief dances in his eyes, the neon arcade lights casting flickers of red and blue over his white hair. "Whatever. We’re even now,” he declares with a dismissive wave of his hand, the picture of nonchalance. “Anyway, I’m bored. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and strides toward the exit, his long, confident strides forcing you to hurry behind him, clutching the cup of leftover tokens that clink with each step. The door swings open as you step outside, and a gust of cool night air hits you, a refreshing contrast to the bustling heat of the arcade.
Outside, the city hums with a quiet energy, a different kind of vibrancy from its daytime chaos. The street is alive with cars zipping by, headlights flashing like rivers of light, but the pace feels slower, calmer.
You stroll aimlessly, bantering over topics no one else would care about, but somehow they’ve become the most important debates in the world to you both—like which Digimon would actually make the best sidekick, if Burger King’s chicken fries surpass McDonald’s chicken nuggets (they don't), and the ultimate showdown of ice cream flavors. Each argument is as intense as it is meaningless, with neither of you willing to back down. A few paces ahead of him, you’re so caught up in your tirade on mint chocolate chip supremacy that you don’t notice when he falls silent.
A tap on your shoulder snaps you out of it. You turn around, but there’s no one there. “What the—?”
Before you can finish, an arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back into him, and suddenly the world around you shifts. The air distorts, bending in a way that feels both dizzying and oddly familiar, as if the fabric of reality itself is pinching together. Everything blurs, colors and lights smearing into one another, until, in an instant, the world refocuses—and you’re standing on the edge of a skyscraper, the city sprawling out below in a glittering sea of neon lights and reflective glass.
A gasp slips from your lips, your heart pounding as you take in the dizzying height, the endless expanse of the city. The view is breathtaking, a mosaic of lights and shadows against the midnight sky, beautiful and terrifying all at once. Your hands instinctively grip his arm, clinging to him like an anchor in this surreal, elevated world.
“Hey, hey, relax,” he murmurs close to your ear, his voice low and soothing, as steady as his hold on you. “You know I’d never let you fall.”
You want to believe him, but your body betrays you, a tremor of unease creeping in as you glance down at the streets far below.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” the words spill out in a panicked rush, blending together in a mantra as your heart races wildly in your chest. Your legs tremble as you glance downward, finding yourself perched on a grated landing at the very top of the skyscraper—a platform that looks like it was intended for maintenance workers or construction crews, not two adults who just wanted a better view of the skyline. Far below, the city sprawls out like a miniature model, cars mere blips of light, and people look like tiny ants scurrying through the grid of streets. A dizzying wave of vertigo surges over you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, struggling to steady your breath, to grasp at a sliver of control.
You feel his arm tighten around your waist, anchoring you against the wild rush of height and wind. His voice, low and undeniably amused, reaches your ear. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Are you crazy?!” Your voice cracks as you fight to keep your balance. “You should at least warn me before—before whisking me up here!” Your grip on him intensifies, fingers digging into his forearm as if letting go could send you spiraling into the void below. You can feel his laughter vibrating against you, his whole chest rumbling as he laughs at your panic.
“Sorry,” he says, though his voice is free of remorse. “I just… I like it up here. This is where I come to clear my head.” His gaze drifts down to the city below, a serene smile playing on his lips as he takes in the expanse of glittering lights. The glow from the skyline casts a soft illumination over his face, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his jawline. For a moment, you’re caught between a flutter of lingering fear and a surge of gentleness, the kind you feel growing whenever you’re near him.
“Thought you’d appreciate the view,” he adds, glancing at you with that playful spark in his eye.
You sigh, your irritation melting away as you realize he meant no harm. Gojo, reckless as he is, always has his heart in the right place—even if he seems intent on giving you a heart attack every now and then. You let yourself relax in his hold, the initial terror beginning to ebb, and take a deep breath, steadying yourself against the thrum of adrenaline. “It is… pretty,” you murmur, looking out at the sprawling cityscape. “In its own chaotic way.”
He grins, his eyes alight with mischief. His arm slips away from your waist, and immediately, a pang of panic shoots through you. “No, no—don’t let go!” you exclaim, reaching out instinctively, and he chuckles, capturing your hand in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours.
The gesture feels surprisingly intimate. This isn’t like the casual touch you shared on the Kabukicho mission. His grip is firm but gentle, a reassuring hold, and his thumb traces slow, soothing circles over the back of your hand, as if silently promising he won’t let go. You find yourself leaning into his touch, the fear slipping further away as his presence envelops you like a protective shield, silent but steady.
A quiet settles between you, the kind of silence that speaks of comfort, of closeness, lingering in the space like an unspoken understanding. Then, he breaks it, his voice gentle yet threaded with a hint of something deeper. “You know what I think?” he murmurs, his tone casual, but there’s an underlying gravity that pulls you in.
“Yeah?” You turn to look at him, the glow of the city casting shadows over his face, the thoughtful crease of his brow as he gazes out over the skyline.
He tilts his head, his eyes distant, as if choosing his words with care. “I think there’s a bright future ahead. Despite everything,” he says softly, his words nearly carried off by the wind. “The world will keep spinning, curses will keep coming… but I can’t let that drag me down.” His voice fades, weighted with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, and in that moment, the usual spark in his gaze is softened, replaced by something almost fragile. You can see the toll it takes—the burden of bearing so much strength, the pressure to always be unbreakable.
You say nothing, just nodding, letting him know you’re here, a steady presence beside him. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough, an unspoken show of understanding and loyalty that’s become a foundation between you. He sighs, the sound full of something more than weariness, and you feel the unguarded side of him, a glimpse of the weight he carries behind his usual bravado.
“Everyone else will get stronger,” he continues, a faint, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “And eventually, they won’t need me anymore.”
The words hang in the air, bittersweet. You feel the depth of what he isn’t saying, the quiet ache of someone who’s spent a lifetime at the top, bearing both pride and isolation in equal measure.
For a moment, words escape you. Of course, you want the next generation to grow stronger, to reach levels of power that would honor his legacy. But imagining a world without Satoru at the center of it—a world where he’s considered “unneeded”—leaves a hollow ache in your chest, as though the air itself has been sucked from your lungs. He’s been a constant presence in your life these past months, a whirlwind of comfort and exasperation, laughter and rivalry. The thought of that energy, that fierce light, fading away feels incomprehensible.
You glance over at him, hoping to catch some clue in his expression, but he’s staring out over the city, his gaze distant and thoughtful, the lights casting shadows that deepen the lines of his face. “It’s a good thing, by the way,” he says with a scoff, breaking the silence, almost as if he’s read your mind. His words are laced with forced nonchalance, but the way he shifts, the slight downturn of his mouth, hints at something else—an unspoken loneliness, perhaps.
You’re not entirely convinced. Yes, maybe the world will continue on, its heroes changing, the spotlight shifting. But the idea that he could ever truly be forgotten? It seems impossible, even absurd. You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking, the words coming out softer than you intended.
“I won’t forget you,” you murmur, the confession barely more than a whisper, but somehow carrying all the weight of your feelings. “Never.” It isn’t a declaration of love, not exactly. It’s something quieter yet equally profound, a vow that transcends mere affection. It’s an affirmation of his impact on you, of the bond that’s woven between you in ways that words can’t capture.
He turns to you, and for just a second, you catch something raw and unguarded in his gaze—a flicker of vulnerability, a shadow of surprise. But almost as quickly, he brushes it aside, a smile curving his lips, masking the brief glimpse of his true feelings. He chuckles, his laugh light, almost dismissive, a defense mechanism you recognize too well. Normally, you’d feel a spark of irritation, but this time you understand. This is his way of handling what he’s not ready to face, a way to deflect and make it easier for both of you.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice carrying a tenderness that surprises you. "I'll always remember the first-year girl who launched a full glass at me when I was seventeen—"
You interject, a playful edge to your voice, "It never even touched you!"
"—or the woman she blossomed into. Truly, she's remarkable," he concludes, effortlessly glossing over your interruption. A ripple of fondness spreads through you, a blush tinting your cheeks as your heart stutters. You want to dismiss his praise, label it as mere jest, yet there's an sincerity in his voice that halts your retort. Gone is the biting sarcasm that usually weaves through his words; in its place, an authentic honesty that leaves you momentarily lost for words.
His hand gently tightens around yours, pulling you from the swirl of emotions. "You look tired," he observes, his gaze gently probing your face, pausing at the faint traces of fatigue etched around your eyes. You exhale, a soft sigh of resignation, as you acknowledge the weariness that has seeped into your very marrow. By your estimate, it was half past three in the morning by now.
"Yeah, kind of..." you murmur, running your free hand over your face, feeling the weight of the night settle in.
Gojo’s grin stretches wider, a gleam of playful mischief lighting his eyes. "It’s been fun," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "But I suppose we should try to get some sleep."
Your eyebrows arch in surprise. "You actually sleep?" You’d been around him long enough to witness his boundless energy, his seeming immunity to exhaustion. Never once had he mentioned feeling tired, let alone needing rest. A flicker of regret surfaces as you realize the absurdity of your own assumption. He’s human, of course, yet somehow always seemed… more. Resilient. Inexorable. His relentless energy was oddly reassuring, like a quiet promise that someone out there never wavered, never stopped watching over the world. But perhaps that was selfish—how could you expect him to be a tireless guardian while you carried your own limitations?
"Sorry," you add, an apologetic note slipping into your voice. "That was… kind of thoughtless."
He chuckles, a gleam of humor softening his gaze. "No need to apologize. I kind of like it, actually—people thinking I’m some unstoppable force," he says, a subtle, almost ironic satisfaction in his tone, as though he relishes being an enigma. "But yeah, I do sleep. I usually wind down around four in the morning," he adds, with a small shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Your eyes stretch wide, a flicker of disbelief and amusement darting across your features. "For real?" you question, your voice threaded with astonishment. "Who in the world goes to bed at 4 AM?"
"Me," Gojo responds succinctly, a playful smirk curling at the corners of his mouth as a mischievous twinkle lights up his deep sapphire eyes. His expression is almost boyish, radiating a joyful innocence that starkly contrasts the formidable aura he normally exudes. "Stay with me tonight?" he proposes, a trace of uncertainty softening his tone. His gaze lingers on yours, searching, hoping for a sign of assent. It isn't the first time he’s posed this question, yet tonight there’s an unspoken solemnity, a vulnerable sincerity that makes the moment feel significantly different.
“Yes,” you whisper, the single word a promise.