#goonfor:gojo

[junuru]

part 2 | m. list

“Hi, baby,” you coo, voice softening as you lean into the car window, arms folded. "I missed you so much.”

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” your ex-husband says smugly.

Your smile drops as you turn to face him, brows lifted in clear annoyance. “I wasn’t talking to you, Satoru. Just hand me my daughter, and I’ll be on my way.”

His grin doesn't falter. “Our daughter,” he corrects, the emphasis deliberate.

You sigh in defeat, pushing yourself off his stupidly pristine Porsche. “Whatever, Satoru. Just unlock the car.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, already moving. “I’ll get her—you grab her stuff from the trunk.”

He clicks the key fob, and with a soft beep, the trunk lifts open.

The parking lot where you and Satoru agree to meet every Sunday sits in its usual state of quiet limbo—wide, cracked pavement stretching out under a gray afternoon sky. A few scattered cars are parked on the far end, their owners nowhere in sight, leaving the space between you and the rest of the world feeling even more hollow.

You make your way around the back of the car, heels of your stilettos clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that feels far too loud in the silence. The trunk is already open, humming faintly. You reach in and grab her backpack, only to pause at the unfamiliar lightness of it.

Your brows knit together.

It’s practically half the weight of what you packed for her just a few days ago—missing the extra pair of sneakers, the folder of coloring pages, maybe even her favorite stuffed dolphin if you’re judging by how the fabric doesn’t bulge the way it normally does.

A familiar frustration bubbles beneath your ribs. You don’t say anything—not yet���but your grip on the strap tightens as you pull the bag over your shoulder, shutting the trunk a little harder than necessary.

“Woah, watch the car, sweetheart,” Satoru teases, grinning as he lifts your daughter out of the car seat. Her light-up sneakers flash as they hit the pavement, tiny feet already sprinting toward you.

You drop to your knees, arms outstretched just in time to catch her. She barrels into you with all the force her little body can muster, and you stumble back a step, laughing softly into her hair as you hold her tight.

But the warmth in your chest doesn’t last long.

“Satoru,” you say, straightening up, your tone clipped but careful enough not to alarm your daughter. “Where is the rest of her stuff? I sent her with a full bag last weekend.”

“Relax, mama,” he says, tone breezy, unbothered. “She threw up. Her stuff’s being dry cleaned.”

Your frown deepens, gaze dropping to your daughter’s clean but clearly borrowed sweatshirt. You don’t push it in front of her—but you will.

You set her gently on the ground, brushing a hand through her hair before reaching into your purse for your keys. With a soft beep, the car unlocks.

“Baby, go sit in the car for a second, okay?” you say, keeping your voice light as you open the back door for her. “Mommy has to talk to Daddy.”

She nods without fuss, climbing in with the trust only a child can have. And when the door clicks shut behind her, the smile on your face vanishes completely.

“What the fuck, Satoru,” you snap, voice sharp and low. “Why didn’t you tell me she was sick?”

He doesn’t flinch. He never does. “Sweetheart,” he says, calm as ever. It used to drive you crazy when you were married—how level-headed he could be, even when you were coming apart at the seams. “It’s okay. I dealt with it.”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “No, it’s not okay. I don’t care if you ‘dealt with it.’ What if it was more serious? What if she needed to go to a hospital and I had no idea?”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already tired of this conversation. “Look, I am her parent too. I understand you’re concerned, but I’m fully capable of taking care of her. You don’t tell me every little thing that happens when she’s with you, do you?”

You stare at him, stunned. “Are you seriously comparing her scraping her knee at the park to vomiting?”

“She vomited once,” he says, voice still maddeningly level. “I monitored her, gave her fluids, made sure she rested. She didn’t have a fever, she wasn’t lethargic—”

“That’s not the point, Satoru!” You take a step toward him, frustrated tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “The point is you should have told me. I’m her mother. I deserve to know when she’s not feeling well.”

There’s a beat of silence.

For once, something cracks in his expression.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he finally admits. “I figured you’d just… stress yourself out, even if it was nothing.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to calm your heart.

“Of course I’d worry,” you say, softer now. “That’s what being a parent is, Satoru. I’d rather be worried and know than be blindsided when I pick her up.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I should’ve told you. I didn’t mean to keep it from you—I just didn’t want to start a whole thing.”

You exhale slowly. The tension still simmers beneath your skin, but the edge of the fight has dulled.

“She okay now?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Ate pancakes this morning and asked for seconds.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Pancakes, huh?”

“Blueberry,” he says, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Your recipe.”

Of course it was.

You brush your hair back and glance toward the car, where your daughter’s tiny face is pressed against the window, waiting patiently.

“Next time,” you say, turning back to him, “just tell me. I don’t care if it’s a scraped knee or a sneeze. I need to know.”

He nods again, this time more seriously. “Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“Are you okay now?” he asks, his voice softer than it’s been all afternoon.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you step forward, letting the tension ease from your shoulders as you lean into him—something you haven’t done in what feels like forever, yet still comes as naturally as breathing. His arms come around you without hesitation, warm and steady, anchoring you in the kind of embrace you used to take for granted.

You let yourself rest there, just for a moment. Let your cheek press against the familiar fabric of his hoodie, letting the scent of him ground you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m okay now.”

He exhales against your temple, a quiet sound of relief, and his hand moves gently up and down your back. Not rushed. Not performative. Just comfort—quiet and real.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. “I’ll get her some new clothes, okay? A few extra things to keep at mine too. So you don’t have to pack so much.”

He pulls a hand off of you to point at the superstore across the lot.

You nod against him, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. There’s no fight in either of you now. Just fatigue, and the tentative beginnings of mutual understanding.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks.”

He lets his hands fall back into his pockets, rocking on his heels like he’s not sure if he should say more. You step back and turn toward your car, already spotting your daughter’s nose pressed eagerly against the rear passenger window.

“Give me a sec,” you add over your shoulder. “I’ll get her out.”

“Alright,” he says, softer now.

As you walk toward the car, keys in hand, you hear him call out softly behind you—almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“You look good, by the way.”

You don’t stop, but the corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. You roll your eyes as you open the car door, the familiar sound of the handle clicking breaking the moment.

Inside, your daughter is already leaning toward you from her car seat, arms outstretched like she hadn’t just seen you a few minutes ago. Her blue eyes shine with adoration—so much like his, but deeper.

“Hi, baby,” you coo, lifting her up and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Wanna go shopping with Mommy and Daddy?”

She giggles and nods, her light-up sneakers kicking as you set her down again. You reach in to grab her stuffed bunny from the seat, tucking it under her arm before closing the door.

Satoru is already by the driver’s side, sunglasses on, smirking like he’s in on some private joke you haven’t been told yet.

“You ready?” he asks.

You glance down at your daughter, who’s now babbling something about sparkly shirts and snacks, then back up at him.

“Let’s just make it quick.”

He gives you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

The three of you head inside the store, and even though you tell yourself it’s just a quick errand—a few replacement clothes, maybe a snack or two—it still feels strangely like something else.

Something you almost forgot you missed.

[junuru]

part 1 | m. list | part 3

“Do I look beautiful, Mama?” your four-year-old asks, her tiny hands squishing her cheeks together as she stares into the mirror.

You smooth the final braid into place and press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Beautiful, baby. Always.”

“Like a princess?” she asks, tilting her head.

You smile. “The most beautiful princess there ever was.”

“Can I have sparkles on my cheeks too?” she asks, tugging on your dress. “Like the ones in your makeup drawer?”

You laugh, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “Only if the birthday girl promises not to get any cake on her dress.”

She nods solemnly, as if accepting the terms of a royal treaty.

You stand, carrying her with ease to your bedroom vanity, the morning light slanting across the soft pink walls, and as you dab a shimmer of glitter onto her cheeks, her expression turns serious again.

“Mama,” she whispers, “thank you for making me borned.”

Your throat tightens. “Oh baby,” you say, hugging her close, “thank you for choosing me.”

The makeup brush glides smoothly across her skin, dusting her nose and cheeks in a rose-gold highlighter.

She leans back in your arms just enough to look up at you, sparkles catching in her lashes. Her voice is quieter now, a little uncertain.

“Mama,” she asks, “when will Daddy get here?”

The question lands softly, but it still manages to press against the part of your chest you’ve tried so hard to pad with patience.

You keep your smile, gentle and steady. “He said he’ll be here soon, baby,” you say. “He wouldn’t miss your birthday.”

She nods, thoughtful, the way kids sometimes are in ways that are far too grown.

“Will he bring the bear I showed him?” she asks. “The one with the bow?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But even if he forgets, you’ve got a whole mountain of presents to open.”

Her eyes brighten again, the worry slipping away like clouds after rain. “And cake!” she cheers.

You laugh. “And cake.”

And before you can say anything else, she’s off—bare feet padding against the floor, her voice echoing ahead of her as she calls for balloons and music and her favorite pink cup.

You stay there for just a second longer, breathing her in, letting yourself feel everything all at once.

Then you rise, smoothing your dress, and follow your daughter into the party she’s been waiting for all year.

The timing is almost eerie—just as your foot hits the last step, the doorbell rings, and your daughter is already halfway to the door, bouncing with excitement.

“Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here!”

She’s practically climbing the doorframe, tiny hands straining to grip the heavy brass handle.

“Wait, baby—let me get it,” you say, smoothing your dress as you reach the foyer and pull open the door.

Standing on your porch, in all his six-foot-something glory, is Satoru. White hair a little tousled, still in his uniform from work, sunglasses perched carelessly in the collar of his shirt. He’s juggling two gift bags in one hand, a giant stuffed bear in the other, and a bouquet of roses tucked under his arm like an afterthought.

“Hey, princess,” he greets, crouching instantly as he sets down the bags, arms wide.

“Daddy!” she squeals, launching into his chest.

He scoops her up effortlessly, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek, like he’s been waiting all week to hold her. 

“I missed you more,” he says, voice softening in a way it never does with anyone else. “You get taller every time I see you. What are you, fifteen now?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Nooo! I'm four, Daddy!”

“Four going on twenty,” he teases, before gently setting her down. She immediately starts inspecting the bear he brought, eyes wide with excitement.

Your arms stay crossed over your chest as you watch him collect the bags he dropped, trying not to show the way your brow ticks at the bouquet still clutched under his arm.

“Roses?” you ask, flatly.

He stands to full height, brushing a hand over the back of his neck. “They’re for you,” he says, offering them with that sheepish smile that used to get him out of trouble more times than you’d like to admit. “It’s tradition, remember?”

You hesitate, but your daughter’s already tugging at your sleeve.

“Mama, look! Mr. Bear has a bow tie!”

You take the flowers wordlessly and step aside to let them both in. “Dinner’s almost ready,” you mutter, disappearing into the kitchen.

Behind you, you hear Satoru whisper dramatically to your daughter, “Think she’s still mad at me?”

She giggles again. “She’s always mad at you, daddy.”

You serve dinner the way you always do when Satoru’s around—like muscle memory. You move around the kitchen easily, placing bowls and dishes down while your daughter sets out mismatched napkins with quiet focus, her tongue peeking out in concentration.

Satoru slides into the chair across from her, still grinning as he snags a piece of bread. “Don’t mind me, chef. I’m just the help.”

“More like the distraction,” you mutter, pouring water into three glasses.

Your daughter clambers onto her seat, bouncing a little as she stabs at her carrots with her fork. “Mama made the noodles again, Daddy! Your favorite.”

Satoru winks at her. “Of course she did. Your mama always takes care of me.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

Dinner is mostly peaceful. You trade stories about school, about work, about how she’s decided she’s going to be a veterinarian and a ballerina and a ninja, all at once. Satoru listens like it’s the most important declaration in the world, nodding solemnly and gasping at all the right parts.

And then she says it.

“But when I’m older I will be super nice, like mommy and the lady who was at Daddy’s house last time.”

The fork in your hand stills against your plate.

Satoru blinks. “What?”

“The lady who was in your kitchen,” she says helpfully. “With the red lipstick. She called me sweetheart.”

You don’t look at him… You don’t have to. The air shifts in the room. He clears his throat.

“She’s just a friend, baby. She was visiting. Nothing special.”

“Oh,” your daughter says, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay.”

You still don’t look at him.

The rest of dinner is eaten in silence, the clinking of utensils far too loud. You stack your plates before you speak again.

“You can put her to bed,” you say quietly, gathering up the dishes. “She brushed her teeth after her snack earlier.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Your daughter grabs his hand instantly, already bouncing. “Will you read the pirate book again? And do the funny voice?”

“Only if you promise to sleep with the light off tonight,” he says, squeezing her hand.

She giggles. “Okay, Daddy.”

You watch them go, his tall frame ducking slightly under the hallway arch, her tiny fingers swinging his hand like she’s never doubted he’d be there.

You turn back to the kitchen.

And exhale.

You need the clatter of dishes to drown out the ache building in your chest.

The faucet’s still running when you hear his footsteps coming down the stairs. You don’t turn around right away, not until the last dish is drying on the rack and you’ve wiped your hands on a towel twice more than necessary.

“She’s asleep,” Satoru says quietly from behind you.

You nod, still facing the sink. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause. The kind that says he’s working up to something. And you’re not sure if you want to hear it.

“She asked about the woman because she’s curious,” he says. “Kids notice things. That’s all.”

You finally turn, towel still clutched in your hand. “I know what she said, Satoru. I was there.”

He exhales, tilting his head slightly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. “So what is this? You’re mad because I had someone over? We’re not—”

“I’m not mad,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “I just… I don’t parade strangers around her. That’s the difference.”

His jaw tenses. “She wasn’t a stranger.”

“Okay,” you nod tightly. “Then what was she?”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight like he’s trying to find steady ground in a place that suddenly feels too small.

“She’s four, Satoru. She doesn’t understand complicated things. She sees someone at your house and thinks they’re staying. And when they don’t show up again, she wonders if she did something wrong.”

“She didn’t.”

“I know that,” you say. “But she doesn’t.”

You both fall quiet. The room buzzes faintly with the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the old wall clock.

“She misses you all the time,” you add, softer now. “Don’t make her feel like she has to compete with someone for your attention.”

He nods slowly, eyes cast downward. “You’re right.”

You almost want to tell him that’s not what you were looking for—but maybe it is. Maybe you just needed to know he’s still listening.

After a long silence, he looks up.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says. “Or you.”

You shake your head. “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “Still.”

You nod again, quieter this time.

“Just… be more careful,” you say. “That’s all I ask.”

His voice is barely a whisper now. “I will be.”

You grab a towel from the counter and hang it carefully on the oven handle, smoothing the fabric more than necessary just to keep your hands busy.

“She’s not anything to me, by the way,” Satoru says from behind you, voice low.

You don’t turn around. “I don’t need an explanation.”

“She’s a new teacher at the school,” he continues anyway, the words tumbling out with a kind of quiet urgency, “and I gave her a ride home after a faculty meeting. That’s it. She stayed for a bit because—well, honestly, because I’m bad at saying no.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “That much hasn’t changed.”

“She asked if she could see the house, and I didn’t think— I didn’t know our daughter would even mention it.”

You finally glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. “She likes being included in your life. Can you blame her for thinking she was?”

He runs a hand through his hair, that telltale sign of guilt eating at him. “No. I can’t.”

The silence stretches between you again.

“I miss you,” he says, his words interrupting the space between you.

You freeze for just a second, the fork in your hand hovering above the dish rack.

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you—his hands are still in his pockets—but his jaw is tight, his shoulders set in that familiar way you’ve seen a hundred times before, like he’s bracing for impact.

You set the fork down carefully. “You don’t get to say that.”

He stills. “Why not?”

“Because it’s easy to miss me now,” you say, voice low. “When I’ve cooked you dinner and she’s asleep upstairs, and the house feels like something it used to be. But where were you when it mattered? When I was alone in it?”

He turns to face you then. “I was stupid,” he admits. “I thought giving you space was the right thing. I thought… if I gave you room to breathe, maybe we’d both figure things out.”

You lean back against the counter, crossing your arms. “I didn’t need space, Satoru. I needed you.”

He exhales, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I know. I get that now.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. The kitchen feels too still.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper.

“Just tell me if it’s too late,” he says, stepping forward slightly. “If I’ve already lost the chance to try again.”

You hesitate, your heart a little louder in your chest than it should be. You don’t answer.

His hand drops back to his side, fingers curling into his palm.

“I don’t know,” you say again, voice quieter this time, but not any softer. “I don’t know what you expect. I’ve spent so long trying to be okay without you that I don’t even remember what it felt like when we were good.”

He runs a hand through his hair, stepping back just enough to give you space. “I’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened. I know I screwed up—hell, I know I’ve probably made it impossible for you to trust me again.”

“Satoru…” you start, but the rest of it gets stuck in your throat. You’re too tired to yell. Too tired to cry. Just tired.

“I just miss being us,” he says. “Even if it’s just for dinner and bath time and her bedtime stories. I miss being in a house where your mug is next to mine in the cabinet and my bedsheets and my clothes smell like you.”

You close your eyes. It’s not fair, how easily he can make you remember. Not just the good—no, it’s never that simple—but the weight of it. The ache of what it could’ve been if he’d just shown up when it counted.

“I’m not asking to get married again,” he adds. “Just… whatever you have left.”

That’s what breaks you, maybe.

You open your eyes, meeting his. “You should go.”

His mouth parts, just slightly. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight.

He nods once, jaw tight, and then turns to grab his coat off the hook by the door.

“Can I see her tomorrow?” he asks, pausing in the doorway.

You nod. “Yeah, pick her up from preschool.”

He doesn’t say goodbye.

And you stand there alone in the kitchen, hands trembling slightly against the edge of the counter, wondering if he really meant what he said.

[junuru]

for ex husband! gojo, maybe a scenario where they’re all out, maybe visiting the aquarium or the zoo, and reader gets hit on bc she doesn’t wear her wedding ring anymore so ppl just think she’s single (^-^)?

thank u twin u helped me get my lick back part 2 | m. list | part 4

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tightly over your chest, the weight of your backpack digging into your shoulders.

Satoru flashes that infuriating, easy grin. “Chaperoning,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“No,” you snap. “I’m chaperoning. I signed the form. There was only one that came in her bookbag.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Juni’s teacher texted me last night. Said they could use an extra pair of hands.”

Your jaw tightens. Of course she did.

Because of course it would be your daughter’s kindergarten teacher who has a crush on your ex-husband—inviting him along and making your life harder.

“Whatever, Gojo,” you say, already walking off in the direction your daughter has waddled away with her friends. “Just stay out of my way and we’ll be fine.”

“Hey,” he calls after you, mock-offended, lips in a pout. “Your last name’s still Gojo too, y’know!”

You don’t even bother turning around. 

You spot Juni by the aquarium entrance, her tiny hand gripping the strap of her backpack, eyes wide as she stares up at the glowing blue sign overhead. The teacher is calling out chaperone groups now, clipboard in hand, voice overly chipper.

“And Mr. Gojo and I will be with Group C,” she announces, clearly trying to hide her smile as she glances at him a little too long. You roll your eyes.

Juni’s head whips around at the mention of his name. Her eyes light up for a second—until she hears she’s not in his group. You watch the excitement slowly fade from her face, replaced by a quiet kind of disappointment as she looks down at her shoes. Satoru doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy nodding along, hands in his pockets, playing the cool dad role to a bunch of kids who aren’t his.

You crouch next to Juni. “Hey,” you say softly. “You’re with me today.”

She nods, but doesn’t smile.

Satoru finally clocks the interaction, eyes narrowing just a little in thought. He walks over to the teacher, speaking low but not quietly enough for you not to hear.

“Hey, actually—do you mind switching me into Juni’s group?” he asks. “I’d rather be with my kid than a bunch of strangers’.”

The teacher hesitates for a beat, then smiles—less thrilled now, more professional. “Sure, I can rearrange that.”

You sigh under your breath as Juni perks up, already skipping over to her dad. You follow behind, ushering the rest of the kids in your group through the doors, the cool air of the aquarium rushing to greet you.

Satoru scoops Juni up with ease, her giggle echoing off the glass walls as he peppers kisses along her chubby cheeks. She shrieks in delight, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling.

“This place brings back memories, doesn’t it?” he says over his shoulder as he walks backwards, holding Juni like a koala.

You shoot him a look. “Nope.”

“Come on,” he grins. “Your hair was in a braid, you wore that weird sea turtle necklace. First date. You got motion sick during the shark tunnel.”

“You’re misremembering,” you mutter. “That was you.”

“Hmm,” he hums, feigning deep thought. “Maybe. But you did hold my hand the whole way out. Said it was romantic.”

“I said I wanted to strangle you with the dolphin keychain you bought.”

“Still have it, though,” he quips, walking beside you now as Juni switches her weight in his arms. “Saw it in the junk drawer last time I fixed the kitchen light.”

You glare at him. “You broke the kitchen light.”

“And I fixed it. You’re welcome.”

You stop in front of the jellyfish exhibit, letting the kids crowd around the glowing tank.

Satoru leans close, voice just above a whisper. “Hey. You remember what happened after the aquarium?”

You don’t respond.

He smirks. “Yeah, you do.”

You cross your arms and turn to the group. “Okay, everyone. Let’s keep moving.”

Satoru just grins, still holding Juni, trailing behind you like a very smug, six-foot-something shadow.

By the time lunch rolls around, you manage to corral the group into the school-designated eating area. Satoru, predictably, dodges duty by handing you Juni’s lunch bag and slipping away under the pretense of “scouting out food options for the adults.”

You follow him, if only to make sure he doesn’t wander off completely.

The café is a bit quieter—until the other chaperone moms spot him.

“Oh, Mr. Gojo, you should sit with us!”

“You must be Juni’s dad! She’s so adorable.”

“Wasn’t that you who got all those popsicles for the kids during field day? You’re so sweet.”

You’re used to this. Even when you were married, women would flock to him despite the wedding band on his finger.

You stand awkwardly by the entrance, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled irritation. Of course. Of course he’s a magnet for attention with his ridiculous face and stupid tall body and that smile he weaponizes.

You slip away while they’re still fawning over him and quietly make your way to a table by the far window, alone, cracking open a bottle of water and silently cursing every single one of those moms and their aggressively manicured hands.

A few minutes pass. You scroll through your phone. Sip your drink. Think about how peaceful this would be if—

“Miss me already?”

You glance up to find Satoru plopping down across from you, balancing two trays with sandwiches and a shared bag of chips.

“What happened to your fan club?” you ask flatly.

“They were lovely,” he says, unwrapping his sandwich. “But none of them roll their eyes at me quite like you do.”

You try not to smile, but you fail. “That’s because they haven’t had the pleasure of divorcing you.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping a finger to his temple. “That’s what’s missing. We should get married again so we can get divorced again and make it even spicier.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it, grinning.

You settle back in your seat, the coolness of the window at your side grounding you. You're not supposed to show him you miss him—not the way your shoulders relaxed the second he sat beside you, not the way your fingers drifted closer to the chips he brought like it was muscle memory.

“So,” you say, stabbing your fork into the limp lettuce of your salad. “How’s the girlfriend?”

His smirk is immediate, smug. “She’s not you.”

You snort. “Charming.”

“What?” He leans forward on his elbows, voice casual. “You asked.”

“I only asked to annoy you.”

“You’re the one looking annoyed.”

You roll your eyes and focus on your food, hoping the heat rising up your neck doesn’t give you away. “Didn’t stop you from saying you still loved me two months ago.”

His face shifts just slightly—not enough for the untrained eye to notice, but you know him. You knew him. He blinks once, then lets out a soft laugh, picking at the crust of his sandwich.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “I’m over it now.”

You hum like it means nothing. “Good for you.”

There’s a long pause, just long enough for your chest to tighten, and then he shrugs like the topic’s been buried for good. “It’s not serious,” he adds. “The new girl. Just company, really.”

“Right.” You chew slowly, deliberately. “Someone to fill the space.”

“Maybe.” He glances at you. “She doesn’t nag me like you.”

“She also doesn’t know your allergies or how you drink your coffee or that you cried at the end of Spirited Away—”

“Hey—”

“Or that you still sleep with the fan on even when it’s snowing outside.” You meet his eyes, steady and cold. “But sure. Not serious.”

He goes quiet. You know that silence. It's the one right before he gets under your skin—or before you get under his.

You shove another bite of food into your mouth and look away.

You don’t care. At least, you pretend you don’t.

But the truth is, you never really stopped loving him. Not even after the papers were signed. Not even when he missed Juni’s parent-teacher meeting. Not even now, when he’s sitting across from you, acting like nothing ever happened between you.

You stab the last piece of cucumber like it insulted you.

He watches you quietly, maybe thinking the same thing, maybe not.

From the corner of your eye, you catch the table of other moms throwing daggered stares your way—whispers barely disguised behind plastic coffee lids and fake laughs.

You glance at them, then glare.

“What?” you snap, loud enough for half the cafe to hear.

Lucinda—blonde, Botoxed, and always three inches too far into your business—leans forward from her spot like she’s been waiting for her cue.

“I just think,” she says with that patronizing smile, “maybe if you were a little nicer, things wouldn’t be so… tense.”

Your jaw tightens. “Maybe if you minded your own damn business, Lucinda, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Lucinda lets out a fake little laugh, the kind you can hear the tightness in. “I’m just saying, it’s not always the guy’s fault. And he seems like he’s trying—”

You cut her off. “You don’t know anything about what he’s done. So maybe don’t play therapist if you’re trying to get in his pants.”

The café goes dead quiet for a beat. Lucinda’s mouth opens, but before she can fire back, Satoru pushes back his chair and stands up—cool, calm, and very much done with this conversation.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s enough.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows shoot up. “I was just trying to help—”

“By embarrassing the mother of my daughter in front of a bunch of strangers?” He tilts his head, eyes sharp. “Yeah, thanks, but we’re good.”

The table goes silent, dumbfounded. Lucinda looks like she’s trying to blink her way back into relevance.

You stand too, brushing off your hands, grabbing your bag, and walking out with Satoru like the scene never even happened.

Back in the school lunch area, the kids are finishing up. You help Juni toss her snack wrappers away and zip up her lunchbox, but when the teachers start wrangling the students for the bus, she looks up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Can we stay a little longer? I wanna see the mermaid show!”

You glance at the time, then at Satoru. “We could.”

“I’m in,” he says immediately, crouching down to fix Juni’s backpack straps. “Just say the word.”

You wave down her teacher and let her know Juni will be leaving with you both.

The buses roll out with the other kids, and the three of you stay behind—Satoru holding your daughter’s hand, you on her other side, walking toward the big tank with the sign: Live Mermaid Show – 2:00 PM.

The mermaid show is already starting by the time you get there. Juni runs to the front with a handful of the other kids, pressing herself to the glass with wide eyes as a woman in a shimmering tail swims through the giant tank, waving and blowing kisses.

You and Satoru stay back, leaning against the railing with the rest of the parents. For a few quiet minutes, it’s peaceful. You glance over at him—his hands are tucked into his jacket, his jaw slack, his white lashes catching the overhead lights like snow.

“Is it weird,” he mutters, not looking at you, “that this reminds me of our honeymoon?”

You don’t answer, because you’re not sure if you’re ready to admit you remember that too.

“Excuse me,” a smooth voice to your right cuts in. You turn and find a man—tall, tan, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves casually rolled, tattoos peeking out beneath the fabric. His smile is sharp, but not unkind. “You together?” he asks Satoru.

Satoru blinks. “No.”

“Good,” the guy says, turning to you now. “Because I’ve been trying to come up with an excuse to talk to you since you walked in.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised but amused. “That right?”

He chuckles. “You here with your kid?”

“Yeah,” you nod toward Juni, who’s now clapping excitedly as the ‘mermaid’ does a flip underwater. “That one’s mine.”

“Cute,” he says, genuinely. “You two look alike.”

Satoru’s arms cross. “She gets that a lot.”

The man extends his hand. “Sukuna.”

You shake it. “Nice to meet you.”

“So listen,” he continues, ignoring Satoru completely, “if you're ever around this area again, I know a spot that does sushi better than anyone else in the city. You should let me show you sometime.”

You hesitate—just for a moment—and then you smile, pulling a napkin from your purse and jotting your number down with a borrowed pen. “Here.”

Sukuna takes it, tucks it into his shirt pocket. “Looking forward to it.”

As he walks away, Satoru’s mouth is twisted in a way you haven’t seen in a while. You tilt your head at him.

“Problem?”

“Nope,” he says, too quickly. “Not at all.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “You’re sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are. You’re sulking because someone asked for my number.”

“Not just someone,” he mutters under his breath. “That guy looked like he sells vapes to teenagers and calls himself a business owner.”

You laugh. “Jealous?”

Satoru scoffs. “Of course not.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you turn back to the tank, smiling quietly as the mermaid blows bubbles through the glass and Juni beams like it’s magic.

You pretend not to notice when Satoru slides half an inch closer.

He drives you and Juni home that night, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back every so often to pat her knee as she hums herself to sleep in the back seat.

By the time you pull into the driveway, she’s wide awake again—wriggling out of her booster and begging, as always, “Can Daddy stay for dinner? Please?”

And as always, Satoru agrees. He stays. Eats. Laughs when Juni puts too much ketchup on her rice and insists he try it too. You clean up while he takes her up for bedtime.

You hear her soft giggles from upstairs and pause by the sink, dish in hand, just listening.

“I love you so much, princess,” he murmurs. He lies beside her in the tiny pink bed, his long limbs curled awkwardly around stuffed animals and glittery pillows. “Always.”

You’re in the hallway when he comes down, closing her door gently behind him.

“She’s asleep,” he whispers. “I’ll head out now.”

You smile, folding your arms as you lean against the wall. “Must be nice to have such persuasive bedtime skills.”

He chuckles, but then goes quiet.

You watch as he starts to walk toward the door, grabbing his coat—but halfway through putting it on, he stops. Doesn’t face you when he speaks.

“Why did you divorce me?”

The question punches the air out of your chest.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He finally turns. “I mean… I know some of the reasons. I know we weren’t perfect. But I still don’t understand why you actually went through with it.”

You swallow, glancing toward the stairs. “You really want to talk about this now?”

He nods.

You shift your weight, crossing your arms a little tighter. “Because… because we said we wouldn’t do that. We said we’d never have kids. Remember? We agreed it wouldn’t be fair. To bring someone into a world where one of us might not make it back.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And then we had her.”

“And then we had her,” you echo. “And she became the best thing that ever happened to us.”

There’s a pause before you continue.

“But you started leaving more. Missions got longer. And when she was two, Satoru, she wouldn’t even remember you were gone. She didn’t know how to ask where you were. But I did. I did every day.”

He doesn’t say anything. You keep going.

“You weren’t there. Not really. And I thought—before she grows up and realizes her dad is half-absent, or before she loses you for good, maybe… maybe it would be easier if she had something to believe in. A clean version. A dad who loves her enough to leave and still call every night.”

You breathe out, your throat suddenly tight. “So I gave her that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. The house feels too still, like even the air is waiting.

Then, softly—like he’s afraid the answer might break him—he asks, “So it’s not because you didn’t love me?”

You exhale slowly, his old nickname falling from your lips with the kind of ease that only comes from years of knowing someone deeply. “No, Toru. I could never not love you.”

He lifts his head, eyes finding yours with a kind of vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“Then give me another chance,” he says. “Please.”

You freeze.

He steps closer—not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, the weight of his words hanging between you.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care. I worked so much because I thought if I worked hard enough… if I could just end this world the way it is—curses, sorcerers, all of it—then maybe you and Juni wouldn’t have to live inside of it anymore. I wanted a world where she could grow up safe. Where if her cursed technique shows up at six, she doesn’t become a pawn like the rest of us. I didn’t want her trapped like me. I just wanted her free.”

Your mouth opens—but no words come out. You hadn’t known that. Not all of it. And it’s not that you didn’t believe he cared. You just didn’t know it was like that.

“I thought you were over it,” you whisper. “You have a girlfriend.”

He gives a sad laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s not you. No one’s you. I tried. God, I tried to forget, to move on, but there’s no version of me that ever stops loving you.”

You stare at him, throat tight.

“I’ve only ever been in love with one person,” he says, softer now. “And I married her.”

The words break something loose in your chest. You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the tears slide down.

He sees. And it’s like a magnet pulls the two of you together.

His hands cup your face, your lips find his, and it’s like no time has passed at all. He still tastes the same and your fingers tangle in his jacket, desperate for more.

But it’s too much. Too fast.

You pull away, breathless, eyes brimming. “We can’t do this.”

His brow furrows, his hands still hovering near your cheeks. “Why not?”

“Because it still hurts,” you whisper. “And I’m still scared. And I need to protect her.”

He swallows hard, nodding even though it clearly tears him apart.

“Okay,” he says, voice cracking. “Okay.”

He lingers for a moment longer, like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then he steps back, walks to the door, and leaves.

[junuru]

❅・PARTY 4 U

SYNOPSIS —If there’s one thing Gojo Satoru knows how to do, it’s throw a party, the kind that becomes campus legend by Monday morning. With the grades, the girls, and the frat house loyalty, he seems to have it all. But maybe the real reason behind his biweekly ragers isn’t the crowd or the chaos — maybe it’s the one girl who never showed up.

WC — 5.7k

CONTENT — college/university au, gojo yearns a lot, use of y/n twice, mentions of drugs and alcohol, implied sex, implied hookups, fratboys (ew), i didnt know what to name the frat so we’re using alpha beta sigma, highkey a self insert if you squint :p, readers a year older than Satoru, 100 million time skips

a/n: in case you couldnt tell this is inspired by the great gatsby and party 4 u by charli xcx! this is a reupload if you have seen it before!

masterlist | divider 1 | divider 2 | read on ao3

fratboy!Satoru was whipped.

It all started at the middle of fall semester in his first year.

He’d always been attractive, sure, but after ditching the glasses the summer before highschool, something shifted. By the time senior year rolled around, girls were paying attention. A lot of attention. And it definitely went to his head.

By the second month of university? Satoru was a menace. Flirting with anything that breathed, flashing that stupid smile like it was currency, and always, always showing up at parties like he owned the place. 

He’d secured his spot in one of the university’s top social fraternities within the first week, like it was second nature. By then, rejection had become a foreign concept; he hadn’t heard a “no” in years, not from professors, not from party invites, and definitely not from girls. He strode through campus on confidence alone, all charm and winks, always knowing exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

Unfortunately, Satoru only realized the consequences of skipping half his data lectures when midterms rolled around and suddenly he was cramming in the library at midnight, surrounded by highlighters and half-empty cans of energy drinks.

He was completely unaware of just how unprepared he was. Sure, classes had been in full swing for weeks now, but somehow, between skipping lectures and partying three nights a week, he’d never gotten around to buying the damn textbook.

So here he was, sleep-deprived, dressed in a shirt he didn’t remember owning, trudging into the campus bookstore with the vague hope they still had a copy in stock.

"You got Data and Stats?" he asks the cashier, nodding toward the textbooks behind the counter.

The cashier points a thumb toward the back of the store. “Think there’s one left in the aisle by the back wall,” he says. “But no promises, it might’ve been snagged already.”

He rounded the corner too fast, eyes scanning the shelves, and collided straight into someone—hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

“Shit—sorry,” he said, steadying you with a hand on your arm.

You blinked up at him, eyes wide, textbook already clutched to your chest.

Of course. The last copy.

You raised a brow at him, arms tightening just slightly around the book. “Watch it.”

“My bad,” he grinned, gaze flicking from the textbook to your face. “You a stats major?”

You looked unimpressed. “No. Just reviewing some concepts from first year.”

Satoru’s grin widened. “Smart and older,” he said, almost to himself. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” you said flatly, stepping to the side.

He followed. “I’m Gojo, by the way. Satoru.”

You didn’t offer your name. Just adjusted your grip on the textbook and said, “Nice.”

“Listen,” he tried again, leaning against the shelf casually, “I’ve been out of the loop, but I’m a fast learner. If you’re already reviewing this stuff, maybe you could tutor me a little? We could grab coffee. I’ll pay.”

You blinked. “You want to bribe me with overpriced caffeine to do your studying for you?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” he said, laughing, “yeah. Pretty much.”

“No thanks,” you said, already turning away.

But Gojo never was the type to take no for an answer, not without trying at least one more time.

“I’ll let you quiz me while I’m shirtless,” he called after you, hands cupped around his mouth. “Strictly for motivation, obviously!”

You didn’t even look back. “Keep the shirt on, Gojo.”

He smirked.

Game on.

Midterms came and went, and for once, Satoru didn’t care about his grades.

He found himself drifting through campus with one thing on his mind…you.

It had been two weeks since the bookstore. You’d turned him down with more ease than most people say hello. For some reason, that only made him more interested.

So, he started asking around.

“Yo, you ever seen a girl on campus? She’s a second year, kinda sharp, kinda scary?” he asked Suguru one night, nursing a red solo cup and leaning on the couch in their frat house.

Suguru squinted at him. “That describes half the RAs on campus. Be specific.”

Satoru sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She had the data textbook. Met her in the bookstore. She made me feel like I was failing a class I wasn’t even enrolled in.”

“Ah.” Suguru looked mildly amused. “You mean the one who told you to keep your shirt on?”

Satoru perked up. “You have seen her?”

Suguru shrugged. “No, you just can’t keep your mouth shut.”

He moved on to others, anyone who might’ve seen you at a party. But none of them had. Not even the quieter, more observant guys who tended to remember faces.

Which only made you more intriguing.

You weren’t a party regular. You weren’t in his classes. You weren’t showing up in any of the circles he ran through, which for a smaller, prestigious university, was definitely odd. It was like you’d vanished.

And Gojo Satoru, for once in his life, was losing his damn mind over someone who hadn’t given him the time of day.

Finals came about, and Satoru was no closer to finding you than he had been two months ago.

At this point, he’d practically become a fixture at the campus bookstore, enough that the cashier, a second-year named Haru, barely blinked when Satoru sauntered in with his usual energy and zero academic urgency.

“Hey,” Satoru leaned on the counter, spinning a pen from the stands between his fingers. “Did she stop by?”

Haru didn’t even look up from their phone. “Dude, I still don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You know,” Satoru insisted, pushing a hand through his white hair. “She’s like this tall. Smart. Had a data and stats textbook and an attitude problem, ringing any bells?”

Haru finally glanced at him, deadpan. “Do you know how many people in here have an attitude and a stats textbook?”

“She told me to keep my shirt on.”

Pause.

A snort escaped before Haru could stop it. “Okay, that I remember. You were sulking for , like, three hours after that.”

“She was mysterious,” he defended. “It’s different.”

“She rejected you.”

Satoru huffed, flopping over the counter like a kicked puppy. “And now I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Please,” he said dramatically. “If you see her, just text me. I’ll pay you in eternal gratitude. And snacks.”

Haru raised a brow. “You already bring me snacks.”

“Exactly. So now it’ll just be… slightly more motivated.”

They rolled their eyes. “Fine. But you owe me if she’s real and not just some rejection-fueled hallucination.”

“She’s real,” Satoru grinned, standing upright again. “And when I see her, I’m gonna make her fall in love with me.”

“If you say so.”

There was a café about a mile off campus that Satoru had been meaning to try ever since his frat brother and roommate, Suguru landed a part-time job there. Not because he craved overpriced oat milk lattes or wanted to support local businesses, Satoru just liked free things, and free pastries via a friend behind the counter were reason enough to visit.

He had his laptop open, a half-finished spreadsheet glowing on the screen in front of him. To anyone passing by, he looked like the picture of productivity: earbuds in, brows furrowed, iced americano sweating beside his elbow.

In reality, he’d spent the last thirty minutes switching between Excel and an online quiz titled “What type of bread are you?”

(He was sourdough. Apparently because he “looks crusty but has depth.” He wasn’t sure if he should be offended.)

Suguru was behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and hair tied into a messy bun as he wiped down the counter with the kind of slow precision that said I get paid minimum wage. It was a normal, uneventful afternoon.

Until Satoru looked up… and nearly knocked over his drink.

You.

You were here. At this café. Talking to his roommate. Laughing, even, like you two knew each other. Like the universe had some sick sense of humour and decided to drop you into his life again when he least expected it.

He scrambled, nearly choking on his straw before yanking his earbuds out and hissing, “Suguru. Suguru.”

Suguru didn’t even glance up. “You’re not supposed to talk to me when I’m on shift.”

“I’ll Venmo you twenty bucks.”

“You still owe me thirty from last time.”

“Fine. Fifty. Just—who is that?”

Now Suguru looked up, eyes flicking over to where you stood at the register, wallet in hand. “Who? Her?”

“Yes, her. The girl with the nice hair and the resting bitch face… my bookstore girl.”

“Bookstore girl?”

Satoru groaned. “The one who you were just talking to.”

Recognition finally dawned on Suguru’s face. “Ohhh. You mean Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he echoed, the name rolling off his tongue like he’d been waiting to learn it his whole life. “Oh my god, Suguru, tell me everything.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my fate, obviously, and I need a way in.”

Suguru looked unimpressed. “You mean a way to flirt with her again even though she very clearly rejected you?”

“That was foreplay.”

“That was you being annoying.”

Satoru leaned forward, whispering like it was a matter of national security. “Does she come here often? Is she seeing anyone? What’s her major? What’s her coffee order? Do you think she likes sourdough?”

Suguru blinked slowly. “You are so unwell.”

“Suguru, please,” Satoru whined, clutching his iced coffee like it might soothe the ache of desperation in his chest.

Suguru didn’t even bother to hide the exhaustion in his voice as he wiped down the espresso machine. “Send me my fifty bucks, and I’ll tell you what you want to know when I’m on break.”

Satoru blinked. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s backpay.”

He groaned but immediately reached for his phone, opening Venmo and aggressively typing in his information before sending the payment.

“Done,” he said, shoving the screen in Suguru’s face.

Suguru glanced at it, then shrugged. “Alright. I’m off in ten. If you’re still here and not dramatically passed out from yearning by then, I’ll spill.”

Satoru leaned back in his seat with a grin that could’ve lit the café. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You never do,” Suguru muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes had never felt longer, but eventually, Surguru sat in front of him, his own coffee in hand. He didn’t even bother with a greeting.

“She’s a bio major,” Suguru said flatly, taking a long sip from his drink. “Wants to be a dentist.”

Satoru blinked. “That’s so hot.”

Suguru sighed, already regretting this. “Of course it is.”

“I mean, come on, she’s smart and she might give me free Invisalign one day?”

“She wouldn’t touch your mouth with a ten-foot pole,” Suguru deadpanned. “She’s focused. Doesn’t party much anymore. Commutes from downtown. No time for idiots.”

Satoru’s grin faltered. “Wait, what do you mean anymore?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “She used to party?”

Suguru smirked over the rim of his cup. “You asked for info. I didn’t say I’d give it all away for free.”

“Please, Suguru,” Satoru practically begged, lowering his voice and leaning over the table. “I’ll restock the mini fridge this week.”

Suguru didn’t even look up from his drink. “I’d rather not open it and find nothing but melted sugar cubes again.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

“Suguru.”

He sighed like the weight of Satoru’s desperation was physically exhausting. “Fine,” he muttered, glancing around before lowering his voice. “She used to. But she got caught by a cop in the middle of freshman year.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shot up. “Doing what?”

“Dunno the full story. Something about a bottle and the wrong parking lot. No charges, but she got real quiet after that. Keeps her head down now. Doubt she’d come out again.”

Satoru leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, mind already racing. “Damn.”

Suguru gave him a look. “Don’t get any bright ideas.”

“Too late.”

Satoru’s gone before Suguru even finishes his 10 minute break.

Second year rolls around, and Satoru’s carrying a massive duffel bag up the cracked pavement of his fraternity’s front steps, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. The house is already buzzing with the chaos of returning members—someone’s blasting music on the second floor, someone else is yelling about a missing tub of protein powder, and the front door keeps swinging open with the screech of badly-oiled hinges.

He pauses at the threshold, taking in the scent of old beer and whatever candle someone’s mom insisted on leaving behind.

This year, he’s not a freshman sleeping in storage in the basement. He’s got a real room this time, second floor, corner window, just enough space for a larger mini fridge and his questionable collection of graphic tees. He drops his bag with a dramatic sigh and stretches like he’s been through war, not a 15-minute Uber ride.

He had an idea. A stupid one, maybe. But Satoru Gojo wasn’t exactly known for subtlety.

If the girl wasn’t coming to him, he’d create a reason for her to show up.

So he pitched it—loudly, obnoxiously, and with a whiteboard diagram no one asked for—at the weekly frat meeting.

“A party to start the year,” he declared, slapping the side of the board like it was a car hood. “Biggest of the year. We invite everyone. First-years, second-years, even that weird kid who sells meth outside the math building.”

From the couch, Suguru raised a brow. “Is this about that girl again?”

Satoru didn’t even blink. “No.”

“It’s definitely about the girl,” Suguru muttered, lowly to him.

“I mean, yes,” Satoru admitted, flopping into the armchair. “But it’s also about unity and brotherhood and throwing an insanely sick party.”

No one questioned it, so within three days, the plans were set. DJ booked, lighting rig rented, flyers printed (badly), and kegs on order. The party would be held Friday night, the first real weekend back, perfect timing for people still running on syllabus week energy and free drinks.

The night of the party arrived like a storm.

The house rang with music, lights bouncing off the walls, the bass heavy enough to shake the picture frames in the hallway. Students spilled into the yard, red solo cups in hand, laughter echoing over the sound of cheap EDM and even cheaper vodka.

Satoru had made his rounds. He high-fived half the finance department, danced with someone from the cheer team, and even took a tequila shot with a professor who definitely should not have been there. But , now, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping water, eyes flicking to the door every time it opened.

Still no sign of you.

He wasn’t surprised, not really, but he still felt that tiny sting of disappointment settle under his skin, gnawing quietly.

“Why the long face, Gojo?” a voice purred beside him.

He glanced over. A girl in a too-tight crop top with too-red lipstick batted her lashes at him. She stepped closer, just enough that her perfume hit him in a wave.

“You’re not usually the brooding type,” she said, finger trailing along the hem of his shirt.

Satoru gave her a lopsided grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just waiting on someone.”

She tilted her head. “Well… I’m someone.”

He chuckled, soft but genuine. “Yeah, you are.”

She leaned in, clearly expecting him to meet her halfway, but he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, lifting his water cup in mock cheers. “But I’m kinda holding out for a different someone tonight.”

The disappointment on her face was fleeting, quickly masked by a shrug as she wandered off toward the living room.

Satoru stayed there for a moment, alone with the distant thrum of music and his own stubborn hope.

Because you hadn’t come tonight. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t eventually, and he was willing to wait.

That was the beginning of the social event(s?) of the year.

Every second Friday of the month, Satoru Gojo threw the wildest, most chaotic, most talked-about parties on campus. There was always a theme—90s rave, ski lodge in spring, blue (he never explained that one)—and the house was always packed. Students from all majors, all years, would pile in through the doors, spill out onto the lawn, and stay until sunrise.

At some point, rumor had it a few of the older frat brothers tried to rename the kitchen The Lean Lab after an incident involving what guests thought was purple punch, three freshmen passed out on the back porch, and Suguru handing out electrolytes, still clad in a bonnet and a bathrobe. Satoru never denied the allegation. In fact, he seemed kind of proud.

But no matter how loud the music got or how many people screamed his name when he walked in, Satoru’s eyes always scanned the crowd for you.

He never said it out loud, but his friends knew. Suguru definitely knew. Shoko teased him about it constantly, usually while stealing sips from his cup.

“You know she’s not showing, right?” she’d say, halfway through the second party of the semester. “She’s probably at home doing flashcards and drinking chamomile tea.”

“Let me dream,” Satoru would grin, tossing back his drink anyway.

In January, Satoru saw you again.

He had made a rare, out-of-character decision to actually study for his upcoming tests, a choice motivated less by academic responsibility and more by sheer boredom. Wandering into the campus library, he scanned the rows of private study rooms without much hope…until he saw you.

There you were, seated alone in a glass-walled room, completely absorbed in your notes, highlighter uncapped, earbuds in. The same girl he hadn’t seen since that day at the bookstore. The one he’d lowkey, maybe even highkey, thrown multiple house parties for. 

His feet moved before his brain did.

He rapped his knuckles gently against the door, watching as you glanced up in mild confusion, one earbud popping out.

You blinked at him. “Can I help you?”

Satoru smiled, all charm and false innocence. “Hey. So… I’ve got a huge test coming up and apparently everyone and their mom decided to study today.” He tilted his head toward the other rooms, which were, admittedly, mostly full. “Yours is the only room with space. Mind if I join you? I’ll be quiet. I swear.”

You looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then your eyes flicked to the empty seats beside you.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing the door open wider. “Just don’t talk.”

Satoru grins, slipping inside like he’s just gotten away with a heist. “Scout’s honor.”

You don’t look at him as he settles into the chair across from you. You just go back to your notes, highlighter in one hand, pen in the other. The silence stretches—ten seconds, then twenty. You can feel his eyes on you.

“Are you actually studying?” you mutter without looking up.

“Yup,” he says, cracking open a textbook that still has the price tag on it. “Absolutely.”

You glance up, just in time to catch him upside down trying to read the index. “You’re holding it upside down.”

“Right,” he nods solemnly, flipping it around. “That’s why I wasn’t learning anything.”

Despite yourself, a laugh pushes its way up your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him again, more curious now than annoyed.

“Do I know you?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He leans back in his chair, tossing his pen onto the table with a smug little smile. “You might. I’m unforgettable.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your notes.

“Biochem?” he guesses, nodding toward your open binder.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna be a doctor?”

“Dentist,” you correct, automatic. Then, softer, “Hopefully.”

Satoru’s quiet for a second. “That’s really hot.”

You don’t respond. But this time, when you look up at him, your lips are twitching just slightly.

“You said you wouldn’t talk,” you mutter, shooting him a glare over your notes.

“Hey,” Satoru says, holding his hands up in mock defense. “You talked to me first.”

His eyes lock with yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The room is still, save for the distant hum of the lights and the muffled turning of pages from somewhere down the hall.

And even though you’re clearly annoyed, Satoru feels his heartbeat pick up, his mouth suddenly dry. There’s something about the way you look at him, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s worth the energy it takes to deal with him.

He kind of hopes you decide he is.

“I’ll be quiet,” he says again, voice softer this time, less cocky. “Promise.”

You narrow your eyes one last time before turning back to your notes.

“Thanks,” you murmur, scribbling something in the margins of your textbook.

Satoru doesn’t speak after that. But his eyes linger on you just a few seconds longer than they should. He gets up to leave an hour later, stuffing his untouched notes into his bag and already mentally rearranging his schedule. If he moved next week’s party up by a solid seven days, he’d have just enough time to plan something big. Something loud. Something that would, hopefully, catch your attention for more than an hour in a study room.

“Thanks,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

You glance up from your notes and nod, more out of politeness than anything.

Satoru hesitates at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s suddenly not sure if he should say what he’s about to.

“Um… if you’re interested,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “my frat’s throwing a party on Friday. Alpha Beta Sigma house. You should come.”

You blink at him, eyebrows raised just enough to show surprise. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.

He adds, “There’ll be music. Drinks. Free pizza?” Then, quickly, “No pressure.”

You don’t say anything right away, just look at him for a moment too long, like you’re trying to figure out if this is a setup.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally, voice unreadable.

Satoru smiles anyway, that lopsided, confident grin that’s gotten him in and out of trouble more times than he can count.

“I’ll save you a slice.”

And with that, he walks out, already pulling out his phone to text Suguru.

[Satoru]: partys on friday. need lights and sound set up. theme ideas???

Your typical Friday in your best friend’s dorm had taken a sharp turn from pizza and Netflix into something straight out of a high school coming-of-age movie. One second it was just the two of you, and the next, a swarm of girls had poured in, arms full of makeup bags and curling irons, shouting over each other about outfits and last-minute costume swaps.

To your dismay, your best friend had caught wind of Alpha Beta Sigma’s Great Gatsby-themed party, and ever since, it was all she could talk about. Apparently, the only way she wanted to ring in her 21st was by flouncing into a frat house full of plastic champagne flutes, men in suspenders, and gold streamers taped to the ceiling.

She'd even lent you a dress, something slinky and glittery that you wouldn’t have picked out yourself, and insisted you had no choice but to come. “You’re my emotional support introvert,” she said, grinning as she tugged a brush through your hair. “If I’m going to get blackout drunk and scream-sing Lana Del Rey on a stranger’s balcony, I want you beside me.”

You sighed, but didn’t fight her. You owed her at least that.

Still, you weren’t expecting to be nervous. Not until you caught sight of your reflection, makeup done and outfit clinging in all the right places.

It’s louder than you expected.

Bass-heavy music pulses through the floorboards, vibrating through your heels and the hem of your borrowed dress. Gold streamers flutter like dying stars in the hallway, and someone spills half a drink as they stumble past you, laughing like the world is ending and that’s the best news they’ve heard all week.

It takes you right back to your partying habits of freshman year. You know that you don’t belong here the moment you slip into the party and feel yourself retreat into the corners of the room, the ones not drenched in strobe lights or attention.

You're tucked into an armchair in what must’ve once been a living room, watching silhouettes dance in slow-motion through the haze of a fog machine someone thought was a good idea. You sip flat soda from a red plastic cup. You told your friend you’d be fine alone for a while—and honestly, you meant it.

That is, until you hear his voice.

“You know,” Satoru says, appearing like some careless daydream beside you. “I think this party was missing something until now.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Me?”

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “You get it.”

You roll your eyes.

He doesn’t sit too close, but he does sit beside you, shoulders angled just slightly toward yours.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says after a beat, voice quieter now, soft in a way that cuts through the music like it’s meant just for you.

You shrug. “My best friend dragged me.”

“Good friend,” he murmurs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance at him sideways, the smoke from a fog machine catching in your lashes. “You don’t even know me.”

He smiles, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I’ve been hoping to.”

That makes your stomach flutter, annoyingly so. You look away, focusing instead on the rim of your cup. “You’ve got, what, half the school in your DMs? You sure it’s me you’re hoping to get to know?”

“I’m not interested in half the school,” he says, not missing a beat. “I’m interested in you.”

You continue to glare at him. 

“I’m interested in the girl who told me to shut up in the bookstore like I wasn’t the most charming guy on campus.”

You snort. “You were being loud.”

“You were being cute.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re finally talking to me,” he says, voice dipping low with something fond behind it. “So, impossible’s working out for me so far.”

You meet his gaze this time, steady. “You always flirt like this?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Only when I really mean it.”

You go quiet at that. Not because it’s awkward, but because you feel the tension shift, slightly deeper, slightly heavier.

Satoru notices too. He leans back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, knees brushing yours. “So… what do you actually like doing? When you’re not running from frat parties and causing lost boys to fail their exams.”

You smile at that. “Stuff that doesn’t involve basslines that make my brain rattle.”

He pretends to gasp. “So you’re telling me this isn’t your scene?”

“You’re surprised?”

He shrugs. “A little. Thought maybe you were just elusive.”

“Try allergic.”

“Gotcha,” he says, his smile soft now. “So next time, I’ll skip the party and ask you somewhere quieter.”

Your heart skips once. “Next time?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “If there’s a chance for one.”

You’re quiet again, but you don’t look away this time.

“…I’ll think about it.”

“You, know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says suddenly, before you can respond. “Since I first met you.”

You glance at him, surprised, and he laughs under his breath.

“I don’t know. There was something about it. About you. I didn’t think it’d stick with me, but it did.”

A part of you wants to ask if this is just more of his usual lines, but something about the way he’s looking at you—less like a dare, more like a confession—stops you.

“Is that why you keep throwing these parties?” you ask, half-teasingly.

He pauses, smile turning sheepish. “Kind of.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You both sit in silence for a second. Satoru’s afraid he’s said the wrong thing. 

“I don’t really do that. Think, I mean. About anyone. Not like that. And I kept thinking I’d just see you again eventually if I kept showing up, if I kept being loud enough or... visible enough.”

You stay quiet, watching him. The party hums on in the distance, but it’s quiet here. Just him and you and the truth beginning to unravel.

“But then I started wondering about you. Like, what kind of music do you listen to when you’re sad? Or if you have a weird food combination you eat when you’re stressed. I want to know if you read the backs of shampoo bottles in the shower or if you sing with your whole chest when you’re alone in the car. I want to know what your laugh sounds like when you really mean it. What kind of drunk you are. If you’ve ever broken a bone. What your childhood best friend’s name was.”

He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “And it stopped being about getting your number or proving anything. I just—I started caring. About you. About the kind of day you’ve had. About whether you ever felt alone even in a room full of people.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty. He shrugs, eyes flicking to the cup in your hand before returning to yours.

“I guess I just wanted a chance. To know you. And I get that maybe that’s weird, or a lot, but I’m not really good at pretending I don’t want things when I want them. And you? You’re the first thing I’ve wanted in a long time that isn’t temporary.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, more to himself than anything.

“God, I sound insane. Like a rom-com stalker. But I swear, I’m not. I just… really, really like you.”

You look at him fully now, really look, and you see the way his leg bounces just slightly, the way his hand flexes around his own cup. He’s nervous. Gojo Satoru is actually nervous.

His voice dips, softer now, less performative.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention,” he says quietly. “And I thought—maybe tonight, I finally would.”

The music shifts to something slower, a synth-drenched beat washing over the room like a lull in a storm. Someone’s laughing down the hall. You swear the whole world softens for a moment.

“So?” he asks, voice low. “Can I take you out sometime? Like, actually out. No frat houses. Just me and you.”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching him.

Then: “Okay,” you say.

His grin grows, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest flutter.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “But only if you actually study next time you’re in the library.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “Swear on my GPA.”

Six months later, you roll over in your bed, expecting the cool brush of your sheets against bare skin, only to be met with warmth.

Your cheek presses lightly against Satoru’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat the first sound you register as sleep slips from your body. His arm is already around you, tightening slightly at your movement, like even in sleep he can sense you trying to leave.

You let out a small sigh, content, and burrow closer.

“You’re awake?” he murmurs, voice gravelly and still thick with sleep.

“Barely,” you whisper.

He hums, the sound vibrating beneath your ear. “Good. Stay.”

You smile against his skin, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along the curve of his ribcage. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he mumbles, one eye cracked open now. “Didn’t dream about anyone else, right?”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Whatever,” he says, half-asleep. “I love you.”

You glance up at him, his snowy lashes fluttering as he begins to open his eyes.

“I’ll allow it,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest. He tugs you in tighter, his arms sliding lower over the curves of your bare body until there’s no space left between you. His breath grazes the top of your head as he murmurs, half-lost in the haze of sleep and morning light,.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The quiet admission makes your heart skip. You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze.

You blink slowly, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m the one who should be saying that,” you whisper.

Satoru huffs a laugh but doesn’t let go, fingers tracing lazy patterns down your spine. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I’ve had dreams like this before.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “They’ve never felt this good.”

“Whatever you say, Satoru,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just hums, his chin resting on top of your head, arms still wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

It hits you then, how much he’s changed.

Six months ago, Friday nights meant house parties that started with cheap drinks and ended in chaos. A different girl on his arm every week. His name always floating in the air, always said with a giggle or an eye roll. But now?

Now Friday nights mean falling asleep tangled in your limbs, shared takeout containers, and quiet conversations over shows neither of you finish because you’re too busy listening to each other. His phone is always face down. His texts are fewer but more thoughtful. And when someone brings up the next frat party, he waves them off with a shrug, saying he’s already got plans.

Plans that usually involve you, a hoodie that probably used to be his, and a quiet night at home.

Still, it’s hard to resist teasing him, especially when his past is so easy to poke fun at.

“So,” you whisper, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth, “what’s the theme of tonight’s party?”

He groans softly, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, you know I only threw those parties for you.”

You snort. “Sure you did.”

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH: masterlist

PAIRINGS — geto surguru x f!reader x gojo satoru

CONTENT — female reader, canon universe, spoilers, angst, eventual smut, time jumps, mental health: depression eds self harm, potential happy ending... chapters will contain relevant content warnings

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after nearly a decade of silence.

01. wide awake all night thinking about you / 02. we should stop watchin’ the news / 03. tired of you still tied to me / 04. tell me i’m no one else’s but yours / 05. do you think of me too? / 06. say what you want, but say it like you mean it / 07. you and i could be okay / 08. everything hurts, except for you / 09. you’ll go fight a war, i’ll go missin' / 10. am i making you feel sick? / 11. while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there / 12. ...

TAGLIST : closed

comment to be added (50/50)

@riveredmoon @mik4kn0x @bubblegumcat229 @poopooindamouf @se-phi-roth @twinkling-moonlillie @11thlife02 @perqbeth @love-me-satoru @pillkits @not-a-glad-gladiator @xarnesss @myabae @linaaeatsfamilies @nanamisbbygirl @timedisappears @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @chewiebee @por0u @ppejmurde @ssetsuka @deathicus-sling @kyungjunnies @juliarchiv3s @not-aya @laceymerolling @neteyamneteyam @starriesworlds @inoluvrr @s-3-l-3-na @sukunadckrider @dairyfaerie @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @jjune-07 @raysugarcane @muimuiwisteria @nialovessatoru @oceansstone @deliahsstuff @ieathairs @man1cslut @pandabiene5115 @good-mourning0 @bbyrugou @expiredbred @nisebomber @withersworld @loveroftheoldestdream @bearchermer @anyaslittlepeanut

[junuru]

🁪 ・HOTEL LOBBY

PAIRING — nanami x f!reader x gojo

SYNOPSIS — after traveling hours to see your long distance boyfriend, you end up feeling more like a burden than his girlfriend. so when two strangers you meet in the hotel lobby offer you a distraction, you can't say no. based off of this song.

WC — (13k)

CONTENT — infidelity, smoking, drinking, threesome kinda i guess, oral (f! and m! receiving), restraint, multiple orgasms, fingering, sub!gojo if you squint, consent is clearly given but all parties are (slightly) drunk, praise, slight hair pulling, nanami is yearning, mentions of masturbation, big dick, edging?, dirty talk, gagging, p in v, mentions of porn

a/n: i wrote this before the song got big on tiktok... beta read by @taomyou my goat and my hg helped write the freak m. list | divider | read this on ao3

"Hey, give me a minute," your boyfriend mutters, barely glancing at you as he pushes himself up off of you, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

The dim glow of the screen lights up his face, and you watch as a slow smile creeps across his lips.

"Shit," he chuckles, swiping at the screen. "I gotta take this. You can clean yourself up, right?"

You barely have time to nod before he's already tugging his boxers back on, running a hand through his hair as he heads toward the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you sprawled across the hotel bed, skin still warm from where his hands had been just moments ago.

Alone.

Tonight was supposed to be special.

You had been waiting for months to see him again, counting down the days, telling yourself the distance was only temporary. The two of you had only been together for two months before his job moved him to the other side of the country. Your years of friendship were supposed to turn into a whirlwind romance, but instead, it had left you with late-night calls that always ended too soon and half-hearted I miss yous over iMessage.

Before he left, you never had the chance to sleep together. It wasn’t that you hadn’t wanted to, life just got in the way. So, when you both finally found a break in your schedules and decided to meet halfway (though, if you were being honest, you had done most of the convincing), he booked a hotel room.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

But here you were, sheets tangled around your legs, body aching for a release that never came. You had already made him cum twice, waiting, hoping, expecting him to return the favor—but it never seemed to happen. You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 12:13 AM.

Nearly four hours.

Four hours of kissing, touching, waiting, hoping that maybe he’d pay attention to you the way you did to him. That he’d notice the way your body tensed, the way your breaths hitched in anticipation, the way you kept giving and giving and giving without ever getting anything in return.

But, now, he’s gone, locked in the bathroom with his phone, laughing at something that clearly matters more than you. And you’re still here, lying in bed, unsatisfied and alone.

You sigh, lifting your hips just enough to pull out the dry towel from underneath you, wiping his cum off your stomach. The warm fabric feels clinical against your skin, scrubbing away the last remnants of a night that was supposed to mean something.

You slip back into your lacy black set—the one you had picked out just for him—before reaching for the dress you had spent way too much time choosing, hoping it would catch his eye, earn you a damn compliment, or at least some acknowledgment. But it hadn’t.

Not once.

Barefoot, you pad across the carpet toward the bathroom, hesitation lingering in your steps before you knock softly on the door.

There’s a pause, then the muffled sound of his voice. “One sec, man.” A beat of silence, then he adds, “Woman, I’m on the phone, I told you.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly at your sides. “I, uh… I’m just going to get some air.”

You don’t wait for a response, not that you expect one.

You grab your room key from the dresser by the door, slip into your shoes, and step out into the hallway. The air feels different out there. Less stifling, less heavy.

By the time you make it to the lobby, you know you don’t want to stop there. You push past the glass doors, stepping outside into the cool night air. The city hums softly around you. Distant traffic, the occasional laugh from a passing couple, the buzz of a neon sign flickering just above you.

You take a deep breath, wrapping your arms around yourself, letting the cool air settle on your skin. It’s quiet out here, peaceful in a way that makes you feel alone, but not lonely.

The sound of a door creaking open breaks the silence.

You glance over as a man steps out of the hotel, flicking a lighter open with one hand and slipping a cigarette between his lips with the other. He looks about your age, maybe a little older, with dark, tired eyes and a suit jacket slung lazily over his arm like he had just come from something important but didn’t care enough to keep up the appearance.

He catches you staring, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before offering a small, knowing nod.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Something like that.”

He nods, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Yeah. Me too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. The distant hum of the city fills the gaps where conversation doesn’t, the occasional flicker of his lighter, and the soft crackle of burning tobacco the only real sounds between you.

A few minutes pass before you speak again.

“What’re you here for?” you ask, shifting your weight slightly as you glance over at him.

“Work,” he says simply, taking another drag of his cigarette. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air. “Meetings, schmoozing, pretending I care more than I actually do.”

You huff a quiet laugh, crossing your arms. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Oh, it is.” He smirks, flicking the cigarette between his fingers before glancing at you. “What about you?”

You hesitate, your fingers grazing over the hem of your dress before you sigh. “Vacation.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You don’t sound like you’re having a very good one.”

You let out a small, dry laugh, looking away. “Yeah. Guess not.” "That’s a bummer," he says, his voice light, like he’s making an observation rather than prying.

You don’t respond.

He places the cigarette between his lips again, inhaling deeply before pulling it back and holding it out to you. The glowing ember flickers in the dim light as he tilts his head slightly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You hesitate for a moment before reaching out, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. You bring it to your lips, inhaling, and immediately regret it as the smoke burns down your throat. You cough, turning your head away as you try to compose yourself.

He chuckles, amused. “Been a while?”

You clear your throat, exhaling the rest of the smoke in a slow breath. “High school, maybe.”

He hums, watching you for a beat before you finally say it.

“My boyfriend’s a dick.”

There’s no hesitation in your voice, no need to sugarcoat it. The words sit in the air between you, hanging there like smoke.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just nods, shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Yeah?”

You take another drag, this time slower, letting the taste linger before you exhale. “Yeah.” You hand the cigarette back to him, watching as he takes it between his fingers with ease.

“You?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“My colleague’s annoying.”

You huff out a small laugh. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms, taking another drag. “Got stuck sharing a room with him. Guy doesn’t shut up. I’m supposed to grab a drink with him right now.”

You shake your head, smirking. “I feel like that’s not quite on the same level as my problem.”

He grins, tilting his head toward you. “Maybe not, but hey, annoying can be exhausting.”

You hum, leaning back slightly against the hotel’s brick wall, the cool surface grounding you.

The silence between you stretches again, but it’s easy, natural. You find yourself watching the cigarette glow between his fingers, the way the smoke curls into the night air, disappearing just as quickly as it came.

“Why’s he a dick?” he asks, not looking at you this time. It’s casual, like he’s just making conversation.

You think about it for a second, then shrug. “Because I flew across the country to see him, and he’s currently locked in a hotel bathroom on the phone with someone he clearly enjoys talking to more than me.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, that’s a dick move.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right?”

He offers you the cigarette again without a word. You shake your head.

"That’s a shame," he says, exhaling smoke as he flicks the cigarette between his fingers. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable yet intent. "Pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve that."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s casual, effortless, like he didn’t even have to think about saying it, but something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You let out a soft scoff, looking away. "Guess not."

He hums, taking another slow drag. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

You blink, glancing back at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest question in the world. "You flew all this way for a guy who won’t even give you the time of day. You planning on spending the rest of the night waiting for him to remember you exist?"

You stay quiet.

Because you don’t know.

You had come here with a picture in your mind, an expectation of what this night was supposed to be. But now, standing outside a hotel with a stranger who smokes like it’s second nature and looks at you like you actually matter, you’re starting to think maybe… you had it all wrong. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the hotel door swinging open.

You whip your head around, eyes landing on the man stepping outside.

He’s handsome, no doubt. Tall, broad-shouldered with sharp features, but something about him is off. He’s wearing a compression shirt tucked into dress pants like he couldn't decide between casual or formal. And then there are the sunglasses. Tinted so dark you wonder how the hell he can even see through them.

It’s night, after all.

“Nanaminnnn,” he calls out, voice loud and exaggerated. “There you are!”

The man beside you, Nanami, apparently, closes his eyes for a brief second, inhaling like he’s summoning patience from the depths of his soul. He takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the pavement and crushing it under his heel.

You glance at him, amused. “Colleague?”

“Unfortunately,” Nanami mutters, his voice carrying the distinct tone of a man questioning all of his life choices.

The new guy approaches, a wide grin stretching across his face. “I thought you ditched me, man.” He finally notices you standing there, and his grin only grows. “And who’s this?”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “Gojo, don’t.”

Gojo ignores him entirely, turning his full attention to you. “Are you a friend of Nanami’s, or did he just get lucky tonight?”

You blink, caught between amusement and secondhand embarrassment as Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he regrets every decision that led him to this moment.

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smirk as you glance between the two men.

“Lucky?” you repeat, tilting your head toward Nanami. “Is that what you call sneaking out for a smoke?”

Nanami exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gojo, I swear to—”

“Relax, relax,” Gojo says, waving him off before turning his attention back to you. “I’m just messing with him. But, seriously, what’s a pretty girl like you doing standing out here alone at this hour?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Who says I’m alone?”

Gojo grins, looking way too pleased with himself. “Oh? So you are with Nanami.”

“She’s not,” Nanami interrupts flatly.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “No, I’m not.”

Gojo hums, clearly interested. “Then what’s the story?”

Nanami starts to interject, but you beat him to it, shrugging. “Came here to see my boyfriend, but he’s not really paying attention to me.”

Gojo whistles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Ouch. Hate to see it.” He tilts his head, a teasing lilt in his voice. “And here I thought Nanami was the sad one tonight.”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “I’m leaving.”

Gojo ignores him completely, leaning in slightly toward you. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna wait around for him, or…” He lets the question hang in the air, like he’s daring you to finish it.

You pause, looking down at the pavement. Just an hour ago, the answer would’ve been obvious. But now, after standing out here, talking to Nanami, having Gojo barrel into your night like a wrecking ball of energy.

You’re not so sure anymore.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Gojo nods, rocking back on his heels. “Well, lucky for you, I do.”

Nanami sighs. “Gojo.”

Gojo waves a hand dismissively. “Come hang out with us.”

You blink. “What?”

“Come out,” he repeats easily, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You flew all the way here just to be ignored. Might as well have a good time instead, right?”

You hesitate, glancing at Nanami, who looks entirely done with this conversation.

Gojo grins. “C’mon, we’ll get drinks. Nanami can complain about work, you can complain about your boyfriend, and I’ll make fun of both of you while looking ridiculously good doing it. Win-win-win.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, considering. You should probably go back to your room. Wait for your boyfriend to finish his call. Try to salvage whatever’s left of the night.

But something about Gojo’s grin and Nanami’s barely-contained exasperation makes you hesitate.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to go back.

"Alright, but," you say, crossing your arms. "I have to be back upstairs in an hour. I don’t want him to worry."

Gojo lets out an exaggerated groan. "Oh, come on, he’s clearly not worried about you."

Nanami exhales sharply, already regretting every decision that led him here. "Let it go, Gojo."

"Fine, fine. One hour. But if I do my job right, you’re not gonna want to go back upstairs."

You roll your eyes. "Uh-huh."

The hotel lobby bar is quieter than you expected, dimly lit with sleek, dark wood furnishings. A few businessmen sit hunched over their drinks at the counter, murmuring among themselves. A jazz tune plays low in the background, barely cutting through the hum of conversation.

Nanami leads the way, choosing a booth toward the back, away from the other guests. Gojo, of course, slides in beside him, sprawled out comfortably while you take the seat across from them.

A waitress comes by almost immediately, taking your orders.

“Sake,” Gojo says without hesitation, flashing a grin. “And keep it coming.”

Nanami sighs. “One bottle is fine.”

Gojo ignores him. “Two bottles.”

The waitress nods, clearly unfazed by their dynamic, before turning to you.

“I’ll have the same,” you say, deciding to lean into it.

Gojo beams. “That’s the spirit.”

When the waitress walks away, Nanami leans back against the booth, leveling you with a look. “So, you actually plan on going back up there?”

You shrug. “I mean… yeah. He’s my boyfriend.”

Gojo scoffs, resting his chin in his hand. “And yet, here you are.”

You glance away, suddenly interested in the menu lying on the table. “It’s complicated.”

Gojo hums, clearly amused. “Isn’t it always?”

Nanami, ever the pragmatist, doesn’t bother commenting, choosing instead to check his watch, probably counting down the minutes until he can leave.

The waitress returns with your drinks, setting the bottles and small cups in front of you. Gojo is the first to pour, filling his and yours before pushing the bottle toward Nanami, who takes his time before finally conceding.

Gojo raises his glass. “To… uh?”

Nanami gives him a flat look. “To making it through the night without regretting this.”

You smirk, lifting your own cup. “To free drinks.”

Gojo grins, and the three of you clink glasses before tossing back the first shot.

The sake is warm and smooth, a slow burn spreading through your chest. You exhale, setting your cup down as Gojo immediately pours another round.

“So,” he says, resting his elbow on the table, “tell me about this boyfriend of yours. What exactly makes him worth all this effort?”

You hesitate, fingers playing with the edge of your sleeve.

You’re not sure if you have an answer. “See what I mean,” Nanami says after downing his glass.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “About what?”

Gojo leans in slightly, swirling the sake in his cup. “That you’re putting way too much effort into a guy who wouldn’t do the same for you.”

You scoff, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You don’t even know him.”

Nanami sets his glass down with a quiet clink. “Neither do you, apparently.”

That one stings a little.

Gojo smirks, watching your reaction as he refills your cup. “Ouch. Brutal, Nanamin.”

Nanami ignores him, his gaze steady on you. “If he actually cared, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out.

Because he’s right.

You shouldn’t have to sit here wondering why your boyfriend hasn’t checked his phone, why he hasn’t even noticed that you left the room.

You toss back the second shot, the warmth spreading faster now, numbing some of the frustration curling in your chest.

“Okay,” you admit, setting the glass down. “Maybe he’s kind of an asshole.”

Gojo grins, topping off your drink again. “And there it is.”

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. “Took you long enough.”

“It’s a real shame, you know,” Gojo says, rolling the cup between his fingers before exchanging a glance with Nanami. His smirk is playful, but there’s something sharper lurking beneath it. “If I had a girl as sweet as you, I’d make sure I knew how to treat you right.”

You let out a soft scoff, setting your cup down on the bar. “Big words from a guy wearing sunglasses at midnight.”

Nanami huffs, shaking his head. “Don’t encourage him.”

Gojo grins, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. If I had a girl fly across the country for me, I wouldn’t be locked in a bathroom taking some other call.”

The words shouldn’t sting. Not when they’re coming from Gojo, of all people. But somehow, they do.

You swallow, tilting your head. “And what exactly would you do?”

Gojo leans in just slightly, that ever-present smirk still tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Nanami lets out a quiet sigh, finishing off his drink in one smooth motion. “I’m going to need more alcohol for this.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two really know how to make a girl feel better.”

Gojo refills your cup, his grin widening. “That’s what we’re here for.”

And just like that, you take another sip, letting the sake settle warm in your chest, pretending, just for a little while, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. “Can we talk about something else?” you ask, setting your cup down on the table. The warmth of the sake helps, but not enough. You don’t want to think about him anymore—not when you’re sitting here, feeling lighter than you have all night.

Gojo leans back, tapping a finger against his glass. “Alright, fine. New topic.” He pauses, thinking, before his lips curve into a smirk. “How about… the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

Nanami exhales, already looking tired. “This is going to be insufferable.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “That’s easy. High school, blind date, the guy showed up twenty minutes late and spent the entire night talking about his fantasy football team.”

Gojo winces. “Brutal.”

Nanami nods in agreement. “That is bad.”

You glance between them. “Alright, your turn. Worst date?”

Gojo grins. “Oh, mine’s legendary. Took a girl to dinner, she spent the entire night texting her ex under the table. Didn’t even try to be subtle about it.”

You snort. “Ouch.”

Nanami, to no one’s surprise, takes his drink and says, “I don’t go on bad dates.”

Gojo scoffs. “You mean you don’t date.”

Nanami ignores him, pouring himself another shot.

You shake your head, smiling. “Alright, so if you’re too perfect to have a bad date, what’s the worst night out you’ve ever had?”

Nanami considers for a moment before sighing. “This one.”

Gojo barks out a laugh, clapping him on the back. “See? Now that is the kind of honesty I respect.”

You smile, taking another sip of your sake. The conversation flows, easy and natural, the weight of the night slowly fading into something lighter.

Maybe you don’t have to go back upstairs just yet. Gojo watches you over the rim of his cup, his smirk lingering, eyes sharp behind those ridiculous sunglasses. He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night. Not in an obvious, predatory way, but in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. Like he’s sizing you up, playing a game you don’t quite know the rules to yet.

You meet his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to Nanami. “You seriously never had a bad night out?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, giving Gojo a pointed look. “Every night I spend with him qualifies.”

Gojo grins, unbothered. “Oh, come on, Nanamin. You love me.”

“I tolerate you,” Nanami corrects, taking another slow sip of his sake.

You chuckle, leaning forward slightly, fingers tracing absent patterns against the rim of your cup. “You two always like this?”

Gojo hums, tilting his head. “What, charming?”

You roll your eyes. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Gojo smirks, but he doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he refills your cup, fingers brushing lightly against yours as he passes it back to you. The touch is fleeting, barely there, but it lingers, warm against your skin.

You swallow, taking a small sip.

Gojo notices.

“So,” he drawls, shifting slightly toward you, his knee knocking against yours under the bar. “What’s your best night out, then? If this—” he gestures vaguely around the bar, “—isn’t the worst, what’s the best?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Mmm. There was this one night, years ago, a guy who actually paid attention to me.”

Gojo smirks. “Sounds like a rare breed.”

You shrug, swirling the sake in your cup. “Maybe.”

His knee stays pressed against yours. Not an accident.

“You know,” Gojo says, voice dropping just slightly, smooth and playful, “I could make sure tonight is one of your better ones.”

Nanami groans. “Jesus Christ.”

You let out a breath of laughter, but your fingers tighten slightly around your cup. Because Gojo is still looking at you like that.

Like he already knows how this night is going to end. You arch a brow, smirking slightly over the rim of your cup. “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Gojo grins, tilting his head toward you, his knee still pressing against yours. “Well, for starters,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I’ll actually pay attention to you.”

Your breath catches just slightly. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the way his smirk deepens. He caught it.

Nanami groans, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

You chuckle, but your eyes stay locked with Gojo’s. He’s enjoying this. The push and pull, the way your lips curve just slightly, like you’re considering playing along.

And maybe you are.

Gojo leans over a little more, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne— something warm, woodsy—intoxicating in a way that makes your head feel a little lighter. His fingers drum against the table before he reaches for the sake bottle again, pouring another drink for you, slow and deliberate.

“Tell me something,” he says, watching the liquid rise in your cup. “Why exactly are you still giving that guy upstairs the benefit of the doubt?”

You exhale, glancing down at the drink in front of you, the answer heavier on your tongue than it should be. “Because I want to believe he’s better than this,” you admit.

Gojo hums, setting the bottle down. “And do you?”

You hesitate.

Nanami exhales sharply. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Gojo ignores him, leaning closer, his knee pressing more firmly against yours, like he’s testing you, waiting to see if you’ll pull away. You don’t.

“That’s the thing about people like him,” Gojo murmurs, voice low enough that it’s just for you now. “They make you wait. They make you think if you’re just patient enough, they’ll change.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. You know he’s right.

He tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression before his gaze drops. To your lips, just for a second, before flicking back up to your eyes.

“But you don’t have to wait,” he adds, the words slow, deliberate. “You could make tonight about you for once.”

Your breath catches again, and this time, there’s no chance he didn’t notice.

You arch a brow, smirking slightly over the rim of your cup. The alcohol takes over “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Gojo grins, tilting his head toward you, his knee still pressing against yours. “Need me to say it again, pretty?” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I’ll actually pay attention to you.”

Your breath catches just slightly. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the way his smirk deepens.

He caught it.

Nanami groans, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

You chuckle, but your eyes stay locked with Gojo’s. He’s enjoying this. The push and pull, the way your lips curve just slightly, like you’re considering playing along.

And maybe you are.

But then you glance to your left, catching the way Nanami’s fingers tighten around his cup.

He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even looked at you since Gojo started playing this game. But there’s something about the way his jaw is set, the way he takes a slow sip of his drink—like he’s listening to every word being exchanged, carefully dissecting them in that sharp, calculating way of his.

Gojo notices too.

His smirk widens.

“See?” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles lazily along the rim of his cup. “Even Nanami agrees with me.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Gojo tilts his head toward the man beside you. “Nanamin’s got that look on his face,” he continues, as if he’s letting you in on a secret. “Like he wants to tell you the same thing I just did but doesn’t wanna say it out loud.”

You turn toward Nanami, raising an eyebrow. “That true?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, setting his drink down with a quiet clink. “I think your boyfriend is an idiot,” he says simply.

Your breath catches for a completely different reason now.

Gojo grins. “See?” He nudges your foot under the table. “Told you.”

Nanami sighs, but he doesn’t deny it.

You’re suddenly hyper aware of everything. The heat of Gojo’s knee pressed against yours, the solid presence of Nanami sitting at his other side, the way the air feels thicker now, like something unspoken is settling in between the three of you.

And neither of them seem in any hurry to break it.

You grip your cup a little tighter, rolling your tongue along the inside of your cheek as you glance between the two of them. The weight of their attention is different now; Gojo’s is teasing but pointed, sharp like a blade wrapped in silk, while Nanami’s is quieter, steadier, like he’s waiting to see where this goes before committing to anything.

The three of you sit in the dim bar, the soft hum of the hotel lobby just beyond, but it might as well be a world away.

Gojo leans in slightly, voice smooth. “So? What do you think, sweetheart?” He tilts his head, watching you. “Are you gonna go back upstairs and wait for a guy who clearly doesn’t give a damn, or…” He trails off, his fingers drumming once against the table once again before he lazily gestures between the three of you.

Your stomach tightens. The implication is there, laced in his tone, in the way his gaze flickers toward Nanami just long enough to mean something.

Nanami sighs across from you, rubbing his temple. “Gojo, you’re being obnoxious.”

“Am I?” Gojo hums, taking another sip of sake before setting his cup down. His eyes flicker back to you. “She doesn’t seem all that opposed to the idea.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the warmth of the alcohol settle in, your inhibitions loosening ever so slightly. There’s a part of you that knows this is probably a bad idea. That this is dangerous in ways you haven’t even fully considered yet.

But there’s another part of you—the part that’s spent the last few hours feeling unappreciated, neglected, unwanted, that finds itself staring at the two men in front of you: one playful, cocky, and completely shameless; the other composed, unreadable, yet not stopping any of this. And wondering if, maybe, just maybe, Gojo is right.

Maybe tonight should be about you for once.

You swirl your sake in your cup, glancing toward Nanami, whose fingers are resting against the bar, his expression unreadable. “And what do you think?” you ask, voice softer, testing.

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts his gaze, meeting yours evenly. “I think you’re looking for an excuse to do something reckless.”

Your lips curve slightly. “And if I am?”

He exhales through his nose, reaching for the sake bottle. “Then I’d tell you to be sure it’s what you actually want.”

Gojo chuckles, watching the exchange like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world. “Gosh, Nanamin. You make it sound so serious. I think she deserves to let loose a little, don’t you?”

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately, but you catch the way his fingers tighten just slightly around his glass before he takes another slow sip.

Gojo grins, eyes flicking between the two of you before settling back on you, amusement dancing behind his dark lenses. “So, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “What do you want?”

The weight of the question settles over you, thick and expectant.

You hold Gojo’s gaze, the weight of his question lingering between the three of you, thick and unspoken. Your heart is beating a little too fast now, not just from the sake, but from the shift in the air, from the way both men are waiting, watching, giving you the space to decide.

You could end this now. Laugh it off, finish your drink, head back upstairs like a good girlfriend should.

Or you could let yourself have this. Just once.

Just tonight.

Your fingers trail lightly along the rim of your cup before you set it down. You turn to Nanami first, watching the way his jaw tenses slightly when your eyes meet. “And if I do say what it is I want?”

Nanami doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t answer right away either. Instead, he exhales slowly, setting his own cup down with precise control. “Then I’d tell you to be sure,” he says, voice steady. “Because once you go down that road, there’s no taking it back.”

Gojo hums, watching him with amusement. “Damn, Nanamin. Didn’t know you had such a dramatic side.” He turns back to you, smirking. “But he’s right, you know. No turning back.”

You already know that.

You know this is dangerous, that this is a choice that will change something, whether you want it to or not. But for the first time tonight, you feel seen. Wanted. Like you’re not just something to be forgotten in a hotel room while someone else makes you an afterthought.

And you don’t want to be an afterthought anymore.

You inhale slowly, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the bar as you look at both of them.

“I’m sure.”

Nanami watches you carefully, as if giving you one last chance to take it back. Gojo, on the other hand, just grins, like he knew you’d say that all along.

“Good,” Gojo murmurs, voice dropping just slightly. “Then why don’t we get out of here?”

He stands first, tossing a few bills onto the bar without looking. Nanami hesitates for a fraction of a second before sighing, following suit.

And then you’re standing too, heat curling low in your stomach as Gojo leads the way out of the bar, his fingers grazing the small of your back just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

Nanami lingers just behind you, quiet, unreadable.

The elevator ride up is thick with tension, the air between the three of you charged and humming with something you don’t quite have a name for yet.

You stand between them, acutely aware of the space (or lack thereof). Gojo leans against the mirrored wall, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lazily against his thigh. His sunglasses are still perched on his nose, but you can feel his gaze on you.

Nanami stands on your other side—still composed, still unreadable—but his fingers twitch just slightly at his sides. He hasn’t looked at you directly since you left the bar, but his presence is solid, grounding, deliberate.

A soft ding echoes through the elevator as the doors slide open to the highest floor of the hotel.

The suite is exactly what you expected; large, sleek, and expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. Dim lighting casts long shadows across the space, the glow from the skyline outside flickering against the glass.

Gojo kicks off his shoes lazily, stretching as he walks toward the minibar. “Well, now that we’ve successfully escaped your trainwreck of a night, I’d say this calls for a proper toast.” He reaches for the stocked bottles, pulling out something dark and expensive-looking. “Whiskey? Wine?”

You hover near the entrance, heart still beating faster than it should be. Nanami steps inside after you, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

His eyes meet yours, steady, calculating.

One last chance to walk away.

But you don’t.

Gojo glances back at the two of you, smirking as he unscrews the cap of the bottle. “You’re looking a little tense over there, sweetheart. You sure about this?”

You inhale slowly, fingers brushing against the hem of your dress.

And then, finally, you meet his gaze.

“I’m sure.”

Gojo hums, pouring a drink. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping closer, pressing a glass into your hands. His fingers brush yours, lingering just a second too long.

Nanami exhales quietly from behind you, but he doesn’t step away and neither do you. You take the glass from Gojo’s hand, the warmth of his fingers lingering against your skin for a second too long. The whiskey is smooth when you take a sip, but it does nothing to cool the heat curling low in your stomach.

Gojo watches you over the rim of his own glass, amused, patient, expectant.

Behind you, Nanami is silent, but you feel his presence, the steady weight of his gaze, the way he hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s still waiting for the moment you change your mind.

You won’t.

The room hums with unspoken tension, and it only grows heavier when Gojo finally steps closer, plucking the glass from your hand with an easy smirk. “You’re overthinking, sweetheart.”

His voice is smooth, almost teasing, but there’s something deeper there, something that makes your breath catch when he leans in just slightly, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

His fingers trail lightly along your arm, slow and deliberate.

Gojo hums, satisfied, and then he’s closing the space between you, his hand finding the curve of your waist as he presses his lips against yours.

It’s slow at first, teasing, coaxing, like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows you won’t pull away. His other hand lifts, fingertips ghosting along the side of your neck before threading into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss.

And then a shift. A presence at your side.

Nanami.

You barely have time to react before you feel the weight of his hand settle against your thigh, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress. It’s not forceful, not urgent. Just there, just waiting.

Gojo smirks against your lips, pulling away just enough to murmur, “Looks like Nanamin finally made up his mind.”

You exhale shakily, caught between the heat of them both.

Gojo’s lips are still hovering near yours, his smirk lazy, smug—like he already knew this was going to happen, like he had seen this moment playing out before you had even realized you wanted it.

But it’s not just Gojo anymore.

Nanami’s hand on your thigh is solid, warm, his touch deliberate. He hasn’t moved beyond that, not yet, but the weight of it alone sends a shiver up your spine.

You turn your head slightly, glancing at Nanami through the dim light. He’s watching you, eyes dark, unreadable, lips pressed into a firm line like he’s still debating the morality of this even while his hand tightens slightly against your leg.

“Relax, Nanamin,” Gojo murmurs, his fingers still tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough that he can brush his lips over your jaw. “She wants this.”

You do. You don’t even hesitate when you reach for Nanami, your fingers brushing against his wrist, encouraging. His chest rises and falls slowly, measured, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he exhales through his nose, his fingers slipping just a little higher against your thigh.

Gojo chuckles, clearly pleased, his breath warm against your skin. “See?” he muses, trailing soft, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. “You’re already making her impatient.”

Nanami’s fingers flex against you, but he doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t have to.

Because the next thing you know, his other hand is tilting your chin toward him, and then his lips are on yours.

Gojo pulls back just enough to watch, his thumb skimming along your collarbone, his smirk widening. “Now that’s what I like to see.”

Gojo downs the rest of his drink, the sound of the glass being placed back down against the counter barely audible over the way your breath hitches against Nanami’s lips.

Nanami tastes like cigarettes. He kisses you slowly, carefully—he’s trying to commit this moment to memory, like he already knows he shouldn’t be doing this but can’t bring himself to stop. His hand on your thigh tightens just slightly, grounding, steady, possessive.

Gojo watches, his smirk widening, amusement flickering behind those ridiculous sunglasses that still haven’t left his face. “Nanamin,” he drawls, tilting his head. “You’re being greedy.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately.

Gojo leans in, his fingers ghosting along your arm before trailing up to your chin, tilting your head just enough that you have no choice but to look at him. His voice drops, teasing and smooth.

“You have to share.”

Nanami huffs, finally pulling back, his lips barely inches from yours. He says nothing, just watches as Gojo closes the space between you, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before his lips press against yours.

Where Nanami was steady and sure, Gojo is teasing, playful, his kiss slow but purposeful, drawing you in, taking his time, making sure you feel every second of it.

Nanami exhales sharply beside you, but his hand doesn’t leave your thigh. If anything, it only moves higher. Your hand moves up, fingers curling around the delicate strap of your dress, pulling it down one slow inch at a time. The fabric slips over your shoulder, baring more of your skin to the cool air, to the weight of their stares.

Gojo makes a low noise in his throat, somewhere between approval and amusement. “Now we’re talking,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers ghosting along the newly exposed skin before trailing lower, teasing the edge of the dress as if testing how far you’ll go.

Nanami doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His fingers, firm and unwavering, move higher along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up in the process. There’s a tension in him, tightly wound, he’s trying to convince himself that this is a bad idea even as his body betrays him.

Gojo, on the other hand, has no such reservations. He chuckles, pressing another kiss to your lips before leaning back slightly, his smirk downright wicked.

“You look real pretty like this,” he muses, watching the way your breath catches when Nanami’s fingers tighten just slightly against your thigh. He reaches up, slipping the other strap of your dress down, letting the fabric slide lower, leaving you more bare beneath their gaze.

Nanami exhales slowly, his eyes dark, half-lidded, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to move even further. Gojo's lips ghost along your ear, his voice a low murmur. “Think he likes what he sees, baby.”

Your breath catches, a shiver running down your spine as Nanami’s fingers flex against your thigh. He still hasn’t spoken, but his silence speaks louder than words.The tension in his body, the way his grip tightens just slightly, the heat in his gaze when your eyes flicker toward him.

Gojo chuckles, pressing a teasing kiss just below your jaw. “You’re getting shy on us now?” He tilts his head, brushing your hair back over your shoulder, exposing more of your skin. “Didn’t seem so shy downstairs.”

You swallow, fingers curling against the fabric of Nanami’s sleeve, anchoring yourself. You feel the way his arm tenses beneath your touch, the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

“I’m not shy,” you murmur, your voice steadier than you expected.

Gojo hums approvingly, slipping a finger under the loose strap of your dress, dragging it down your arm. “Good.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, his hand on your thigh unmoving, still waiting, still watching. His other hand lifts, fingers skimming along your arm, tracing a slow line up to your shoulder. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath his fingertips.

Gojo leans back just enough to watch you, his smirk lazy, his amusement laced with something deeper. “You gonna let Nanami touch you, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitches, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin. You don’t need to think. You already know the answer.

You turn your head toward Nanami, eyes locking with his. His expression is unreadable, his lips slightly parted, his grip still firm but hesitant. Like he’s still waiting for something.

So you give it to him.

You reach for his hand, guiding it higher along your thigh.

Nanami exhales, slow and measured, but his restraint cracks just enough for his fingers to move on their own, pressing into your skin, claiming the space you’ve offered him.

Gojo whistles lowly, dragging his thumb along your collarbone. “Now that’s more like it.”

His voice is smooth, teasing, but you barely register it, because Nanami is finally touching you like he wants to.

And you don’t think you’ve ever felt more wanted in your life.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying possessively over your hip as Gojo’s lips ghost along the curve of your neck. Every touch feels electric, igniting a fire that courses through your body. The world shrinks to just this: Nanami’s steady, grounding heat; Gojo’s playful, teasing desire; and the way they consume you completely, leaving no room for anything else.

Your breath catches as Nanami’s rough hand glides over the soft skin of your thigh. His touch is deliberate, his calloused fingers tracing slow, maddening circles that send shivers racing up your spine. A shaky exhale escapes you before you can stop it, and your eyes dart to Nanami’s face in search of his reaction.

His brow furrows, not with annoyance or anger, but with restraint. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, his pupils blown wide with barely contained want. Your eyes trail downward, from the tension in his jaw to the undone collar of his shirt, to the way his slacks strain against him. The realization hits you like a spark to dry kindling, he wants this. He wants you. Badly.

When he notices your lingering stare, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and unyielding. The air between you thickens as you grip the sheets beneath you and nod silently, giving him permission.

“Come on, Nanami,” Gojo’s voice breaks the silence from behind you, low and edged with impatience. “Don’t keep her waiting.” He tries to sound casual, but the desperation lacing his tone betrays him.

Gojo’s touch and teasing voice keep you distracted. Before you can fully process what’s happening, you feel your panties being slid aside. Nanami’s movements are deliberate, his hands steady as he gently pulls the fabric down your legs, discarding it without ceremony. The absence of the barrier leaves you feeling exposed, vulnerable, and achingly desperate for more.

His hands return to their place on your thighs, grounding you with their rough warmth. The anticipation is unbearable, a tension coiling tighter in your core with every passing second. You’re sure Nanami can feel it, sense it, because just as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers find you.

A loud gasp escapes your lips as he positions his hand, and the first experimental brush of his thumb against your clit sends a jolt through your body. The sound you make is involuntary—a soft whimper that betrays just how much you need this. Nanami’s lips twitch into a faint smirk at your reaction, the first hint of amusement he’s shown all night. His composure cracks just enough to reveal the satisfaction he takes in unraveling you.

He doesn’t stop there. His movements grow more confident, his pace quickening as he watches the way your body responds to him. Each touch feels like a revelation, a reminder of what it’s like to be truly seen and cared for in such an intimate way. The noises you make are uncontrollable now, soft cries spilling from your lips as pleasure builds inside you.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Gojo murmurs against your neck, his voice low and soothing despite the hunger behind it. His teeth graze your skin lightly as he adds, “You’re so good for him, huh? Is he making you feel good?”

You want to answer him, to tell him how good it feels, but every attempt at forming words dissolves into pathetic whines. Gojo chuckles softly at your struggle and cups your chin in his hand, tilting your face toward him. His lips capture yours in a kiss that steals what little breath remains in your lungs. His tongue brushes against yours, deepening the connection as the tension inside you threatens to snap.

Just when you think you’re about to fall over the edge, Nanami stops. The sudden loss of contact makes you whine in protest, your eyes darting down to meet his with frustration painted across your face.

“Can I do something else?” he asks softly, his gaze searching yours for permission. You nod quickly, desperately, needing him to finish what he started.

But what comes next catches you off guard. Nanami leans closer and closer until you can feel the heat of his breath against your inner thighs.

“Wait, you don’t have to—” Your protest dies in a moan as his tongue runs between your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, and all you can do is surrender to it. A hand finds yours amidst the chaos; Gojo’s fingers interlace with yours as if anchoring you against the storm of pleasure crashing over you.

Nanami’s hands creep up your thighs until they settle firmly on your hips, holding you in place like he’s afraid you might escape him. But escape is the last thing on your mind as wave after wave of sensation pulls you under.

Nanami’s tongue continues its relentless work, his movements precise and deliberate as he adjusts his position. When his tongue flicks over your clit, a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you instinctively cover your mouth, trying (and failing) to muffle the sounds spilling out of you. The sensation is overwhelming, so much better than his fingers alone.

Then, you feel it—one of his hands leaves your hip, and a finger gently prods at your entrance. Slowly, he dips it inside, pushing deeper with care before curling it just right and beginning to thrust. Your back arches off the bed at the sensation, but Nanami’s firm grip on your hips keeps you grounded. He presses you back down against the mattress with a quiet authority that only makes the heat pooling in your abdomen burn hotter.

When he adds a second finger, the stretch is perfect, just enough to make you gasp again. His mouth works in tandem with his hand now, lips and tongue lapping and sucking at your most sensitive spots. His fingers curl inside you with precision, hitting that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. The pleasure builds impossibly fast, and the sounds spilling from your lips grow louder and more desperate.

Before those cries can echo too loudly, Gojo leans in to capture them with a rough kiss. His lips press against yours hungrily, swallowing every moan and whimper as if they belong to him. His tongue pushes into your mouth, dominating the kiss even as Nanami drives you closer and closer to the edge.

Nanami’s pace quickens, his fingers thrusting faster, his tongue working harder, and it’s too much. You try to pull away from Gojo to catch your breath, but he only deepens the kiss, holding you firmly in place. The next thing you know, a loud moan tears from your throat into Gojo’s mouth as the tension inside you snaps. Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, leaving you trembling as you spill into Nanami’s waiting mouth.

Nanami doesn’t stop, not immediately. He continues to lap up every bit of you with an almost reverent hunger until the overstimulation becomes too much. Your body twitches involuntarily as you pull away from his mouth with a soft whimper.

Completely spent and breathless, you collapse against Gojo’s chest with a sigh. “Fuck…” is all you manage to say between ragged breaths.

Gojo chuckles softly, his voice low and teasing as he plants featherlight kisses along your face and neck. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Nanami slowly sitting up at the edge of the bed. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable but undeniably satisfied.

It takes a few moments for you to collect yourself enough to sit upright again. Your gaze shifts to Gojo, who is lounging back against the headboard like he owns every inch of this moment, and maybe he does. His lazy smirk only adds to his infuriatingly cocky demeanor. The top buttons of his expensive collared shirt are undone (of course he’d wear something so effortlessly stylish), revealing just enough skin to tempt you further.

You reach out to cup Gojo’s face in both hands before shifting onto his lap to straddle him. His smirk widens slightly as he watches you move, but there’s an unmistakable hunger simmering beneath those impossibly blue eyes—eyes that seem even more piercing without his signature glasses.

Smiling softly, you let your hands trail down his chest toward the remaining buttons on his shirt. One by one, you undo them slowly, deliberately, before sliding the fabric off his shoulders and letting it fall away completely. You study him carefully as you do this: every flicker of emotion in his gaze, every subtle shift in his expression.

Without the barrier of clothing, your hands roam freely over him. You trace each scar and muscle on his chest and abs with reverence, memorizing every inch of him under your touch. Leaning forward slightly, you press soft kisses down his chest as your fingers continue their exploration.

The sharp intake of breath he takes when your hands dip lower sends a thrill through you. His stomach tenses beneath your touch, and when he exhales through gritted teeth, a soft hissing sound, you can tell he’s trying hard not to let any more noise escape him.

But that cocky smirk still lingers on his lips, and, oh no, you can’t have that.

Your hands trail down his chest, teasingly slow, until they reach the waistband of his slacks. You glance up into Gojo’s eyes as your fingers brush over the hard length straining against the fabric. His jaw tightens, and you watch with satisfaction as his hands grip the sheets tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Come on, princess,” he growls through gritted teeth, his brow furrowed in frustration. “No need to be such a tease.”

“You just need to have some patience, hmm?” you reply sweetly, though there’s a playful edge to your tone that makes his lips twitch into a strained smirk.

Your fingers move to his belt, taking your time undoing the loop and sliding it free. The deliberate pace earns you a low groan from him, but he doesn’t stop you. Once the belt is in your hands, an idea sparks in your mind. You wrap it around his wrists, looping it securely before fastening it back with the hook. It’s not the tightest restraint, you know he could snap it easily if he wanted, but when you look at him, all he does is let out a low laugh.

“Really?” he asks, raising an amused brow. “You know this won’t hold me, right?”

“I know,” you say with a sly smile. “But you’re being so good for me right now…I have a feeling it will.”

His smirk widens slightly at your confidence, but before he can respond, you turn back to Nanami. The moment your eyes meet his, your newfound boldness falters under the weight of his gaze. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.

“You didn’t forget about me, did you?” His voice is deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. The hunger in his tone makes your stomach tighten with anticipation.

“I—” You try to form a coherent response, but the heat pooling in your core makes it impossible to think straight. Your brain feels fuzzy, consumed by thoughts of what lies beneath his pants.

Nanami leans closer, his large hands finding your waist as he pulls you toward him effortlessly. “Let’s give him a show,” he murmurs against your ear.

You manage a small smile before glancing back at Gojo over your shoulder. “Watch closely, sweetheart,” you tease with a giggle.

Gojo tsks but doesn’t move an inch; instead, he leans back against the headboard with a lazy grin that doesn’t quite mask the fire in his eyes.

Turning back to Nanami, you reach up to cup his cheek. The moment your hand touches him, his lips crash onto yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. Unlike Gojo’s playful teasing kisses, Nanami’s are raw and consuming, he kisses like he needs you more than air itself. It’s messy and desperate and so intoxicating that you never want it to end.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt as his hands slide around to support your back. A soft moan escapes you when he latches onto your neck again, sucking and biting at the already sensitive skin like a man starved. His warm breath fans over your skin as his teeth graze along your pulse point, making it nearly impossible for you to focus on anything else.

Still, despite the distraction of his mouth on your neck and the way his hands grip you so firmly yet tenderly, you manage to pull off his shirt at last. Wasting no time now, you move to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants with an urgency that surprises even you. You don’t think you’ve ever stripped someone this quickly in your life.

Once his slacks are discarded onto the floor alongside Gojo’s belt and shirt, your hands trail down Nanami’s chest again. His breath hitches when your fingers trace over each defined muscle before dipping lower toward his waistband. You take note of every reaction, the way his breathing quickens slightly when you brush over his v-line; the way his lips part ever so slightly as if trying to hold back a sound.

When your hand finally slips beneath the fabric of his boxers and wraps around him fully for the first time, you freeze for just a moment. He’s thick, so much so that your hand doesn’t fully close around him, and somehow that realization only makes the ache between your thighs burn hotter.

You pull him free from the confines of his boxers and guide him away from your neck so you can kiss him again. This time it’s slower but no less intense, your lips moving against his as if savoring every second of contact. As soon as he relaxes into the kiss, trusting you completely in this moment, you give him an experimental stroke.

The sharp inhale he takes against your lips sends a thrill through you. His hips twitch slightly under your touch as if instinctively seeking more friction, but for now, all he does is kiss you harder in response.

Nanami groans into your mouth, the sound deep and guttural, sending a jolt straight to your core. Everything feels so hot, so overwhelming, you almost can’t take it. With steady movements, your hand works him, using the slickness of his precum to glide smoothly up and down. The way his breath hitches and his grip tightens on your waist tells you he’s close, so close.

But, just as he’s about to tip over the edge, you pull your hand away. His head falls back with a frustrated groan before he looks down at you, his blown pupils locking onto yours. The intensity in his gaze sends another wave of heat through you.

You flash him a soft smile before shifting further down the bed until you’re face-to-face with his erection. His chest rises and falls heavily as he watches you, realization dawning in his eyes. Before you can move any further, his hand reaches out to cup your face, turning it so you’re looking back at him.

“Wait,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You don’t have to—”

His words are cut off by a sharp groan as your tongue glides up the length of him, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to grip your hair instinctively as his head tilts back, the muscles in his neck straining with pleasure.

You open your mouth wider, taking him in inch by inch. The stretch is intense, but the sounds he’s making spur you on, low moans and curses spilling from his lips like music to your ears. You go as far as you can until you feel the urge to gag, using your hand to take care of what you can’t fit.

The noises filling the room are obscene, wet sounds from your mouth mixed with Nanami’s ragged breaths and quiet curses. Spit dribbles down your chin, mingling with the precum leaking from him, but none of it matters. All you can focus on is how beautiful he looks above you: flushed cheeks, furrowed brow, and parted lips that let out the most sinful sounds.

“Shit,” Nanami mutters through gritted teeth. “It feels so good, baby. You’re doing so fucking good, taking my dick like that.”

His hips twitch slightly as his restraint starts to falter. He grips your hair tighter, guiding your head down just a little more as his breathing grows more erratic.

“Shit, shit—I’m gonna—you gotta get off…” His voice is desperate now as he tries to pull away before losing control.

But instead of stopping, you move faster, determined to push him over the edge. It doesn’t take long before his groans turn into a deep growl, and with one final thrust of his hips, he spills into your mouth. The warmth floods down your throat as he comes undone beneath you.

You slowly pull off him, swallowing everything before meeting his gaze again with a satisfied smile. Nanami looks at you with a mix of awe and apology as he cups your cheek gently. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he murmurs softly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You scoff lightly at his words and lean into his touch. “If I didn’t want it,” you reply with a playful smile, “I wouldn’t have done it.”

Leaning forward, you kiss him again, a slow kiss that reassures him there’s nothing to apologize for.

Nanami pulls back slightly and glances over at Gojo still sitting at the head of the bed with an exaggerated pout on his face. “You should probably do something about that,” Nanami says with a small smirk.

Rolling your eyes fondly, you press one last kiss to Nanami’s lips before crawling over to Gojo. “You didn’t think I forgot about you, did you?” you tease with a soft giggle as you straddle him again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gojo replies smugly, though there’s an unmistakable edge of impatience in his tone.

Smiling sweetly at him, you tug down his boxers to free him completely. Reaching over to grab a bottle of lube from the nightstand (because of course Gojo has one conveniently nearby), you quickly lather your hand before wrapping it around him and stroking at a ruthless pace.

“Fuck—” Gojo gasps sharply but doesn’t get far before you shut him up with a kiss. His lips crash against yours hungrily as if trying to distract himself from how good your hand feels on him. You feel him struggle against the belt still binding his wrists together, the tension in his arms mirroring the way his legs tense beneath you.

Breaking away from the kiss momentarily, you trail kisses down his chest and stomach until you reach his abdomen. Without hesitation this time, you take him into your mouth easily, your movements smoother now after earlier practice with Nanami.

“Fuck… beautiful,” Gojo groans softly above you. “Please…”

You move teasingly slow at first just to savor every little sound spilling from his lips, the low moans and sharp intakes of breath that only spur you on further. But when he suddenly thrusts up into your mouth without warning, catching you off guard for just a moment, you react quickly by pressing a firm hand against his hips to hold him down.

Your pace quickens then, your mouth working in tandem with your hand as Gojo’s breathing grows more ragged by the second.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck,” he chants breathlessly between moans. “Please, sweetheart. I’m so fucking close, you’re doing so fucking good, I feel so fucking good right now… please—”

With one final groan that sounds almost like a plea, he spills into your mouth. You stay there for a moment longer before pulling off slowly as he finishes releasing completely.

Quickly swallowing and wiping your mouth, you wrap your hand around Gojo again, stroking him with deliberate precision. His reaction is immediate, a sharp groan muffled as he turns his face into the pillow, his body trembling beneath your touch.

You frown slightly, leaning closer. “Come on, Satoru,” you tease softly. 

His flushed face turns toward you reluctantly, his breath coming in short gasps. His pupils are blown wide as he meets your gaze. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice strained. “I just came, it’s too much. I can’t.”

You giggle at his vulnerability, but before you can respond, strong hands grip your waist from behind and lift you effortlessly off Gojo’s lap. You let out a surprised yelp as Nanami pulls you back against him, settling you onto his lap instead. The sudden shift makes you release Gojo’s length, much to his visible relief.

“You’re having fun, aren’t you?” Nanami’s deep voice rumbles in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His tone is calm, but the heat behind it makes your stomach twist with anticipation. “Well,” he murmurs smoothly, “don’t stop on my account. Keep going.”

You glance back at Gojo, who lets out a soft whimper as you take hold of him again. His hips twitch as though trying to escape your touch, but it doesn’t last long.

“Really?” he mutters breathlessly. “In front of Nanamin? This is pretty embarrassing, you know he’s an underclassman, right? Fuck—”

Your giggle fills the air as Gojo squirms under your hand. But before you can respond with another playful remark, a gasp escapes your lips as Nanami’s hand slides down between your thighs. His fingers trace over your heat with an almost maddening slowness.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” Nanami whispers in your ear, his tone laced with amusement. “You have to finish what you started.” You can hear the smile in his voice, cocky and self-assured, and it only makes the fire inside you burn brighter.

‘Cocky bastard…’ you think to yourself before refocusing on Gojo.

Your hand moves faster now, stroking him with an intensity that has him whining and writhing against the belt restraining his wrists. But as Nanami slips a finger inside you, curling it just right, a groan escapes your lips despite yourself. The dual sensations threaten to overwhelm you—Gojo’s soft whimpers blending with the way Nanami’s touch sends sparks shooting through your body.

When Nanami adds a second finger and presses firmly against your stomach to hold you in place, it’s almost too much. Your movements on Gojo falter slightly as your mind goes fuzzy with pleasure.

“Don’t stop now,” Nanami murmurs behind you, his voice low and commanding.

Whining softly at the loss of Nanami’s fingers as he pulls away suddenly, you glance back at him in protest. But all he does is smirk at your frustration.

Turning back to Gojo, whose flushed face is now framed by sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead, you grumble under your breath before gripping him again. This time there’s no teasing, your hand moves impossibly fast, drawing out broken cries from him as his body tenses beneath yours.

It doesn’t take long before Gojo lets out a strangled moan and spills over your hand again. His head falls back into the pillow as his eyes squeeze shut tightly in the throes of release. You watch him intently as he rides out his high, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly; the way his lips part slightly as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Good girl,” Nanami whispers from behind you, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Your reward now.”

Before you can process his words fully, you feel him enter you in one smooth motion. A gasp tears from your throat at the sudden fullness as he sets a relentless pace almost immediately. His hands grip your hips firmly to keep you steady against him as he moves deeper with each thrust.

Nanami holds you firmly against him as your body trembles in the aftermath, his strong arms keeping you grounded while you catch your breath. His lips brush against your ear, murmuring softly, “You did so well, darling.” The praise sends a lingering shiver down your spine, even as your muscles feel like jelly against him.

Gojo, still sprawled out on the bed with his wrists bound by the belt, lets out a breathless laugh. “Well,” he says through ragged breaths, his voice tinged with amusement despite his exhaustion. “I guess I wasn’t the only one completely wrecked tonight.”

You glance over at him, his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair making him look uncharacteristically vulnerable. The smirk tugging at his lips is still cocky, but there’s a softness in his gaze now, a rare glimpse of sincerity beneath the teasing exterior.

Nanami shifts behind you, his hands sliding down to your thighs as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you,” he murmurs quietly enough for only you to hear. “He’s already planning his next move.”

Gojo catches the tail end of Nanami’s comment and grins lazily. “What can I say? I’m a man of ambition.”

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Slowly, you push yourself off Nanami’s lap and crawl back toward Gojo, who watches you intently as you approach. His wrists are still bound, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his gaze—the way his eyes follow every movement like he’s already imagining what comes next.

“You’re insatiable,” you tease softly as you lean over him.

“And you love it,” Gojo replies without missing a beat. His smirk widens slightly as he tilts his head up to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s slower this time—languid and unhurried—but no less consuming.

Nanami watches from behind you with an unreadable expression. You can feel his presence even without looking, his steady gaze burning into your skin like an anchor that keeps you grounded amidst Gojo’s chaos.

When Gojo pulls back from the kiss, he glances down at his restrained wrists and raises an eyebrow at you. “So… are we keeping these on all night?” he asks playfully.

You giggle softly before reaching over to undo the belt around his wrists. As soon as it falls away, Gojo stretches his arms above his head with a satisfied groan before pulling you down onto the bed beside him. His hands find your waist immediately, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

Nanami moves closer then, settling beside you both with an air of quiet confidence that contrasts sharply with Gojo’s playful energy. His hand brushes against yours briefly, a subtle gesture that feels grounding amidst the lingering heat in the room.

For a moment, everything feels still, quiet except for the sound of heavy breathing and soft murmurs between kisses. The tension has eased now, replaced by something softer.

“I should go,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you tug your clothes back into place, already feeling the distance growing between you.

Before either of them can protest, you lean in and press a kiss to Gojo’s lips, soft, lingering, just enough to say everything you can’t. Then to Nanami, whose hand is still resting on your thigh, unmoving, as if letting go might make this real.

They don’t argue. They know why you have to go back.

“I said an hour,” you murmur, slipping your shoes on with trembling fingers. “And it’s been more than that. I can’t just abandon my boyfriend.”

The word tastes bitter in your mouth. Not out of guilt, but because for the first time, you’re starting to understand what you want, and it isn’t where you’re going back to.

Still, you gather your things, smoothing your dress, brushing your hair back into place like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just come undone in the hands of two men who made you feel more desired in a single hour than your boyfriend had in months.

Gojo watches you with unreadable eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something, joke it off, maybe, or ask you to stay.

Nanami just watches you, jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath his button-down.

You open the door.

“I’ll see you around,” you offer softly, not sure if it’s a promise or a lie.

Then you step out, leaving behind the warmth, the tension, the ache. And walk back into the cold of the hallway. Just as you reach the elevator and press the button to go down, your name echoes down the hallway, low, steady, and unmistakably familiar.

You turn, startled, and find Nanami striding toward you. His shirt is now buttoned, his pants back in place, but there’s something different about him. The cool, composed confidence he carried in the hotel room is gone, replaced by something quieter, almost unsure.

“Did I forget something?” you ask, brows slightly raised.

“No,” he says, stopping a few feet in front of you. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the side. “God, this is awkward.”

You smile a little, trying to ease the tension. “What’s up?”

He exhales, then meets your gaze. “Can I get your number?” he asks, voice softer now. “Or... you give me yours.”

You blink, surprised.

“I know you have a boyfriend,” he continues, the words tumbling out quicker now. “But if it doesn’t work out, or, hell, even if it does and you just want to talk sometime, I’d like to hear from you.”

There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just honesty. A flicker of hope.

You hesitate, then reach into your bag and pull out your phone.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him. “Put yours in.”

Nanami’s shoulders ease as he takes it, quietly typing in his number. He hands it back without a word, but there’s something a little lighter in his expression now.

The elevator dings behind you, doors sliding open.

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod once, stepping inside.

“Goodnight, Nanami.”

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

Two days later, just before you’re supposed to head out for dinner, your boyfriend tells you he’s not feeling well.

“I think I’m gonna stay in,” he mumbles from the hotel bed, one arm slung over his eyes, his phone clutched loosely in the other. “Headache, stomach’s off. You go, though. Enjoy it for the both of us.”

You hesitate in the doorway, one earring in, the other between your fingers. “Are you sure? I can cancel the reservation, grab takeout—”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in quickly. “Seriously. You were looking forward to this.”

Were you?

The truth is, you don’t even remember what restaurant he picked. The excitement that had fluttered in your stomach when you first arrived in this city with him is long gone, replaced by a heavy, restless guilt that sits just behind your ribs. A cold, quiet voice that’s been whispering you crossed a line every time you look at him.

So maybe you are a little relieved when he insists you go without him. Maybe you’re glad for the space.

Dinner is uneventful. The server is nice, the wine is fine, the food is probably decent—you can’t really tell. You scroll through your phone between courses. Check messages you’ve already seen. Re-read texts that don’t mean anything. You don’t post a picture of your meal to your story. That used to be your thing.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet. Your driver doesn’t say much. You stare out the window, the city passing in blurred smears of gold and red lights.

It’s only when you slide your key card into the lock and step inside the room that something shifts.

The lights are low. Not off, but dimmed, your boyfriend’s usual preference when he's watching something late at night. The curtains are drawn shut. The TV is playing, but muted.

You hear a sound before you see anything. Something faint. A pattern of breath, uneven and fast.

And then, from the corner of your eye, you spot movement. A silhouette in the bed. His back propped against the headboard, the blanket low on his hips, one hand moving under it.

You stop in your tracks.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, turning away instinctively. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pause.

“Didn’t think you’d be back yet,” he says casually, breathless, not even looking at you.

Your stomach twists. You glance back, just for a second.

His phone is still in his hand. Unlocked. Lit up.

It’s not porn.

It’s photos. Messages. Videos.

Not yours.

You stare for a beat too long, your brain slowly catching up with your eyes. His screen shows a string of open messages, a conversation so explicit you don’t even need to scroll to know exactly what it is.

“What the fuck,” you say, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

He finally meets your eyes then, and you expect guilt. Embarrassment. Something.

But there’s none.

“Does it matter?” he says flatly. Like the answer should be obvious. Like it’s your fault for being shocked.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The room feels too small. Too loud, even in its silence.

“How long?” you ask instead.

He shrugs, indifferent. “I don’t know. A while.”

The words don’t fully register, but the meaning does. Your mind flashes back to the months of phone calls, the “I miss you” texts, the effort you put into visiting him here, halfway across the country. Every part of you that twisted with guilt after that night, and now it turns to something else.

Anger. Clarity. Sadness, maybe. But mostly just done.

You grab your purse, your jacket, and your phone.

And you leave.

The door slams behind you, the echo sharp in the quiet hallway.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

Your legs carry you to the elevator before you’ve even made the conscious decision. You press the button, then press it again. Like that’ll make it come faster.

Your phone is still in your hand. It buzzes. A calendar reminder. You swipe it away.

Your fingers hover over your contacts. You scroll past his name. Then past a few others. Then stop.

There it is.

The one you shouldn’t be thinking about. The one who looked at you like you were wanted. Who touched you like he meant it.

Nanami.

You don’t let yourself hesitate.

[You]: Hey. Are you still in town?

You stare at the screen after you hit send, your heart thudding behind your ribs.

For the first time in days, it’s quiet and the guilt no longer eats at you.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[junuru]

❅・WHISPER OF THE HEART

SYNOPSIS — The three times he tries to tell you, and the one time he actually does.

WC — (2.3k)

CONTENT: SFW, angst (if you squint), hurt/comfort, family issues/neglect (gojo's family is lowkey awful), idk how to make these erm

a/n: hai ^.^ if you have seen this before, fret not! i moved accounts and im slowly reuploading everything m. list | next >

Tokyo, Japan 2005

Gojo's eyes stung from trying to keep a tear or two from rolling down his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, blinking fast as if that might stop them from falling and hoping you wouldn't notice.“They won’t let me in,” he muttered, stepping away from the towering gate of his family’s estate. His voice was light, almost casual if not for the way it cracked at the edges. “Dad’s pissed I missed my English lesson, so I guess I’m not sleeping here tonight.”

Your brows knit together. In the two years you’d known him, you never quite understood how his family worked, only that they were wealthy, controlling, and conditional in their affection. As long as he played the part they expected, they gave him everything. The moment he strayed, even slightly, they turned their backs, and just like every other time, he ended up on either your doorstep or Suguru’s.

His head hung low, but his arm still found its way around your shoulders, pulling you along as he walked away from the gate. You caught a glimpse of his mother in the upstairs window, standing in the supposed warmth of their grand home, watching her son disappear down the street. You opened your mouth to say something, but what was there to say? Instead, you swallowed it down. “Where are we going?”

“Payphone,” he sighed. “Mine’s dead. Gotta ask Suguru if I can crash at his place again.”

Again. This happened too often.

“Stay at mine,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “It’s my fault you’re home late anyway.”

Gojo glanced at his watch, the golden arms pointing to 6:30. Seven hours ago, he had been standing in front of your teacher, voice sharp, unwavering, as he tore into them for lecturing you about the length of your uniform skirt. You had both landed in after-school detention, but if given the chance, you knew he’d do it all over again.

He shook his head. “Nah. Zenin’s an asshole.”

His dismissal was instant, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers curled just slightly around your shoulder, holding on.You both rounded the corner in silence, leaving behind the towering homes and pristine streets of the Gojos’ gated community. 

The cold late-November air bit at your skin, and you tugged your jacket higher, burying the lower half of your face into the fabric. Your mind was surprisingly empty; no lingering thoughts about his family, no plan for what came next. Just the rhythmic sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Unbeknownst to you, the boy beside you was drowning in his thoughts. A million miles a minute, his brain ran wild, tripping over itself. Not about his father slamming the door in his face, not about the house staff refusing him entry, and not about how ridiculously messed up it was that having to sleep somewhere else didn’t even surprise him anymore.

His thoughts fixated on something far more immediate… his arm. His arm which was slung so casually around your shoulders, holding you close against the cold.

He hadn’t even realized it at first. The motion had been instinctual, natural, like muscle memory. But now, the weight of it pressed against him like a revelation.

He had his arm around you.

Sure, you were close. Friends, obviously. Best friends, maybe. But never in a million years did he think he’d be standing like this, side by side, your body tucked under his as if it was second nature. He couldn’t help but think you fit into him perfectly, as if you were meant to be there.

If he looked down, really looked, he’d notice everything he’d been unconsciously curious about since the day he met you. The way your hair caught the dim glow of the streetlights, the way your breath fogged up in the cold, the way your fingers curled into your sleeves for warmth.

And suddenly, his jacket felt way too hot. His grip flexed slightly on your shoulder, fingers twitching before he forced them to still.

This was stupid. Ridiculous. He was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He had girls throwing themselves at him all the time. Not that he ever really cared. But standing here, his heart thudding a little too loud, a little too fast, over something as simple as having his arm around you?

He was so screwed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, snapping him out of whatever strange, faraway thoughts had him so quiet. It wasn’t like Gojo to be this silent. If anything, you were more accustomed to telling him to shut up rather than coaxing words out of him, so it didn’t take long for you to notice something was on his mind.

His head jerks up slightly, caught off guard. “Uh…talk about what?”

You give him a look. He knows exactly what. And when realization flickers across his face, his expression shifts instantly.

“Ohh,” he drawls, lips curling into a smirk. “Are you worried about me? How endearing, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”

And just like that, he’s back.

“Satoru,” you warn, pulling away from him.

He instantly regrets teasing when the warmth of your body leaves his side. Cold air rushes in between you, and even though it should be a relief, his body still feels uncomfortably warm. But he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps his expression even, pretending it’s no big deal

“You know you can talk to me about anything,” you remind him, stepping forward to walk ahead.

He nods, though he doesn’t say anything.

The truth is he doesn’t want to talk about his family. He doesn’t want to talk about how easily they push him away, how conditional their love is, how the weight of their expectations feels like a noose around his neck. His family already has a say in every part of his life, in who he is, in who he’s allowed to be. Hell, he wouldn’t have even met Suguru if it weren’t for them. You were the only thing they hadn’t touched and he refuses to let them ruin you, too.

So silence settles between you. You’re waiting for him to speak, patient as always, but the words never come.

A few minutes pass, the payphone comes and goes behind you, and the scenery transitions from the suburbs into a less wealthy part of Tokyo.

It’s only when the glow of streetlights stretches further down the road that Gojo suddenly speaks again, voice lighter, teasing. “Say it again.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My name,” he grins, this time not hiding the way he tilts his head slightly toward you, playful curiosity glinting in his blue eyes. “Say it again.”

You sigh, giving him a small shove with your shoulder. “Stop being weird. Why should I?”

“I like when you say my name.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a really weird thing to like.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest as if you’d just personally offended him. “Don’t make fun of my interests, you wound me!”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re so annoying.”

But you’re smiling, and you notice that Gojo, for some reason, can’t stop staring at you.

The teasing back-and-forth continues, playful insults exchanged between you until you both break into giggles. He plays up his grievous injury by clutching his heart, stumbling as if he’s been struck by your cruel words.

And then—

“Oh, Satoru.”

His head snaps up.

The way you say his name makes something in him trip over itself, and it almost manifests into his exterior world as he stumbles over his own foot.

His first thought is that you’re about to say something important. Something meaningful, something that might make his pulse pick up for reasons he doesn’t yet want to think about.

But then you tilt your head back down the street.

“We passed the payphone a few blocks ago.”

Gojo blinks, momentarily dumbfounded, before breaking into a grin. “Aww, you said my name.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

He hums, pretending to think. “So… do you wanna turn back?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?” he shrugs, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “I thought I was staying with you.”

You open your mouth, then pause. The easy confidence in his voice makes it sound like it was always going to be that way, like it was never even a question in his mind.

“…You sure?” you ask, hesitant now. “I was just kidding earlier. I mean Suguru’s place is closer, and my family might not be home—”

Gojo shrugs. “His parents are family friends. It might not be wise to go there. Plus I like your place better”

It’s simple. It’s honest.

It’s enough to make you roll your eyes and keep walking, but you don’t argue.

Gojo lets himself fall back in step with you, brushing against your side again, this time without wrapping his arm around you. His hands are cold, but the warmth from earlier still lingers.

It was much darker now than when you had left Gojo’s place. If not for the streetlights and the bright glow of the business signs overhead, the night might as well have been pitch black.

A block from your house, the neon light of a convenience store caught your attention. You tugged lightly on Gojp’s sleeve.

“Let’s grab something to eat.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, following you inside. The store was small, the aisles packed tight, and the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. You made a beeline for the instant ramen section, scanning the shelves.

“What’s the move?” he asked, casually resting his chin on your shoulder from behind.

You stilled at his closeness, your face heating in response.

“Spicy miso,” you said, grabbing two cups. “Unless you wanna cry over beef-flavored sadness.”

He chuckled. “Oh, bold of you to assume I won’t cry anyway.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved the cups into his chest. He caught them easily, grinning as he walked toward the register. You followed, digging in your bag for your wallet, but before you could pull it out, Gojo stopped you with one hand and swiped his card with the other.

“Satoru,” you whined.

“You’re letting me stay the night. The least I can do is buy us dinner.”

You opened your mouth to protest but hesitated when you realized his hands were still on yours. The warmth of his touch lingered a little too long. Before he could notice the scarlet creeping up your neck, you turned away.

“Whatever. I need some air,” you muttered, stepping outside.

Moments later, Gojo followed with two steaming cups of ramen in hand, the convenience store door chiming as he walked through. He settled beside you on the curb, letting the cold night air cool the broth. You both take your first bite.

Gojo nudged his foot against yours. “Y’know, you didn’t have to offer me a place to stay.”

“I know.” You took a careful sip of your broth. “But I did.”

He stared down at his ramen, idly swirling the noodles with his chopsticks. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, rounding out the sharp edges, making the sharp angles of his jawline softer, less untouchable.

You’d always heard girls at school talk about how perfect he was: his looks, his charm, the effortless way he carried himself. But you had never really seen it before. Not like this. Not until now, in the quiet glow of the streetlamp, with the world stripped of its noise.

You were not going to catch feelings for Gojo Satoru. You looked away, shoving the thought aside and focusing back on your food, until something caught your eye.

Tiny white flecks drifted down from the sky, vanishing the moment they met the pavement.

“Satoru, look!” you said, turning back to him, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It’s snowing.”

Gojo lifted his gaze, watching the flurries dance under the streetlights. And then, when he looked back down at you, something in him shifted.

The snow dusted your lashes, melting with every blink, your cheeks were tinged pink (not just from the cold but from being flustered earlier, but this he did not know). And, oh, how he wished he could just tell you how beautiful you were. “Pretty,” he said, quietly. “The snow, I mean.”

You reached up, brushing a few flakes from his hair, laughing softly. “It matches your hair.”

And suddenly, he wanted to say it.

In fact, this was the part where he was supposed to say it.

That you made him feel like home, even when he didn’t have one. That you were the only person who had ever wanted to get to know him. Not his last name, not his status, just him. That he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, his heart had stopped being his own. That standing next to you, sharing cheap convenience store ramen, in fact doing anything with you, felt more like belonging than anything he’d ever known.

His lips parted.

He whispered your name.

“Mhm?” You looked up at him mid-bite, noodles hanging from your lips.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

But the words get caught in his throat.

He let out a breath, setting his cup down beside him. “You, uh… got something in your teeth.”

You blinked. “Huh? Seriously?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Right there.”

You ran your tongue over your teeth before flashing him a grin. “Got it?”

He stared for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he glanced away. “Yeah. You got it.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Satoru. You’re a good friend.”

He exhaled softly, resting his head atop yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Friend. You too.”

And for now, that was enough.

i’ll do my best to get the next 3 chapters reuploaded as soon as possible, but i am a student and pretty busy.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 01

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.7k)

CONTENT — pre hidden inventory, smooches, idk

a/n: this isnt edited enjoy! first couple chs are slow cuz i dont plan my fics😁

series m. list | m. list | next >

Mid-summer, 2005

Tap, tap, tap.

You’re somewhere unfamiliar. The sky’s a little brighter than it’s been all summer over Jujutsu High’s Tokyo campus, washed in a soft blue that makes everything feel just a bit too normal. Your knuckles are pale in comparison to the usual red on your skin — left over from hours of sparring. It kind of looks like your old middle school, but bigger and louder and packed with faces you don’t recognize.

Tap, tap, tap.

Some of your new friends are there — the ones from your new school. But something's... off. Gojo’s suddenly taller, towering over you in a way he wasn’t just a few days ago. Geto’s hair is much longer, and he’s quiet in a way that makes your stomach twist. And Shoko... she smells like cigarettes now, almost like she’s been smoking for years. It all feels real — the air, the sounds, the ache in your shoulders — but none of it is the way it should be, the way it is.

Tap, tap, tap.

Your eyes open, with a start, focusing on the sounds coming from the door. You rub the weight from your eyes and turn toward the bedside table. The old alarm clock you brought from home blinks back at you, the red numbers a little too bright in the dim room.

3:17 AM.

“Coming,” you say groggily, sliding into a pair of slippers and making your way to the door. The floor is cool against your bare feet.

You swing the door open, and there he is. One of your classmates, but the real one this time. Not the off-version from your dream, with hollow eyes and a too-quiet mouth.

His arm is still midair, like he was about to knock again. “I’ve been knocking for a while,” he says softly, almost like he’s afraid to wake the hallway.

“Geto,” you breathe. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, gaze flicking down to your torso. That’s when you realize — the tank top. Thin straps. Bare shoulders. Cleavage. His eyes drop to the floor, like the hallway suddenly got really interesting.

“I just got back from that thing they sent me on with Shoko,” he says, voice low. “But I don’t wanna sleep.”

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself more out of habit than modesty. “Well, you can’t be here.” It comes out sharper than you meant. “I know,” he says, taking a few steps back. His hands slip into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders drawn up like he’s bracing for a no. “Walk with me? Please?” He nods toward the door that leads out to the fields.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your arms. The air’s cold for a summer night, and so is the look in your eyes — but not for long.

“You’re buying me lunch tomorrow,” you mutter, already turning back inside. “Let me grab a hoodie.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. Doesn’t say anything, he just waits in the hallway.

You pull the hoodie over your head, the fabric still warm from where it sat folded on your chair. It smells like your room at home still — detergent, a little lavender, and something faintly burnt by your dad in the kitchen. You tug the sleeves over your hands and step back into the hallway, door clicking softly shut behind you.

Geto doesn’t say anything, just glances at you and starts walking. You fall into step beside him.

The corridors are quiet. Everyone else is asleep. The kind of silence that only exists past midnight, where the world feels more fragile.

Outside, the air bites at your skin, cool and sharp. The grass is damp beneath your slippers, and the field stretches out like a shadow under the moonlight.

Neither of you speak at first. You walk side by side, your arms tucked into your sleeves, his hands still buried in his pockets. The only sound is the soft crunch of gravel and the distant hum of campus lights.

Finally, he says, “It was hard.”

You glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, like if he looks at you he’ll fall apart.

“I figured,” you say gently.

He nods. Swallows hard. “I kept thinking about coming back. About seeing someone who… wouldn’t ask me to explain it.”

You stay quiet. That part, you understand.

He stops walking, and you do too. The trees ahead sway slightly in the breeze, tall and dark against the pale sky.

“I didn’t wanna be alone,” he says. “But I didn’t wanna talk either.”

You look at him. “So… you picked me?”

He finally meets your eyes, a small, tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only one I’d want to say nothing with.” “It’s alright,” you say softly. “It’ll be better in a few days.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but it’s the only thing you can offer. The only thing that feels safe to say.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes still distant.

But when he speaks again, his tone’s lighter.

“We’re still going to Shinjuku this weekend, right?” he asks, elbow nudging you gently in the side.

You nod. “Gojo wants us to try that new bakery that opened up on the corner.”

He huffs a laugh. “Imagine how much money his dentist makes off his cavities.”

“He probably just blinds them with his eyes and skips the bill,” you mutter.

“That’s not even a joke, that’s probably real.”

You walk past the field, your steps quiet against the damp earth. Up ahead, the faint outline of the baseball diamond comes into view, tucked near the edge of the boys' dorms. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the soft glow from the school’s main building spills just enough light to make it feel safe.

“You know,” he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets, fingers flexing in the cool air. “I actually really like it here.”

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice low. “Me too.”

“I mean—” he pauses, eyes trained on the path ahead, “—when we moved in back in April, I was so hyped. Like, I thought I knew what to expect. But then school actually started, and everything hit at once. Training. Missions. I don’t think I was used to… my body hurting all the time.”

You let out a soft laugh. Yeah. That part still surprises you too.

“But,” he goes on, glancing at you, “I’m glad I met you. I mean—” he corrects quickly, “—you guys. All of you.”

You smile, not bothering to correct him.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know what you mean. I’m glad I met you too.”

You look up at him.

He’s only slightly taller than you — just enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes, if he ever let you see them. But right now, his hair falls in loose strands around his face, just past his shoulders, hiding most of it in shadow.

It moves a little with the breeze, brushing against his jaw. You wonder if he notices, or if he’s too caught up in whatever he’s thinking to care.

For a second, you consider brushing it back for him.

You don’t.

Instead, you tuck your hands deeper into your sleeves and look forward again, pretending you didn’t feel whatever that was.

“Hungry?” he asks.

You glance up briefly.

The boys' dorms have two vending machines on the first floor. Everyone knows that. It's the unofficial late-night pit stop — the place you all end up when the cafeteria food is disappointing or training’s left you too wrecked to make the trek for anything better.

“Yeah,” you say, “I could eat something.”

Before you even shift your weight, his hand wraps around your wrist, unthinking, like muscle memory. You don’t pull away. Instead, curiosity flickers in your chest. You glance down and tug up your sleeve with your free hand, just a little, like you need to see it to understand it.

His fingers are warm. Steady. There’s no pressure in his grip.

“Come on,” he says, already turning toward the dorm entrance, still holding onto you like this is something the two of you have always done.

You feel the cool rush of the air conditioning the moment you step inside. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead fills the quiet, and your slippers make soft, muffled sounds against the tile.

He doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re halfway down the hallway — not that you mind.

The vending machines glow at the end of the corridor, casting soft blue and orange light across the floor like some kind of cheap, modern campfire.

“Ice cream?” he offers,.

“Nah,” you shake your head. “I don’t want a sore throat tomorrow.”

He snorts. “You sound like Shoko.”

“Well, one of us has to be the responsible one.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically, crouching down to scan the options. “Guess I’ll eat my feelings alone.”

You roll your eyes but step up beside him anyway, peering into the vending machine like it holds the answers to life. It doesn’t — but maybe a bag of chips will do for now.

You point to the bag of Lay’s tucked in the corner slot. “That one.”

He follows your gaze, nods, and punches in the numbers. The machine whirs to life.

Sleep starts to pull at you again, soft and heavy, wrapping around your limbs like fog. You blink slowly, shoulders sinking just a little.

“Getting tired?” he asks without looking at you, focused on catching the chips before they drop too hard.

“A little,” you murmur. “Thought I was past it, but… guess not.”

He straightens up, chips in hand, and glances over at you. “You always look kind of half-asleep.”

You yawn, not bothering to hide it. “Thanks. I try.”

He grins and hands you the bag. “C’mon. Let’s go sit. Just for a bit.”

And even though the hallway is cold and the machines are humming and your bed is calling, you follow him anyway.

He walks a few steps up the stairs and drops down onto a middle step, resting his elbows on his knees. Without thinking, he uses his teeth to tear open the wrapper of his popsicle, the plastic crinkling softly in the quiet.

You follow, settling beside him with the bag of chips rustling in your hands. You fish one out, pop it into your mouth, and chew slowly, the salt waking your senses just enough to keep your eyes open.

The stairwell is still. Dim light spills in from the hallway, casting soft shadows on the floor. Neither of you says anything for a moment — just the occasional crunch from your chips and the faint, wet sound of him biting into the popsicle.

It's peaceful in that odd, late-night kind of way. Not quite awake, not quite dreaming. Just enough.

You glance at him. “What flavor?”

He looks down at the popsicle, then at you. “Blue. Always blue.”

You hum in response, barely audible, and rest your head lightly against his arm. He stiffens just a little — not because he minds, but because he wasn’t expecting it. After a second, he relaxes.

You feel him turn his head to look at you, the subtle shift of his weight beneath your cheek.

“You’re really pretty, you know,” he says. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but didn’t stop himself either.

You stay still for a beat, lips parting like you might say something back — but nothing comes out.

“…Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely above the hum of the vending machine behind you. “You’re really pretty, too.”

That makes him laugh.

“Pretty, huh?” he repeats, glancing down at you with a lopsided smile. “That’s a new one.”

You shrug, your cheek still resting against his arm. “Felt accurate.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he leans back against the stairwell wall, popsicle balanced loosely in his fingers, and lets the silence settle again.

“I’m sorry if this is weird,” he says after a while, voice quieter now. There’s a hesitation there — not nervous, just careful.

You pause, fingers brushing the bottom of the chip bag. Almost empty.

“What’s weird?” you ask, not looking at him yet.

There’s a beat.

“Can I kiss you?” he says. “Please, I really want to kiss you.”

He doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t try to make it cool or clever. He just says it like it’s the only thing that feels true in this moment — like it’s been sitting on his tongue all night.

You finally look up, your eyes meeting his, and everything feels still again. The hallway is quiet, the air still. Even the hum of the vending machine feels distant now, like it’s waiting too.

You don’t say anything right away. Just study his face — the way his bangs fall a little into his eyes, the faint color in his cheeks, the way he’s trying so hard not to move unless you give him something back.

Your fingers crinkle the chip bag as you fold it closed, setting it gently beside you on the step.

“…Okay,” you say, so softly it barely counts as a word. “You can.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he asked.

And then he leans in — slow, careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb tracing just below your eye, and you close the distance between you both without even thinking.

The kiss is soft. Hesitant, at first. Then warmth takes over your body.

It’s not perfect — his popsicle hand is still a little cold and your hoodie sleeve gets caught between you for a second — but it doesn’t matter. Because in that moment, everything else fades.

You pull apart a minute later, your breath just a little uneven.

“You taste cold,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He huffs a laugh, eyes still half-lidded as he leans back against the wall again. “That’s the popsicle. Blue. Premium flavor.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tastes more like a potential brain freeze.”

He grins, that lazy, sleepy kind of grin that only shows up when he’s too tired to pretend. “Still kissed me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “Yeah, well… I wanted to.”

He doesn’t say anything to that — just looks at you like you’ve handed him something delicate, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet. So instead, he bumps his shoulder gently against yours.

“C’mon,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “I’ll walk you back.”

You glance at him, not quite ready for the moment to end, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”

He stands first, offering you a hand without thinking. You take it, and he pulls you up with an ease that makes your chest feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with body heat.

You both toss your wrappers into the bin on the way out, your footsteps echoing softly in the stairwell. The vending machines hum behind you as the door clicks shut, sealing the quiet moment between their glowing lights.

Outside, the night is still cool, the campus quiet. The path back to your dorm feels shorter now, like the space between you has shifted — something small, something subtle.

You walk in step, side by side, fingers brushing now and then but not holding. Not yet.

And when you reach your door, he stops, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze lingering on you, like there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t figured out how.

You step forward, hands resting on his shoulders as you press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Goodnight, Geto,” you say, pulling back.

You’re halfway through closing the door when he calls your name, voice barely above a whisper.

“You know you can call me Suguru,” he says.

There’s a beat. Then a sheepish smile tugs at your lips.

“Goodnight, Suguru.”

You close the door the rest of the way, the latch clicking gently behind you.

In the quiet of your room, you tug off your sweatshirt, letting it fall to the floor, and slip back into bed. 

taglist : @twilightsumu @mik4kn0x @bubblegumcat229 @poopooindamouf @se-phi-roth @twinkling-moonlillie @11thlife02 @perqbeth @love-me-satoru @pillkits @not-a-glad-gladiator @xarnesss

taglist is still open, comment on series masterlist to be added

[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 6:

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.2k) not proofread

CONTENT — angst

a/n: spotify changed their layout wtf. i might edit it in the future but im lazy rn. this ch was supposed to be much longer but i decided to split the rest of it into a new one! hope you enjoy

series m. list | m. list

Mid 2014

When Satoru’s missions ended and he got through the inevitable stack of paperwork piling up at the edge of his desk, he always seemed to find his way into your little detective’s classroom.

He’d slip in without a word, dropping into the corner chair like it belonged to him, limbs sprawling, blindfold pushed up into messy white hair.

And then, without fail, a long, dramatic sigh, loud enough to make sure you heard it. Even if you weren’t at a dead end and you were still nose-deep in the mess of maps and curse reports pinned across the walls.

This time was no different. He was back from a four-day mission in the countryside, slipping into your space quietly.

You didn’t look up from the files scattered across your desk, but you felt him, his cursed energy, the familiar shuffle of his coat as he flopped into the corner chair.

“God, I hate trees,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “And mosquitoes. And cabins with no proper plumbing.”

You smirked faintly, still scanning a report. “Welcome back.”

“Miss me?”

“Sure..”

He chuckled, tipping his head back against the wall. “Hey, someone’s gotta liven this place up. All this string and paper makes it feel like a serial killer lives here.”

You rolled your eyes, finally glancing at him. “Yeah, well, I’m trying to find one.”

His blindfold was completely off — a rarity — and the bruised shadows under his eyes gave away just how tired he really was. Dirt smudged the edge of his jaw, and there was a tiny scrape on his knuckle he hadn’t even bothered to bandage.

“You look like shit,” you said, gentler than your words.

He cracked a smile. “You always know just what to say.”

You stood, crossing the room, and without thinking, reached out to brush the hair from his eyes. “Seriously, Toru. Go sleep.”

He caught your wrist lightly, not stopping you, just… holding it for a second. “Nah,” he said quietly. “I’ll rest here.”

You let him hold your wrist for a moment longer before gently pulling away, heading back to your desk. “Suit yourself,” you murmured, flipping open another folder.

Satoru exhaled, slouching deeper into the chair. “You ever think about getting a couch in here? Maybe a little fridge? We could really level up the whole haunted-basement vibe.”

You snorted. “This isn’t your personal lounge. It’s not really mine either.”

“Could be,” he said, eyes closed now, head lolling to the side. “You practically live here.”

You hummed in agreement. “It’s my job to be here, Satoru.”

“Mmh. Or maybe you don’t wanna go home.”

You didn’t answer that. Just tapped your pen against the edge of the desk, eyes moving across a report that no longer held your attention.

He cracked one eye open to look at you. “You eat yet?”

“No.”

He dug into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a crumpled convenience store sandwich, still sealed. “Here. It’s egg salad. Don’t complain.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You were saving this for yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, waving a hand. “I like you more than I like protein.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his as you did. “Thanks, Toru.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He sighed again, softer this time. “You know, if this whole sorcerer gig doesn’t work out, we’d make great roommates.”

You gave him a look. “You think we’d survive that?”

He grinned. “Absolutely not.”

You both fall into silence again, the low hum of the air conditioning unit filling the room. You unwrap the sandwich slowly, picking at the edges before taking a small bite. It's not bad.

“You ever think about slowing down?” Satoru asks suddenly, not looking at you.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He shifts in the chair, stretches his legs out. “I mean this,” he gestures vaguely to the case files, the cluttered bulletin board behind you. “This job. This obsession with finding him.”

Your stomach tightens. “It’s not an obsession.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, tone still light, but a little too carefully so. “You haven’t taken a break in months. You go on missions and come right back here. You haven’t even been home.”

“This is my job. You know that.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You press your lips together, setting the sandwich down on its wrapper. “You think I should just drop it? Because you know I can’t.”

“I think,” he says slowly, “that maybe you’re starting to forget who you are without him.”

You stiffen. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to fight,” he says quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I just… worry about you.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” you reply, more sharply than intended. “I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

He goes quiet, jaw tight. “I do. But you’re not the only one who lost him.”

That lands heavier than either of you expect.

You meet his gaze across the room, his blue eyes darker than usual. His voice is quiet when he adds, “You’re not the only one he left.”

You scoff, standing up from your desk as your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Satoru shoots back, already irritated. “Tell the truth?”

“No,” you snap, “pretend like you’re the only one allowed to feel hurt by this. That you’re the only one who gets to miss him.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to!” Your voice is rising now, tight with everything you’ve kept in too long. “You act like I’m the one who ruined everything. Like I’m the one who let him walk away.”

Satoru stands too, slow and deliberate. “You think this has been easy for me? You think watching you waste away chasing after someone who chose to leave us is easy?”

You flinch. “He didn’t choose this.”

“Yes, he did,” he growls. “He made a choice. And you can keep romanticizing it all you want, but he left. He left you. He left me. He left all of us.”

You shake your head, fists clenched at your sides. “He wasn’t well, Satoru. He was angry and hurting and—”

“And what?” he cuts you off. “That makes it okay?”

“No! But it makes it understandable!”

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, stepping toward you. “You want so badly for there to be a reason. A good reason. Because otherwise you have to admit the truth — that the person you loved, that we both loved, just… left.”

You’re breathing hard now, eyes stinging. “Stop talking like you know everything.”

“I do know everything,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “I was there. I saw him slipping away while you were too busy pretending everything was still perfect between you two. You didn’t want to see it coming.”

“Of course I didn’t,” you whisper. “Because I thought he loved me enough to stay.”

That silences him.

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and raw.

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, voice softer now — but no less intense. “You still think he would’ve stayed for you.”

You meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t you have?”

And that—more than anything—shakes him.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The silence buzzes, too loud, too full of everything you’ve both refused to say for years.

Then he mutters, voice hollow, “I would’ve burned the world down to make him stay, but that wouldn’t make me any better than him.”

You blink, startled, throat tight. “You think I don’t know that?” Your voice comes out quieter than before, but sharper. “You think I don’t think about that every day? About the people he’s hurt? The villages he’s wiped out? The families?”

Satoru looks at you, jaw set tight. “Then act like it. Because the way you talk about him, like he’s still the boy who used to hold your hand on the train, is fucking delusional.”

“Don’t do that,” you warn. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you don’t miss him too.”

“I do miss him!” Satoru exclaims. “I miss him so goddamn much it makes me sick. But I don’t let that get in the way of what he is now.”

“And what is he now, huh?” your voice rises again, bitter. “A villain? A monster? Just some name on a bounty list?”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “No. He’s a mass murderer. He kills people, innocent people, just to make a point. He’s not some broken boy who lost his way—he chose this.”

You flinch again, but you don’t back down. “I know. I know that he made a choice. But so did you. You chose to pretend like he doesn’t exist. Like none of it matters.”

“I don’t pretend he doesn’t exist,” Satoru hisses. “I’m the only reason we haven’t had to kill him yet.”

That makes your breath catch.

He steps forward, and this time, his voice is low and furious. “You know how many times I’ve covered for you? How many reports I’ve rewritten? How many people I’ve lied to so no one finds out you’re still chasing him down like it’s a fucking love story instead of a disaster?”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“No,” he says, “you didn’t. But I did it anyway. Because I knew you weren’t ready. Because I thought maybe if I gave you time, you’d see what he is now. That he’s not coming back.”

Your hands tremble. “He left without saying goodbye, Satoru. We never even broke up. I never got closure. I—”

“You think closure matters now?” Satoru snaps. “You think that’s going to fix anything? You think knowing why he walked out is going to un-kill all the people he’s slaughtered?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. And it hurts.

And he sees that hurt, sees the way your shoulders sink under the weight of it.

He softens slightly, but only slightly. “You can love who he was. I get that. But you can’t keep pretending that version of him still exists.”

You look away, voice small. “Get out.”

Satoru freezes.

His jaw tightens, and for a second, it looks like he might argue—but then he sees your eyes. Sees the way you won’t even look at him. The way your hands are clenched tight in your lap, like holding yourself together is the only thing keeping you upright.

He exhales, slow and heavy.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “I’ll go.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t move. Just keep staring at the same spot on the desk, like if you look at him, you’ll shatter.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. There’s a pause near the door, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, say something, anything—but you stay silent.

When the door finally clicks shut behind him, the room feels colder.

You’re alone again.

You brush your hair out of your face, forcing your focus back to the open file on your desk. The words blur together, familiar reports you’ve read three times over, each line pulling less meaning than the last. You try to ignore the silence and the way the argument still hangs in the air.

It’s nearly dusk when you finally close the file. The light filtering in through the windows is soft and orange, the kind that paints the world in gold. Without thinking too hard, you grab your coat.

You need air or space or something else to look at besides the hollow chair in the corner.

You take the train into the city, headphones in, letting the rhythm of the tracks drown your thoughts. You don’t even realize where you’re going until your feet lead you there — the familiar turn, the old stairs, the street that still smells faintly of street food and cigarette smoke.

The same shopping district he used to take you to.

Your pace slows as you step into it, eyes drifting over the stalls. It looks the same. Almost painfully so. The same lights strung above, the same fruit vendor still arguing with the taiyaki cart owner two stalls down. You walk past the old photo booth — the one you once crammed into, laughing too loud as Suguru kissed your cheek between flashes.

A tightness coils in your chest, but you keep moving.

You don’t expect to run into anyone, definitely not him. That’s not why you’re here. But a part of you aches anyway, hopes for something familiar to wrap around you, even if it hurts.

The streets start to empty as the sun dips lower.

That’s when you feel it — a subtle chill in the air. The wrong kind of stillness.

You turn down a quieter alley, and that’s when they come. Curses.

Three of them (maybe four) grotesque, snarling things that creep along the walls and drop down from the rooftops. But they’re weak. Low-level. They barely make you blink.

You exorcise them quickly, efficiently, with your movements fluid and practiced. Almost bored.

But just as the last one dissolves into smoke, your senses prick again — this time sharper. Like the air itself has shifted.

You don’t move right away.

A bead of sweat rolls down your spine despite the cool breeze.

And slowly, from the far end of the alley, something begins to step forward — not clumsy and loud like the curses before, but deliberate.

You don’t see it yet, but you can feel it.

Your hand tightens into a fist and you realize you’re not alone.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 08:

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (7.7k) not proofread

CONTENT — HI arc spoilers, angst/comfort?, mei mei descriptions of violence, canon character death(s), implied intercourse, depression, mental health

a/n: in honour of the HI/PD movie that came out this week... im posting this and going RIGHT to sleep dont hate me too much el oh el

series m. list | m. list

Spring, 2006

You blink twice, eyes adjusting to the dull light streaming through cracked paper screens, and turn your head just enough to see Mei Mei dusting off her coat with mild annoyance.

"That’s the third time we’ve passed that exact pile of trash," Mei Mei said, voice calm but pointed as she paused in the corridor. "Same newspaper, same broken cup. This hallway’s looping."

You stopped next to her, brow furrowed. The stagnant air felt heavier with every step, like something was pressing down on your chest.

"Do you think it’s the cursed spirit’s domain?" Utahime asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Mei Mei shook her head. “Unlikely. A domain is a manifestation of the user’s mindscape. This is too… consistent. We’re in a barrier designed to trap prey.”

You let your hand fall to the hilt of your weapon, cursed energy humming low. “So we’re basically stuck on repeat until we figure out how to break the loop?”

"Exactly." Mei Mei turned slightly, casting Utahime a pointed look. “So. What’s our best move?”

You recognized the tone immediately.

Utahime straightened. “It’s not circular. I’ve been counting steps, the layout resets, but it’s not curving. It’s patching together the same hallway as we walk. If we outrun it, at some point, it’ll break.”

Mei Mei’s mouth curled in something that resembled a smile. “Ninety points. We’ll have to split up and run in opposite directions. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit the barrier’s edge faster than it can reconfigure.”

“Guess that means I’m sprinting,” you muttered, flexing your fingers, already channeling cursed energy to your legs.

“Don’t fall behind,” Mei Mei said smoothly. “Or do. I’ll still get out.”

You shot her a look, but nodded regardless.

The three of you took position. A breath.

“Now!” Utahime shouted.

You shot forward, feet slamming against the wooden floor, the mansion blurring past — but something felt wrong. The walls began to groan, wood splitting and shaking. You staggered slightly as the structure began to shudder around you.

“Wait!” Utahime’s voice rang out from somewhere behind you. “Something’s—!”

The floor collapsed beneath your feet.

You hit the ground hard, coughing as dust and splinters clouded the air. Something sharp nicked your arm as rubble poured over you. For a moment, you couldn't breathe.

Then… silence.

You heard footsteps first. Fast, purposeful.

“Baby!”

You blinked, eyes fluttering open as a hand gripped your arm and began clearing debris from your body.

"Suguru," you gasped. "You're here?"

He smiled down at you, hair loose and covered in dust, but relief soft in his expression. “Of course I’m here. You were gone for so long.”

From above, a familiar voice shouted, “I’m here to save you, Utahime! You crying?”

"No, I’m not crying!" Utahime snapped from where she was climbing out of the debris, scowling as Gojo hovered above her, impossibly clean and smug despite the wreckage. “Be more polite!”

Geto helped you sit up gently, checking your arm, and turning your attention away from their bickering. “You okay?”

You nodded, winded. “Bruised, only a little.”

“Good.” He stood, offered his hand. “Let’s go join the others before Gojo starts making comments about us.”

You took it, letting him pull you up as the broken remnants of the mansion finally settled around you.

A shriek echoed through the rubble as the cursed spirit — the one that had trapped you inside the house — burst up from the earth, grotesque and twisted, its mouth splitting wide in a jagged roar.

Your cursed energy surged, instinct snapping through your veins, pulsing to your arms as you dropped into a stance, ready to fight.

But Suguru didn't move.

He barely glanced at the curse before sighing, like it was more of a chore than a threat.

Then, without warning, another curse exploded from beneath the first, even larger, its black form curling up and swallowing the smaller spirit whole in one clean snap.

“Don’t swallow it,” he instructed calmly, eyes flicking toward the beast. “I’ll absorb it later.”

You exhaled, releasing the tension in your shoulders, your cursed energy settling as you stepped closer, looping your arm around his again. The two of you continued walking, heading back toward the others.

“Satoru,” he called out lazily, voice teasing as Gojo came into view, “It’s not nice to pick on the weak, you know?”

You elbowed his side, a quick jab of protest for calling your friend weak.

“Well, I suppose you’re calling your girlfriend weak too then?” he added, grin curling as he looked down at you.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, the group finally came into view.

“Nah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek, his voice dropping softer. “My baby’s the strongest.”

“Ew,” Gojo sticks his tongue out. “And what kind of idiot picks on the strongest?”

You roll your eyes, brushing stray dust from your cheek with the back of your hand, muttering something under your breath as Suguru smirks beside you.

“You’re the one naturally fanning the flames, Geto,” Mei Mei calls out coolly, implying that his smugness might’ve just triggered another Gojo-level ego spiral.

Utahime turns around slowly, her expression darkening like a storm cloud. She’s never been particularly fond of your choice in a boyfriend — too arrogant, too smooth, too Geto. And something about watching him drape himself around you like you were made of spun gold seemed to ignite her fuse just a little quicker.

But before she can launch into an outburst, a voice cuts through the breeze, distant but familiar.

It calls out your name. Then, louder — “Utahime!”

Everyone turns toward the hill. Utahime’s scowl vanishes instantly, her face shifting into one of stunned relief as she spots the figure climbing steadily up the incline.

“Shoko!” she breathes, and takes off running.

“I was so worried about you,” Shoko says, letting the other girl crash into her. “We hadn’t heard from you guys in two whole days.”

“Shokooo,” she flops against her friend’s shoulder like a child needing comfort. “Don’t let yourself turn out like those two, okay?”

Shoko chuckles, catching sight of you clinging to Suguru’s arm and shooting you a wink. “Nah,” she says with a smug grin. “I’m not trash like they are.”

Gojo giggles, already leaning forward with a gleam in his eye as Suguru helps steady you up the last few steps of the hill. “Hey, you guys don’t turn out like Utahime.”

Suguru snorts, but catches your unimpressed look. He lets out a breathy laugh before muttering with a shrug, “Eh, shut up.”

You finally make it up the hill, Suguru’s hand steady at your back until the moment you break away to join the other two girls in a messy, relieved group hug. The air is cool, sharp with lingering cursed energy, but you barely notice it. Utahime pulls back first, eyes searching your face with quiet concern, her hands landing gently on both of your shoulders.

“Wait—two whole days?” she asks, confusion furrowing her brow.

Behind her, Gojo tilts his head toward Mei Mei. “Ah… was the cursed spirit’s barrier one of those that messes with time?”

She nods once, brushing ash off her sleeve. “That would make sense.”

Gojo narrows his eyes, catching the glint of calculation on her face. “Something wrong?”

“Not really,” she says simply, arms crossing. “That means it took two full days of labour, so I was thinking about how to rewrite the invoice for extra fees now owed to me.”

Utahime sighs, leaning in closer until her forehead gently presses against yours and Shoko’s, whispering, “She’s planning to overscharge again.”

You stifle a laugh, but before you can respond, Mei Mei’s tone sharpens. “More importantly,” she says, straightening up, “what about the veil?”

The mood drops like a stone.

Satoru. Suguru. Shoko. All freeze where they stand.

You and Utahime share a deadpan look, while the others slowly process the mistake.

Because… shit.

Since you were fighting a curse inside an abandoned mansion, no one had thought a veil was necessary. But when the boys arrived, the cursed spirit’s domain had collapsed. The indoor structure was shredded, and in its wake, you’d all been pushed outside… into the very public outskirts of Hamamatsu City.

Meaning no veil had been placed to conceal the fight. Meaning everything — the cursed spirits, the explosions, the debris — was fully visible. To everyone.

Suguru rubs his temple, groaning. “We are so screwed.”

“I’m going to be in so much paperwork hell,” Shoko mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Eh,” Gojo says, already waving it off as he steps toward you. “I’ll just blame it on Mei Mei.”

“You wouldn’t,” she answers flatly, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Let’s just go before someone tries to arrest us,” Utahime groans, pulling your sleeve as she begins marching down the other side of the hill.

You don’t even argue, too tired and sore to think clearly, your body still half-numb from adrenaline and your boyfriend’s curse wrapping protectively around your waist.

Shoko exhales, looking at her watch. “I can call in the veil after the fact and file it as a long-distance grade emergency. Might save us from an inquiry.”

Suguru chuckles beside you. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs. “I learned from the best.”

With what’s left of your strength, you all begin making your way back toward the cars, bloodied and dusty, knowing that the aftermath would probably be worse than the curse.

You’re half-asleep atop one of Suguru’s curses, curled on the gym floor where the early afternoon sun filters through the high windows. The faint sound of rubber slapping hardwood, Satoru’s dramatic shouting, and Suguru’s dry comebacks blend together into a sort of chaotic lullaby. The curse beneath you hums gently, dulling the vibration of the bouncing basketball and cradling you just enough to keep you from fully waking.

Until it doesn’t.

Without warning, the curse slithers out from under you, dissipating into black smoke as your body hits the polished floor with a soft thud.

Your eyes blink open slowly, met with the sight of Suguru rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbles something to Satoru. His cursed spirit obediently coils behind him like a scolded dog.

“Sorry, baby,” Suguru says over his shoulder, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Gross,” Satoru mutters, pretending to retch loudly.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes just as they return to their bickering — voices overlapping in some ridiculous debate about sorcerers and non-sorcerers.

The gym doors bang open.

“How long are you going to be fooling around?” Yaga’s voice booms across the space, causing both boys to flinch and immediately step apart, feigning stretches like they weren’t just two seconds from strangling each other.

“Where did Shoko go?” Yaga demands, scanning the gym.

“Who knows?” Suguru says with a shrug, his curse vanishing entirely.

“Little girls room?” Satoru suggests, all teeth and mischief.

“Whatever,” Yaga sighs. “This mission is being assigned only to you two anyway.”

Satoru’s face lights up like a child getting picked first for dodgeball.

You start dusting yourself off as Yaga’s gaze shifts to you. “Out,” he says flatly.

You nod, already halfway to the door. “I’ll go find Shoko,” you say as you slip out, the echo of Satoru and Suguru’s voices quickly muffled behind the heavy gym doors.

The hallways are quieter than usual. Afternoon light casts long shadows along the polished floors as you round the corner toward the infirmary. No sign of Shoko there. You double back, checking the lounge next, only to find an untouched cup of coffee still steaming on the table.

You eventually find her on the rooftop, seated on the ledge with a cigarette between her fingers, squinting up at the clouds like they’re about to offer her a new reason to be annoyed.

She turns her head slightly as you step closer. “Yaga send you?”

You nod, walking over and plopping down beside her.

“He say I was skipping again?”

You shrug. “He was more concerned about where you vanished to. Suguru and Satoru are apparently going on some sort of mission.”

Shoko huffs a small laugh, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Good. Maybe they’ll burn off some of that testosterone.”

You smile, leaning back beside her. The silence between you is comfortable, the kind that only exists between people who have seen too much together.

After a minute, she offers the cigarette your way.

“You look like you need this more than I do.”

You shake your head softly. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Shoko doesn’t press. She nods once, slowly, and takes another drag from her cigarette.

“Two full days awake and not even realizing it… guess it’s catching up to me,” you murmur, the weight of it all finally sinking into your bones as you lean over, resting your head on her shoulder.

She hums in response.

You sit like that for a moment, letting the silence stretch, broken only by the breeze and the low city hum in the distance.

“Time’s weird, huh,” Shoko says, half to herself. “You thought it was just an afternoon.”

You let out a tired laugh, eyes still closed. “And somehow it didn’t even feel like we were gone. Like we blinked and the sun jumped two days ahead.”

Shoko takes one last drag, then flicks the cigarette over the ledge.

You pull your knees up to your chest, gaze soft as you look out over the rooftops. “I kept thinking about him,” you admit. “Suguru.”

She glances at you, quiet for a beat. “Yeah. He didn’t stop worrying about you while you were gone.”

You smile, tired but warm.

“You’re lucky,” she says. “Even if I want to slap the both of you most days.”

“I’ll take the slap,” you say, eyes flicking toward her with a ghost of a grin, “as long as I don’t have to go back in that damn house again.”

Shoko pushes up from the ledge and stretches, arms overhead. “Well, you don’t — for now. But you do have to get off your ass and come eat. I stole one of Mei Mei’s onigiris before she started her invoice breakdown.”

You laugh, dragging yourself to your feet beside her. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a lot more than that,” she smirks, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the door.

Suguru came to say goodbye about an hour and a half later, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up and a mission file tucked under his arm. He looked tired, like he already had too much on his mind.

“The mission’s only supposed to last a couple days,” he said, brushing your hair back as you leaned into him at the gates. “Two or three at most. We’ll be back before you even miss us.”

You didn’t doubt it. Not with both him and Satoru on it. The Star Plasma Vessel wasn’t a walk in the park, but if anyone could handle it, it was the two of them.

“Be safe,” you told him, standing on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “And tell Satoru not to get too cocky.”

He chuckled, hand catching yours before he pulled away. “No promises.”

And for the first two days, you weren’t worried.

You filled your time at Jujutsu High with sparring sessions and patrols, occasionally helping Yaga organize curse reports for the incoming summer wave. The two new first-years — Nanami and Haibara — had started clinging to you like shadows, trailing behind with eager questions and bright eyes that reminded you a little too much of a younger version of your team.

By day three, Suguru still hadn’t returned. You figured maybe they hit a snag. Maybe Satoru had gotten cocky and dragged things out. It wasn’t unusual.

By midday, the atmosphere around Jujutsu High had shifted.

A sudden fly-head curse attack erupted across the school grounds. You’d seen them before — minor curses, usually attached to the weak or those with residual negativity from nearby towns.

Everyone was mobilized immediately, the school buzzing with movement as students and staff leapt into formation. You, too, stepped in without hesitation, exorcising the pests with a flick of your wrist, your cursed energy slicing through clusters of the grotesque things.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

The curses were gone and the campus was quiet again.

Nanami muttered under her breath as he helped Shoko clean up a few first years who had taken minor hits.

“It’s probably a prank,” he said, rolling her eyes. “Kyoto’s version of a joke.”

But even as laughter started to return and teachers waved the incident off, the worry in your chest only deepened.

By day four, you noticed Shoko was nowhere to be found either. Yaga’s office had been locked for nearly 48 hours. A few teachers murmured about “something big” — but no one had answers. That was when the unease began to settle in your gut like a weight.

You’d fall asleep with your phone next to your pillow, waiting for a message that never came. Nanami noticed. Haibara too. They didn’t ask, but they stayed close.

On the evening of the fifth day, you sat alone under the shade of the old camphor tree by the courtyard, watching the shadows stretch across the stone. The sun had dipped low behind the roofline, and the breeze carried the heavy scent of summer storms.

Still no word. No sign of Suguru. Or Satoru.

And for the first time, you felt it — that low, gnawing fear in your chest.

Because when Gojo was quiet, something was wrong.

And when Suguru didn’t come home?

Something was very wrong.

Shoko came around the next morning, but something was different.

She didn’t look at you the same way she used to. Her usual dry humor was absent, replaced with clipped responses and a distant expression. You caught her lingering in doorways, always half-turned away, always too quick to leave. When you asked if she wanted coffee, she said she wasn’t staying long.

You didn’t ask questions. You couldn’t — the weight in her eyes already told you too much.

But then you noticed something else: the school was quiet. Too quiet.

There were fewer students walking the halls, fewer teachers in the staff rooms. You caught glimpses of second-years murmuring in corners, eyes darting toward the sealed-off northern wing like they were waiting for something—or someone.

A barrier had been placed there. Thick, dark, pulsing with cursed energy. No one was allowed in or out. The entrance was completely blocked off, wrapped in talismans you hadn’t seen before, reinforced with something stronger than just jujutsu.

When you’d asked Nanami, he’d just shaken his head. “They’re not supposed to talk about it.”

And Haibara had frowned, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.

But when you passed the northern corridor and felt the air grow cold—when your cursed energy prickled at the edge of that barrier like it was recoiling—you started to suspect what you didn’t want to believe.

Something terrible had happened.

And no one was telling you the truth.

That night, a soft knock echoed through your dorm room.

You’d already been crying. You hadn’t even heard the first few knocks over the sound of your own sobs. Every awful thought had spiraled through your mind like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

What if Suguru was hurt?What if he was dead?What if he needed help and no one was there to save him?

Then came the voice.

“Hey, sweet girl,” came from the other side of the door. “I know you’re awake. Can you let me in, please?”

You were on your feet in an instant.

The door flew open, and there he was — Suguru, alive and in one piece, though his posture was stiff and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He wore a loose grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair pulled back sloppily like he hadn’t slept in days.

You launched yourself into his arms, only for him to grunt softly, wincing.

“Easy,” he murmured, catching you anyway, cradling you against him like he’d die before letting go.

Before you could ask what had happened, he gently stepped inside, guiding you toward your bed. He sat down and pulled you into his lap, his hands moving to cup your face as he kissed the tear tracks from your cheeks, over and over again.

“Why’re you crying, baby?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Who did this to you?”

“I was worried,” you said, your voice cracking. “No one told me anything. You didn’t come back. And I thought— I thought something happened—”

He kissed you again, stopping the words. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” His forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not supposed to say anything. But I came to tell you anyway.”

You blinked at him, heart pounding.

“I couldn’t leave you in the dark like that,” he whispered. “Not you.”

Suguru's hands were warm around yours as he sat beside you on your bed, fingers tangled with yours like he was afraid to let go. His body was tense—wound tight like a string pulled too far. You had your knees pulled up, leaning into him, heart pounding too hard in your chest as you waited for him to speak.

He took a shaky breath and started.

“It was supposed to be simple. Escort the girl—Riko Amanai—to Tengen. Keep her safe. That’s it.” His jaw clenched. “It felt... almost easy, at first. She was a kid, kind of annoying, but not in a bad way. Full of life. She was normal. Wanted to go to the beach, eat junk, sneak around like any girl her age.”

He looked down at your hands in his. “I wanted her to have that. If she was going to lose her identity to become part of some immortal being... she deserved a few good days first.”

You nodded quietly, throat tight.

“But then someone put a bounty on her. Out of nowhere, a bunch of curse users started showing up. My curses, two of them, got wiped out without me even noticing until it was too late. That should’ve been the first sign it was bad.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Then Kuroi—her caretaker—got taken. So we went to Okinawa to get her back.”

Your brows furrowed. “You... went to the beach?”

Suguru looked down, ashamed. “Yeah. After we saved Kuroi, we took her swimming. I let Satoru talk us into it. We should’ve gone straight back to Jujutsu High, but... for once, it felt like we were doing something right. Satoru even said it—‘We’re the strongest. What could go wrong?’”

There was venom in his voice now.

He went quiet for a moment, then said, “When we got back to campus... that’s when it happened. He was waiting.”

“Who?” you whispered.

“Toji Fushiguro,” he said. “Sorcerer killer. I’d only heard of him before. Didn’t even sense him coming. He was like... nothing. Empty. No cursed energy. Satoru took him head on.”

Suguru swallowed, hands tightening around yours like he needed the pressure to stay grounded. “I didn’t even know what was happening. One second Satoru was standing. The next... he was down. Blood everywhere.”

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth.

“I tried to get Riko out. But... Toji caught up. I failed. I let him kill her. I let her die.” His voice broke. “I was too slow. Too weak.”

“No,” you said immediately, squeezing his hand. “Suguru, no—”

He shook his head. “Satoru died, too. He told me later—he really died.”

Your eyes widened, vision blurring with tears as you searched his face. He let go of your hand just long enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he lifted it, revealing the clean white bandages pressed tightly across his stomach and chest. Right at the center was a thick strip covering the place where the blade had gone through.

“He got me too,” he said. “But I’m okay, I promise..”

Your breath caught.

He kept going, voice cracking as he did.

“Satoru came back. Somehow. He... unlocked something. Said it was like enlightenment. He came back stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. He killed Toji. But not before...” He looked down at the bandages again. “Not before nearly dying again.”

Your tears finally spilled over. You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him, face pressed to his neck. “I can’t lose you,” you sobbed. “I can’t—I won’t.”

His arms came around you, crushing you to his chest as if he felt the same.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he whispered. “But that’s the world we live in. Every day it’s something. And lately... it feels like it’s only getting worse.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, only to find his own eyes glassy now, rimmed with red.

“I was so scared,” he said, his voice breaking. “When he didn’t wake up—when there was nothing I could do—I thought... that’s it. I’ve lost him. Just like I’ll lose you. Just like I’ll lose everyone.”

“You haven’t lost me,” you said firmly. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He broke then, finally letting himself cry—quiet tears slipping down his cheeks as you cupped his face, brushing them away.

“Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll stay safe. Even if it means running. Even if it means leaving me behind.”

“I can’t promise that,” you whispered back. “Because I’d never leave you behind.”

You both sat like that for a long time, wrapped up in grief and love and fear.

You lift the hem of his shirt again, fingers trembling as you glance down at the bandage stretched across his stomach.

“Does it hurt?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, tired and quiet, like he’s measuring how much truth you can handle.

Then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I won’t sugarcoat it. He sliced me—” he raises a hand, fingers dragging an invisible X across his torso, “—like that. All the way through.”

You let out a quiet, choked sob and collapse against him, pressing your forehead to his chest like it could somehow stop the ache building in your own. His arms fold around you again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“I’m okay now,” he says, but his voice is raw, and neither of you believe it.

You cry harder.

When your sobs finally start to slow—hiccuping breaths and red eyes and snot-streaked cheeks—you’re both still sitting there, wrapped in each other. Suguru reaches for a tissue from your nightstand, dabbing under your eyes with exaggerated care before giving you a teasing smile.

“Still pretty,” he says.

You huff a laugh, watery and broken. “Liar.”

“Nope,” he says, leaning forward to kiss your temple. “Prettiest crier I’ve ever seen.”

Eventually, he shifts you gently down into bed, murmuring soft reassurances the entire time, like you might break again if the silence stretches too long. He helps you under the covers, climbing in beside you, one arm protectively around your waist, the other tucked beneath your head like a second pillow.

His heartbeat is solid against your cheek. Slower now. Grounding.

“I’m glad you’re home,” you whisper.

“I’m glad I made it back,” he replies, voice so low it’s barely a breath.

You fall asleep like that, curled into him, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And for the first time in days, your mind is still.

You think maybe everything will settle down again. Maybe in a week or two, life will go back to normal. Suguru will smile the same, joke the same, and Satoru will be loud and impossible again. Missions will rotate, students will train, and this awful ache will ease.

You let yourself believe it.

Fall, 2006

You were wrong, and everything has changed.

If Satoru had been strong before, he’s untouchable now.

He walks like the ground owes him something, and maybe it does — maybe the world finally realized it can’t keep up. He’s faster. Sharper. His technique has evolved into something impossible. Everyone says it: He’s become a god among sorcerers.

But you know better.

You see the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. How even though he jokes and teases, there’s something beneath it now.

And Suguru—

Suguru hasn’t been the same since.

At first, you told yourself he was grieving. That he just missed his best friend — their bond was always deeper than anyone else could understand. They were a unit. The strongest. And now, it’s just Satoru.

He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it radiating off of him: the shift in balance. The way the world looks at Satoru like he’s the answer to everything now, and Suguru’s just… left behind.

You tried to talk to him about it, once. Just weeks after everything with the Star Plasma Vessel. When the wound on his chest was still healing. When the nights were still filled with nightmares, and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, breath catching like he was still there — in that moment. You’d reached out, tried to get him to talk, to let you in.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just pulled you close, like that could shield him from everything else. And maybe it did. For a little while.

But now?

Now he’s slipping.

He disappears between classes. Missions start piling up and he takes fewer and fewer of them. You catch him zoning out at odd hours — at lunch, during training. Sometimes you find him alone in the prayer room, just sitting there with his hands in his lap and eyes on the floor like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

And Satoru doesn’t even notice.

He’s too busy being unstoppable.

Too busy making up for the life he couldn’t save.

The three of you — the four of you, even with Shoko — haven’t been in the same room in weeks. Not really. Not without something between you: silence, or tension, or a memory no one wants to talk about.

You thought, after everything, you’d find your way back to normal. You thought you could hold onto what was left.

But summer’s come and gone, and everything’s changed, and you don’t know if you’ll ever get any of it back.

Tonight’s no different. Suguru doesn’t sleep in his room anymore.

He slips quietly into the girls’ dorms under the cover of midnight — past curfew, past the threshold of what the school would allow — and into your room like it’s second nature. No one questions it. Not anymore. Not when it’s become a nightly routine.

The sheets are warm and tangled, and so are you, still catching your breath. His skin is flushed, cooling from the heat you’d stirred between you, and his body is relaxed in the kind of way you only ever see after moments like these.

You lie sprawled across his chest, the beat of his heart slow and steady beneath your cheek, your fingers tracing idle shapes over the gauze still wrapped across his torso.

“They’re just habit now,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he glances down at your hand. “I don’t need them anymore.”

“I know,” you whisper, but you don’t stop.

Your fingertip follows the edge of the bandage anyway, light and reverent. You both know what lies beneath it — the scar, the X, the phantom memory of a blade meant to kill him.

After a pause, you speak again, voice quiet in the stillness of the night.

“Is something wrong?”

His hand comes up to rest on your bare back, stroking gently along your spine. “No,” he says, but then after a beat: “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“About?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Just… life.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes. “Okay,” you say simply. “I love you forever.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he turns to kiss your temple. “I love you forever too.”

You settle your head back on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, and then he speaks again.

“One day, when we’re done with all this… I was thinking—maybe we get a beach house.”

You smile into his skin. “In the countryside?”

“Yeah. Big enough for three kids, a couple cats.”

“And a room for Satoru,” you tease.

He chuckles, breath warm in your hair. “Unfortunately.”

You both laugh softly.

“And maybe a garden,” you add, your fingers curling around his. “For you to grow all your weird herbs.”

“I’ll grow you sunflowers,” he says. “Big, yellow ones. The ones that look like the sun.”

You grin. “You’re gonna grow me a whole field.”

“A whole damn field,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Just wait.”

He watches you lazily as you move across the bed, the sheets falling around your hips like waves, your silhouette soft in the moonlight leaking through the window.

“Twenty-six,” he answers after a pause, voice low and certain. “Old enough to have figured some shit out. Young enough to still be stupid in love.”

You smile, tugging your shirt over your head and crawling back into the sheets beside him. “Twenty-six, huh? That’s so far away, though.”

“Plenty of time to convince you I’m still the one,” he teases, pulling you close again, your bodies fitting together like pieces of a promise.

“You don’t have to convince me of anything,” you mumble into his shoulder. “I already picked you.”

He exhales through his nose and kisses the top of your head again. “Okay then,” he murmurs. “We’ll have a summer wedding. Something outside, near the water.”

“With sunflowers.”

“With sunflowers,” he echoes. “And matching rings.”

“And matching tattoos,” you add, and he snorts.

“You really wanna brand me?”

“Like cattle,” you whisper with a giggle, and he shakes his head.

“I’d let you,” he says, suddenly serious again. “I’d let you do anything.”

You look up at him then, heart thudding in your chest with something so big and warm you don’t know where to put it.

You don’t say anything — just press your lips to his chest, right over that faded scar.

That night, you fall asleep wrapped in his arms, your leg tangled with his, your breath rising and falling in sync. His fingers stay threaded through yours, even as sleep takes him.

And when your eyes finally flutter shut, you dream of sun-drenched summer mornings, a white dress trailing in sand, the salty breeze carrying your laughter down the shore. You dream of a little house with cracked windows and warm floors, of three barefoot children chasing cats through wildflower gardens, of quiet nights with music and wine and his arms always around you.

You dream of forever with him.

Two days later, you find yourself sprawled on the rooftop of Jujutsu High, the city skyline bleeding orange and gold as the sun dips behind the horizon. The stereo next to Shoko crackles to life with the hum of an old rock song, its lazy beat drifting into the warm air.

Shoko and Suguru sit side by side near the rusted railing, a shared cigarette passing between their fingers. Shoko blows a lazy cloud into the sky, hair pinned up and face slack with the kind of ease only a few stolen hours can bring. Suguru’s leaning back on his elbows, dark eyes half-lidded, shoulders sunk low with something that looks like peace—but doesn’t quite feel like it.

You lie flat on your back with your head in Haibara’s lap, the cold metal of a half-finished beer can sweating beside you. Shoko had swiped a six-pack from the faculty fridge, giggling about how “if they’re gonna overwork us, we deserve some goddamn perks.” You didn’t argue.

The mood is easy, but not quite light. 

The air shifts with a sudden crack, like pressure collapsing in on itself, and then Gojo appears right in the middle of the rooftop with a burst of wind and a grin stretched too wide for his own face.

“Ta-da!” he shouts, arms raised like he’s just performed a magic trick.

Everyone jumps, even Shoko drops the cigarette.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” you mutter, squinting at him through the haze.

Gojo doesn’t seem to care. He’s flushed from effort, his uniform jacket open, white undershirt damp with sweat, and his hair windswept. “Guess who perfected teleportation?”

Suguru doesn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m unstoppable now,” Gojo says, ignoring the jab and sliding down next to you, legs stretched out. “Seriously. Time and space? I’m above both.”

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “You’re already unbearable.”

“You love me,” he sings, kicking her lightly in the shin.

No one says it, but something in the air shifts again—less about the technique, more about the fact that he really might be untouchable now.

“Look,” Gojo says, eyes sparkling with a grin as he brushes the sweat from his forehead and walks toward Suguru. “Punch me.”

Suguru raises a brow, unimpressed. “What are you doing, Satoru?”

“Trust me,” Gojo says, standing just a step too close, arms loose at his sides. “Just swing.”

Shoko exhales sharply. “Oh god, here we go.”

You lift your head slightly from Haibara’s lap, watching with tired curiosity as Suguru slowly rises, brushing off his pants and cracking his knuckles. He doesn’t look amused—but he never does, not when it comes to Gojo’s nonsense.

“You’re serious?” Suguru asks.

“Deadly.” Satoru winks.

With a sigh that says he’s going to regret this, Suguru finally throws a lazy right hook—only for his fist to cut through empty air.

Satoru’s gone in a blink, reappearing ten feet away, standing on the edge of the rooftop with his back to the sun.

“Ta-da,” he says, spinning dramatically. “Teleportation, baby.”

Suguru stares at the space where he once stood, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Do it again,” Suguru mutters, already stepping forward.

Gojo laughs, and for a second, it’s like things haven’t changed. Like they’re still kids on a rooftop in a world that hasn’t cracked open beneath their feet. Like Suguru isn’t starting to feel like the only one still tethered to gravity.

Suguru steps forward again, jaw tight but eyes focused. “Once more. I wasn’t ready.”

“You weren’t ready?” Gojo laughs, hopping back onto the ledge and twirling midair before landing lightly in front of him. “That’s not what you said the last time we sparred.”

You hear Shoko exhale smoke through a dry laugh, flicking ash off the rooftop. “Can you guys ever be normal for once?”

“Nope,” Gojo says proudly. “Now come on, Suguru. Hit me like you mean it.”

Suguru narrows his eyes and throws a faster punch this time, just as Gojo disappears again, reappearing behind him with a smirk, finger flicking the back of his head.

“Gotcha.”

Suguru turns slowly, and for a second, you can see the flicker of a grin threatening to break his expression, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

Haibara whistles from where you’re still curled up against his side. “Dude. That’s insane.”

“Right?” Gojo beams. “No hand signs, no build-up. Just—poof. I still need to work on longer distances, but space and time are mine, baby.”

You sit up fully now, tugging your hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes on Suguru.

He’s silent again. He’s been that way more and more lately. Watching, listening—but distant. And you see it in his posture now, in the way his shoulders don’t relax, in the way his eyes never quite settle.

“Alright,” Shoko sighs, tapping the cigarette out against the ledge and standing. “That’s enough testosterone for today. Some of us have homework.”

The music hums softly behind yo and the sky is turning a deeper shade of violet, and the warmth of the rooftop fades with the breeze.

Satoru walks over to sit beside you, sweaty and still glowing from his adrenaline rush, his breath puffing lightly in the cooling air.

Suguru stays standing.

You glance at him, then at Shoko, who meets your eyes for a second and just nods once.

You tug your sleeves over your hands and say, “You okay?”

Suguru finally looks at you. “Yeah.”

But you know he’s lying.

Some mornings when you wake up, it smells like cigarette smoke, and you hate it.

It’s faint but it’s there. And you know it’s from Suguru.

He doesn’t smoke around you. Not directly. But sometimes, when the nights get too long and the silences between you stretch out too wide, he slips out. Onto the balcony, or the fire escape, or the rooftop.

You roll over, pressing your face into the pillow, but it doesn’t help. It’s in your hair now. On your skin.

The scent reminds you of everything he doesn’t say.

Of how he leaves your bed hours before sunrise, sometimes coming back with ash under his nails and that faraway look in his eyes.

Of how his touch gets softer every day, like he’s trying to memorize you before letting go.

Of how, lately, he holds you like a habit he’s not sure he deserves to keep.

This morning though, you wake up with nothing.

No warmth beside you. No quiet breathing. No rustling of sheets or sleepy kisses or the familiar weight of his arm over your waist.

Suguru didn’t come to your room the night before. And he wasn’t there now.

You wait—fifteen minutes, then thirty—long enough to pretend he just got caught up somewhere. Then you get dressed, brush your teeth, and force yourself to go about your day.

Shoko finds you by the vending machines after lunch. She offers to buy you a snack. You say no.

You spend the afternoon helping Nanami with cursed tool handling. You almost laugh when Haibara tries to swing a staff that’s clearly too tall for him. Almost.

You check the training field, the library, the rooftop, the garden behind the school.

No Suguru.

It’s just before dinner when he finds you. You’re walking out of the dorm building, the sun hanging low and soft over the horizon, and suddenly he’s there. Standing in front of you like a shadow peeled itself off the wall and learned how to cry.

His shoulders are shaking.

His eyes—red, swollen, wet—won’t meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I couldn’t come last night. I had a mission. First one since…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t need him to.

You reach for him, but he steps forward first, burying his face in your neck, clutching your back like he’s holding himself together with your spine.

“I hate it,” he breathes. “Swallowing curses. I hate the way they taste. I hate that only I know. I hate that I’m the one who has to—”

You press your hands to his face, gently tilting it toward yours. His lips are chapped and damp with tears and grief.

So you kiss him.

Not because it’s romantic. Not because it’ll make it better.

But because if it tastes that terrible, if it sits on his tongue like rot and rage and everything broken in this world—

You want to taste it too.

You kiss him for hours.

Long past the point your lips begin to ache. Long past the sunset, as the sky fades into navy and the cicadas start their song.

You kiss him even though the taste makes you want to gag — bitter and foul and wrong, like rusted metal and ash left too long in your mouth.

But you keep going.

Because he doesn’t flinch anymore. 

Because the trembling in his hands quiets.

Because every time you pull away, he chases after you like he’s starving for comfort and terrified of losing it all at once.

And when he protests, “You don’t have to do this, it’s gross, I’m disgusting—”

You hush him. Again and again.

“Don’t talk,” you whisper against his lips.

“Let me help.”

“Just… just stay here with me.”

Your fingers comb through his hair. His arms are locked tight around your waist.

You press your forehead to his, swallowing back your own nausea, ignoring the sting in your throat.

“I love you,” you murmur between breaths. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And each time you say it, he nods.

Each time, a little more brokenly.

He goes back to his room that night, but sleep refuses to come.

The mattress feels foreign beneath him — too big, too quiet, too empty without the warmth of your body curled beside his. He stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if the cracks in the plaster might offer answers he’s too afraid to say aloud.

His tongue is coated in bitterness still. Not from the curses, but from the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d come to hate him for the way he really tastes. That one day you’d pull away and never come back.

His mind spins.

He thinks about the jujutsu world, about the laws written in blood and bone, about the absurdity of bearing a responsibility no teenager should ever know.

He thinks about non-sorcerers — the people he’s meant to protect — who live blissfully unaware while his soul curdles with every curse he swallows.

He thinks about knocking on your door and whispering, “Pack a bag. Let’s go. Now.”

You’d laugh, maybe. Or go with him. Or both.

He imagines the two of you disappearing to that beach house you once dreamed of. Young and aimless and stupidly in love. Far away from this city, these halls, these expectations.

Then he wonders — if he wasn’t a sorcerer, would he have ever met you at all?

Would he have had a best friend like Satoru?

Would any of this—you, him, them—exist?

The thoughts eat at him until his tears dry on his cheeks and his jaw aches from clenching too hard and he passes out from the exhaustion of it, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 07

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (12.2k) not proofread

CONTENT — angst, death, sickness, hospital settings, descriptions of violence, name insert once (i didnt wanna use yn)

a/n: sorryyyyy

series m. list | m. list

The first day Satoru doesn’t hear from you, he doesn’t think much of it. Sure, you’re on his mind just like always, but he doesn’t let the silence bother him. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you need space after the argument. He tells himself it’s nothing.

By the second day, the unease starts to creep in.

You’ve never gone more than a day without talking. Not in years. And what unsettles him more than the silence is the fact that your location—something he’d only ever checked to annoy you—hasn’t updated since a few hours after he walked out of your office.

It’s enough to tighten his chest. He knows something isn’t right.

But he convinces himself you’re just really mad at him — and honestly, after the things that were said, maybe you have every right to be.

You’re stubborn when you’re angry, he reminds himself. You’ve gone cold before, pulled away before, and every time, you’ve come back around.

So he decides to wait. Just a little longer. Give you space, let things cool.

On day three, Satoru wakes up before sunrise, groggy and tangled in sweat-damp sheets after barely four hours of restless sleep.

His first instinct is to check his phone. No messages.

Still no update on your location.

His thumb hovers over your contact — debating whether to call, text, teleport straight to your house. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Something doesn’t feel right.

You’ve iced him out before and gone silent, slammed doors, even blocked him for a whole 48 hours once.

He settles on a simple text message.

[ Satoru ] : we should probably talk

He stares at the screen for a second longer, thumb hovering, then finally hits send.

The message is delivered instantly, no read receipt.

He tosses the phone onto his nightstand and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once around the room before sinking back onto the edge of the bed.

She’s mad, he tells himself again. Still mad. She’ll text when she’s ready.

But the knot in his chest tightens anyway.

He plans to go about his daily routine the same way he does every day — coffee that’s made almost entirely of creamer and sugar for breakfast, teaching his classes at Jujutsu High, sitting through several mind-numbing meetings with the higher-ups who have never once stepped foot into battle, and wrapping up the day by exorcising a curse or ten in the late afternoon just to get some peace and quiet.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would give him too much time to think. But by mid-morning, his phone’s still silent.

The call comes around three, just as Satoru’s headed into the first of three meetings he’s already dreading.

He answers without checking the caller ID, expecting it to be Utahime yelling his ear off or maybe Ijichi whining about scheduling.

But the voice on the other end is unfamiliar.

“Is this Gojo Satoru?”

He stills, the edge of annoyance in his voice evaporating.

“Yes?”

“This is Shinjuku Central Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for [Name]…”

His breath catches.

“…she was brought in 2 days ago.”

Time slows. The hallway noise around him fades.

“What happened?” he asks sharply, all levity gone from his voice.

“She was found unconscious. Multiple lacerations. Some internal bruising. We’re still assessing the extent of her injuries, but we’re not entirely sure what happened.”

He’s already moving, teleporting before the woman can finish her sentence. And for the first time in years, the Strongest Sorcerer is scared.

His first stop is Shoko’s infirmary – the quiet, always-too-cold clinic tucked away in the basement of Jujutsu High.

He doesn’t even think about it. His body moves before his brain can catch up, teleporting straight into the hallway, boots echoing sharply against the concrete floors as he throws open the door without knocking.

Shoko looks up from her desk, a half-eaten rice ball in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her brows lift, unimpressed but not surprised.

“Didn’t even knock,” she mutters. “I could’ve been in the middle of surgery.”

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.. Just stands there, breathing shallow, fingers twitching at his sides.

That’s what makes her freeze.

“Satoru,” she says carefully, sitting up straighter. “What is it?”

Your name falls from his lips. His voice is too quiet for him. “She’s in the hospital.”

Shoko’s already setting the rice ball aside. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Some nurse called. Said they found her unconscious. Internal injuries.” His jaw tightens. “They wouldn’t say more.”

Shoko grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

“Come on,” she says, all business now. “We’re going.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The air outside is thick and wet, the sky a dull gray threatening rain, but Satoru barely notices. He walks beside Shoko, teleporting them to the hospital entrance with a jolt of cursed energy sharp enough to make the receptionist flinch when they appear.

“Name?” the woman at the desk asks, hands trembling slightly under Satoru’s stare.

Shoko flashes her credentials before the receptionist can say anything else. After a few frantic clicks of the mouse and a radio call, a nurse appears to escort them upstairs.

Room 327.

Satoru's fingers twitch at his sides the whole elevator ride up. Shoko watches him quietly but doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t breathe until they reach the door. Doesn't move until the nurse pushes it open.

And then he sees you.

You’re lying in the bed, IV in your arm, half your face bandaged, bruises blooming purple and blue across your cheekbone and neck. There’s a monitor beeping steadily beside you, the sound almost deafening in the silence.

“Shit,” he whispers.

You’re alive — that’s the first thing his brain manages to process. But the rest of it?

The blood-soaked memory of you curled in that bed. The fact that he hadn’t heard from you in three days. That he thought you were just mad at him.

He thought wrong.

Satoru crosses the room in seconds, standing at the side of your bed, fingers hovering inches above your hand but not quite touching.

“You idiot,” he says softly, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Shoko moves around him without a word, checking the chart at the end of your bed and then your vitals. Her face stays neutral, but her eyes tighten slightly.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, glancing at Satoru. “But whoever did this… they weren’t human.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches. “Cursed spirit?”

Shoko nods slowly. “Special grade. I’ll run some scans once she wakes up. But this wasn’t random. It knew what it was doing.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sits down slowly, carefully taking your hand in his, staring at you like you might disappear again.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he finally says, voice low, “I should’ve come sooner.”

Shoko finishes reading over the monitor, eyes narrowed. She checks your chart again, then pulls the curtain closed behind her with a slow sweep of her hand.

“She’s not going to heal properly here,” she says, voice low but firm. “Human medicine isn’t going to cut it.”

Satoru looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve seen cursed wounds like this before. Superficially it looks like trauma, but it’s deeper — metaphysical. It's already interfering with her energy channels. If we leave her here, she’s not walking out. Maybe not waking up.”

His hands tighten into fists. “Then what do we do?”

Shoko glances toward the door, then back at him. “We take her back to the school. Quietly. The infirmary’s warded, so I can treat her properly there, but we can’t have this traced back to us. Not if she was attacked off-duty.”

Satoru frowns. “There are cameras.”

“I’ll handle the nurses,” Shoko says, already slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat. “You just do what you do best.”

He nods once.

Shoko peeks out the curtain, then turns back. “You have under five minutes. I’ll make sure no one’s watching this wing.”

The moment she steps out, Satoru stands, brushing a hand gently over your hair.

“Sorry to do this, angel,” he murmurs. “But you’ll be better off with us.”

When he lifts you into his arms after unhooking your machines, you don’t stir. You’re frighteningly still, warm but unresponsive, your breath shallow.

He takes a breath.

Then, in one blink of cursed energy, you're out of the hospital room, the sound of beeping monitors and sterile white light replaced with the soft hum of Jujutsu High’s underground infirmary.

Satoru lays you gently on the cot Shoko always keeps prepped. It's empty and the place is clean, quiet, faintly humming with barriers. He brushes your hair back again, gaze lingering on your bruised cheek.

Then he’s gone — teleporting back to the hospital.

Shoko’s chatting up the nurses at the main station with her usual dry charm, blocking their view of the hallway. Satoru doesn’t stop. He makes his way calmly down the corridor, steps casual, hands in his pockets.

He exits the hospital through the main doors, nodding politely to a few passing visitors. Shoko follows suit. 

Only when he’s safely around the corner, out of frame of any camera, does he wrap his arm around Shoko’s shoulder, and vanishes again, teleporting back to Jujutsu High.

They land with a soft thud just outside the infirmary entrance, the familiar buzz of the school’s protective barrier humming faintly beneath their feet. Satoru drops his hand from Shoko’s shoulder as she straightens her coat, brushing imaginary lint from the lapel.

“Next time, a little warning would be great,” she mutters, adjusting her balance. “I’ll never get used to that.”

“Didn’t want to waste any more time,” he says, already moving toward the door. “She didn’t look good.”

Inside, the infirmary is dimly lit, quiet but for the faint rhythm of your breathing. You’re still curled on the cot where Satoru laid you down, but there’s something in the set of your jaw, the twitch of your fingers, that suggests you’re closer to waking than before.

Shoko wastes no time. She crosses the room, grabbing a tray of tools and cursed-energy treated bandages, rolling up her sleeves as she settles beside you.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, voice clipped and focused, “but whatever did this wasn’t what she’s used to handling. Her body’s rejecting any standard healing, even my cursed energy is getting repelled unless I regulate it to her baseline.”

“So?” Satoru presses, pacing at the foot of the cot.

Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She’s busy threading cursed energy through the bandages wrapped around your ribs, her eyes scanning for any sign of rejection. Only when she’s sure the seal is holding does she sit back slightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “They found her near that old shopping district we all used to hang out at. The one with the mochi stand you used to steal from.”

Satoru’s jaw tenses. “That’s not exactly a cursed hotspot.”

“No,” Shoko agrees.

He runs a hand through his hair, restless energy bleeding through his movements. “The hell was she doing out there alone?”

Shoko gives him a look. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

Satoru slumps back in the chair, still holding your hand. He hates this — the stillness, the helplessness, the not-knowing.

“She’ll wake up,” Shoko says, more gently now. “She’s tougher than you think.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just keeps watching you, thumb brushing the back of your hand, voice low when he finally speaks again.

“She’s the toughest person I know.”

Shoko doesn’t say anything else for a while — just returns to her silent work, her cursed energy pulsing low and steady as she stabilizes you.

Satoru watches your chest rise and fall. It’s better now, less shallow than it was when he first arrived. Still too pale, too still. His stomach twists.

He stands abruptly.

Shoko doesn’t look up. “Where are you going?”

“To check out the district,” he says, voice tight. “You said that’s where they found her?”

Shoko nods. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not the one who wandered into a cursed zone without backup,” he snaps, softer than he means to — not angry at her, just angry at the situation, angry at himself.

Shoko sighs. “She probably didn’t mean to walk into anything. It found her.”

Satoru doesn’t respond. He’s already halfway to the door.

The shopping district is quiet when he arrives, in fact a little too quiet for this part of Tokyo, even in the middle of the day. No foot traffic. Most of the stalls are closed. A few cursed spirits still linger, low-grade things, scuttling like insects at the edge of his perception.

The barrier is up and he wipes them out with a flick of his wrist. They’re not what he’s looking for.

He walks deeper into the alley where the nurses said you’d been found, that familiar turn past the shuttered bookstore and the old claw machine with the cracked glass.

That’s when he feels it. A sudden, nauseating pulse of cursed energy, cold and wrong and far too strong for this area. A special grade.

And then it’s on him.

It lunges from the shadows — a mass of twisting limbs and too many eyes, mouth stretching impossibly wide as it lets out a bone-rattling shriek.

Satoru doesn't flinch.

In an instant, the air stills, the pressure of his domain leaking through the cracks of his control like cold fire.

“You’re the one who hurt her,” he says quietly. There’s no smile on his face now. No jokes. No blindfold.

His Six Eyes glow.

“I’m going to kill you for that.”

The fight isn’t long. It tries to run — claws scraping against the walls in a panic when it realizes what it’s up against. But Satoru doesn’t let it.

He’s faster, smarter, meaner. He’s Satoru Gojo.

By the time it realizes it’s already inside his domain, it’s too late.

And when it’s over, there’s not even a body left. Just a smear of energy and the silence of an exorcised curse.

Satoru exhales slowly and closes his eyes, drawing his blindfold back down his face

It’s done, but it doesn’t make him feel better. 

He teleports back to Jujutsu High in a blur of light.

The infirmary is quiet when Satoru arrives the next morning. Shoko’s asleep on the cot across from you, an empty energy drink tucked under her arm and a stack of handwritten notes on the floor beside her.

You’re still unconscious.

Satoru moves carefully,  like if he’s too loud, he might scare away whatever fragile thread is holding your soul to your body.

Your breathing is steadier now. The color’s come back to your face. But your cursed energy is faint.

He pulls up the chair from the desk beside your bed and drops into it heavily, letting his long legs splay out in front of him.

He hasn’t slept. He knows you’d scold him if you saw him like this — wrinkled uniform, shadows under his eyes, hair a mess.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We haven’t spoken in four days, you know. This is getting dramatic, even for you.”

Silence. Just your soft breathing.

Satoru swallows hard and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“I killed it,” he says quietly. “The one that got you. It’s gone.”

He pauses.

“I thought that would help. But it didn’t.”

He reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

“You’ve gotta wake up, alright? I’m not good at this part. I can fight gods and curses and annoying councilmen, but this? Sitting still? Waiting?” He huffs out a weak laugh. “You know I hate this.”

His hand lingers against your cheek for a second longer than it should. Then he pulls away and leans back, slumping in the chair.

“I’ll be right here. Like always.”

Shoko stirs just after sunrise.

Her head lifts slowly from the cot, joints popping as she rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck, then drags herself to her feet with the exhaustion of someone who’s run a marathon in place. Her lab coat is half-buttoned, hair a mess, and she’s still got a faint red crease on her cheek from where she slept on her clipboard.

Satoru doesn’t move from his spot by your bedside, he just watches her approach with tired, expectant eyes.

Shoko drops the clipboard on the edge of your bed and exhales.

“I worked through the night,” she says, voice gravelly. “Managed to stabilize the cursed injury with a constant application of reverse cursed technique, but it’s… slow. Too slow. Whatever cursed technique that thing used on her, it wasn’t normal. It tore through her natural resistance and latched on like a parasite.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I’ve essentially got her in stasis. If I pull back too far, the cursed wound could start advancing again. I think the special grade didn’t just injure her — it tried to anchor itself into her cursed energy channels.”

Satoru’s throat works around a dry swallow. “But she’s going to be okay.”

Shoko pauses.

“I think so. But it’ll take time. I’m doing what I can… and she’s fighting, Satoru. Her energy’s responding to mine, even if it’s faint. That means she wants to stay.”

He exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him, and when Shoko looks over, his sunglasses are off, pinched between his fingers. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together.

“I shouldn’t have fought with her,” he says, voice low. “She’s a Grade 1 — she’s strong, but we’ve always worked together when it came to anything special grade. If we hadn’t argued, she would’ve called me.”

Shoko’s expression softens slightly, though her exhaustion keeps her voice flat.

“You don’t know that.”

“She’s never not called me,” he mutters. “Not once in six years.”

Silence stretches. He rubs his face with both hands and leans back in the chair, elbows resting on the armrests, head tipped toward the ceiling.

“She always calls.”

Shoko pulls over another chair and sits beside him. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches your chest rise and fall — shallow but steady.

“I think you both just forgot,” she says after a moment. “You’re not invincible.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just stares at the ceiling, lips tight, jaw locked.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she murmurs. “Gotta recharge before my brain falls out of my ears.”

She pats his shoulder once as she passes.

Satoru stays where he is.

He’s always been there. But right now, he feels a thousand miles away from the one person he wishes would open her eyes and remind him that she’s still here too.

Satoru leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. The room is quiet now in the same kind of way hospitals always are, where every soft beep and slow inhale feels too loud.

Your hand hasn’t moved since last night.

His fingers twitch toward it, hesitate, then curl gently around yours, just enough to feel that you’re still warm.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, not sure if he wants you to hear or not. “For what I said… And for not being there.”

His voice cracks. Just barely. But it does.

“I got too comfortable, y’know? I thought… we’d always have time. That you’d always call me before it got bad. I’ve been so focused on holding everything else together I didn’t even see us cracking.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, steady. His other hand reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“I know I’m not easy. And I know I push people too hard sometimes, but I can’t lose you too.”

He swallows hard, shoulders stiff. “I won’t come back from that.”

Words hang heavy in the air. His grip on your hand tightens just slightly, grounding himself.

“So just… come back, okay? Yell at me, call me dramatic, fight with me. I’ll take anything.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips, eyes closed tight.

“I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

And with that, he stays — unmoving, guarding the silence, as if his presence alone can tether you back to him.

Day five rolls in under grey skies and rainy conditions, and the room is still.

Satoru stirs to the low hum of hospital equipment, the cold of the vinyl chair seeping through his clothes, and the distant sound of wheels squeaking against tile.

A sharp voice cuts through the fog of sleep.

“Satoru, up.”

It’s Shoko, snapping her gloves on with a loud smack, wheeling a crash cart to the bedside.

He doesn’t respond right away. His head still resting on your stomach, arms lazily folded across your torso like a shield. He’d fallen asleep like that again, trying to keep you close to him somehow.

“Oi, I said get off of her!”

That’s when he hears it.

The flatline.

The steady, shrill note of your heart monitor ringing out like one continuous scream of silence.

Everything in him snaps to attention. His head shoots up, blood turning ice-cold as his eyes find the monitor: no peaks, no valleys, just a flat green line.

His chair screeches back as he leaps to his feet.

“What—”

“She’s coding,” Shoko says, her voice steady but brisk. “Help me get her shirt up, now!”

Satoru’s already at your side, trembling hands fumbling with the hospital gown as Shoko slaps conductive pads against your chest, her own cursed energy already flaring, hands glowing faintly.

“Clear!” she shouts.

Satoru jumps back as the paddles meet your skin. Your body arches violently off the bed. The flatline continues.

Again.

“Clear!”

The jolt ripples through you, but still, no response.

His eyes are wide. “Shoko—”

“Don’t panic, I said don’t panic!” she snaps. Her voice breaks on the edges, but her hands don’t falter.

Her reverse cursed energy pours into you — radiant, glowing pale-blue where her hands press to your chest, just above your heart.

One minute passes. Then two.

Satoru can’t breathe.

“Come on,” Shoko grits through her teeth. Sweat beads at her brow. “Don’t do this. Not you.”

The third minute ticks by, cruel and slow.

Then — your fingers twitch.

A single, tiny flicker.

The flatline cuts out.

Beep.

Then another.

Beep… beep…

Your heartbeat returns in weak, slow stutters.

Satoru nearly collapses from the force of his breath. His knees buckle, and he clutches the edge of the bed.

Shoko exhales, chest heaving, finally pulling her hands away from your chest as your vitals steady. “You’re welcome,” she mutters, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Satoru stares at you, still pale, still unconscious… but alive.

Alive.

His fingers reach out, brushing your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. “Don’t do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Don’t ever do that again.”

Shoko wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, immediately leaning over to check your other vitals — pulse, breath sounds, pupil response, everything.

The room is thick with tension, your heartbeat now a soft but steady beep on the monitor beside her. It's the only sound Satoru can focus on.

“Clean yourself up,” Shoko mutters without looking at him. “You’re getting snot on my equipment.”

“What?” Satoru blinks, dazed.

She glances over her shoulder, just once. “You’re crying.”

He snorts (or maybe chokes). “I don’t cry.”

Shoko doesn’t argue. She just turns back to you, adjusting your oxygen and jotting something on her clipboard. “Right. Must be your sweat, then. From all the sitting you were doing.”

Satoru runs a sleeve across his cheek without thinking. It comes away damp. His throat tightens again, and this time, he doesn’t bother with a smartass remark.

He just sinks back into the chair beside your bed, gripping your hand like a lifeline.

Satoru doesn’t realize it at first.

Not even when Shoko snaps at him about the equipment, it doesn’t register until the chill hits his face, until the back of his hand comes away wet and he stares down at it like it belongs to someone else.

His breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound that rattles out of him, low and hoarse. It’s not dramatic or cinematic. It’s almost worse — silent, stunned, like his body is reacting faster than his mind.

Because Satoru Gojo doesn’t cry.

He didn’t cry when his best friend left. He didn’t cry when he had to bury his friends. He didn’t cry when he received immense backlash from his clan for choosing his career, or on Suguru’s birthday every year, or when everyone he had grown up with left him. He doesn’t cry.

But here, in the pale light of the infirmary, with your hand cold in his and your heart only just starting to beat again… he’s crying.

Not the loud, heaving kind. It’s quieter. Slower. Almost confused — like he doesn’t know how to handle this kind of feeling anymore.

His shoulders shake once, barely perceptible. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. And still, the tears fall. He thinks to himself that these hot, traitorous things sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the sleeve of his uniform aren’t a sign of weakness like he had always thought.

His head bows over your hand like a prayer he’s too stubborn to say out loud. His grip is tight, like if he lets go, you’ll slip away again.

“I had one job,” he whispers — to no one, to himself, maybe to you. “I’m always with you. I always show up. And the one time I don’t…”

His voice breaks.

Shoko doesn’t say anything. She just works quietly, professionally, knowing that the worst part is over, and the rest is his to carry now.

For a moment, Satoru presses his forehead to the back of your hand, breath uneven.

“I’ve told you a million times, but,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I can’t lose you.”

And though you’re still unconscious, your heart continues to beat beneath the monitor’s hum.

It’s not a response, but it’s enough to keep him there, crying quietly beside you — the strongest sorcerer in the world, undone by the thought of losing the one person who still made him feel human.

A few hours later, Satoru returns to the infirmary, shoulders stiff with exhaustion despite the effortless gait he tries to maintain. The weight of everything hangs heavy, but life doesn’t stop, not even for him. He still has classes to teach, students to train, meetings to attend, a whole world that insists on moving forward while he feels like his has been turned upside down.

He pushes the door open with his foot, a cafeteria tray balanced in each hand, and wordlessly sets one of the plates on the edge of Shoko’s cluttered desk.

“Bribery?” she asks, eyeing the food.

“Peace offering,” he replies, collapsing into the chair next to her. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

“And whose fault is that?” she mutters, but it’s not without fondness. She pokes at the plate, then glances at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t want you passing out on top of her. Then I’d have two patients on my hands.”

A beat of silence passes. The infirmary hums gently around them, your breathing now stable.

“Any updates?” he asks finally, voice low.

Shoko sighs and rubs her eyes before answering. “Vitals are steady. I’ve been reinforcing the cursed technique every hour. The injury in her abdomen is healing slower than I’d like, but the internal bleeding’s stopped. No new signs of cursed energy interference. She's… holding on.”

He nods once, quietly.

Then: “What happened this morning?”

Shoko sets her chopsticks down, more serious now.

“I’d just finished what should’ve been the last pulse of reverse cursed technique when her vitals flatlined,” she says. “Nothing I did should’ve triggered it — my guess is her energy reserves were too depleted to regulate her body on their own. Her heart stopped. Fully arrested.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

“I had to shock her back,” she continues. “Three times. And I pushed more of my own cursed energy into her than I should’ve. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

He closes his eyes. Exhales shakily.

“You know what scared me the most?” she says softly. “You. I’ve never seen you look like that before. Not even when Suguru left or Haibara died.”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you, motionless in the bed, bandages peeking out from under your hospital gown, eyes still shut.

“I didn’t realize how much of my life she filled until I thought she was gone,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

Shoko doesn’t press. She just picks up her chopsticks again, quiet for a long moment.

“She’s not gone,” she says finally. “So figure your shit out before she wakes up.”

He nods, slowly.

“But when do you think that’ll be?” he asks, eyes still locked on your face. “When she might wake up?”

His voice is quiet, like speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate. It’s not the usual Satoru, not the cocky teacher or the strongest sorcerer in the room. 

Shoko leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “Honestly?” she says. “I don’t know.”

Satoru’s head turns sharply, but she holds his gaze.

“I’ve done what I can. Physically, she’s healing, albeit slowly. But the rest?” Shoko gestures vaguely at your temple. “That’s up to her.”

“So it’s—what? A coma?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “More like… her cursed energy’s dormant, or inactive. Like a really long nap. She’s not in pain, she’s just weak right now.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “She always calls me. Every time. When it’s too much, when something’s wrong, even when she just wants to talk. She always calls.”

“She would’ve this time too, if she had the chance,” Shoko says gently. “You know that.”

He nods once, jaw clenched.

Shoko watches him for a moment longer, then rises from her chair and walks over to the bed, checking your IV line, adjusting a monitor.

“She’s a fighter,” she says quietly. “You know better than anyone. If there’s a way back, she’ll find it.”

Satoru’s hand reaches out, fingers ghosting over your blanket-covered wrist, as if he’s afraid to touch too hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here when you do.”

Shoko turns away, giving him space, but not before seeing the look in his eyes — the kind of look that only comes when someone you can’t live without is lying silent in front of you.

He goes home to sleep that night.

The next morning, Satoru barely makes it through the front gates of Jujutsu High, coffee still half-full in one hand and dark circles bruised beneath his sunglasses, when Yaga storms toward him like a man with purpose — and a grudge.

“Gojo,” he snaps, voice like a whip, “my office. Now.”

Satoru blinks, then sighs. “Morning to you too.”

Yaga doesn’t slow down, and Satoru barely has time to chuck his coffee into a nearby bin before he’s being all but dragged down the corridor.

The door slams behind them as soon as they step inside.

“You’re in trouble,” Yaga says flatly. “Big trouble.”

Gojo raises a brow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do this time? Forget to sign the mission logs? Skip a meeting? Wear my uniform wrong again?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yaga growls. “I went to the infirmary last night to drop off reports. Imagine my surprise when I find one of our senior sorcerers nearly dead, hidden in a bed like some dirty secret.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “She wasn’t hidden—”

“You didn’t report it.”

“She wasn’t safe in the hospital.”

“You still should’ve told me!” Yaga slams a palm on his desk, voice rising. “There are protocols, Satoru. People who care about her. People who deserve to know she almost died.”

“She did die,” Gojo says quietly, voice sharp around the edges now. “For three minutes, she was gone. You think I didn’t want to tell you? You think I didn’t panic? But I didn’t even know what was happening until it was almost too late.”

Yaga’s expression falters.

Gojo pushes forward, hands planted on the desk. “I brought her back here because Shoko was her best chance. Because if I had wasted even five more minutes dealing with paperwork and phone calls, she’d be gone. And you’re yelling at me because I saved her without signing a form?”

Yaga exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “This isn’t about paperwork. It’s about trust.”

Satoru’s voice drops. “Then trust me. I did what I had to do.”

Silence stretches in the office, heavy and bitter.

Finally, Yaga nods stiffly. “Fine. But I want a full report by tonight. From both of you. No more secrets, Satoru.”

Gojo straightens. “You’ll have it.”

Yaga looks tired as he sits down. “And for what it’s worth... I’m glad she’s alive.”

Satoru nods once, already half-turned toward the door. “Yeah. Me too.”

Yaga leans back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. His voice lowers, more controlled now, but still laced with tension.

“I won’t tell the higher-ups about this,” he says. “Not yet. But I need to be updated.”

Satoru nods once, jaw tight.

“The second she takes a turn for the worse,” Yaga continues, “it’s no longer in our hands. You understand that, right?”

Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His sunglasses hide most of his expression, but there’s a flicker in the way his throat works — a swallow, tight and slow.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I get it.”

Yaga exhales through his nose, watching him closely. “You care about her. I know that. But you’re not invincible, Satoru. And neither is she. If you want her to survive this, you need to let people help.”

For a moment, there’s only silence between them. Then Gojo straightens, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform jacket.

“She’s not going to die,” he says, almost like a promise. 

And with that, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

He makes his way down to the infirmary directly after, his long strides echoing softly through the quiet hallway. He’s always late for his classes — it’s practically a given by now — so it shouldn’t matter if he is today. Even though it’s the first time he’s actually been on time in weeks.

Still, it’s not like they’ll be surprised.

His hand hesitates on the door for a second. Not out of fear — not exactly. But because every time he opens it, he braces for something to be worse. For her color to fade, for the machines to start screaming, for Shoko to look up at him with that expression again. The one that says not even you can fix this.

He pushes it open anyway.

The room is dimly lit, filtered sunlight creeping through the blinds. The soft mechanical beeping of the monitor — steady, mercifully — greets him first, and then the sight of her, still unconscious, still too still.

Shoko’s in the corner, hunched over a mess of papers and notes and cursed technique charts. She looks up at the sound of the door.

“You’re early,” she says, eyebrows raising.

He shrugs, stepping inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Didn’t feel like pretending to be a good teacher today.”

She snorts. “And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf.”

Gojo doesn’t smile. He drags a chair to the bedside like he always does and sits down. His eyes flick to the IV line, then to the faint twitch of her fingers — involuntary, maybe hopeful. His hand hovers, then settles lightly over hers.

“Any changes?” he asks, voice low.

Shoko glances at her clipboard. “Vitals are steady. Cursed energy response is still sluggish, but not flatlining. Reverse technique’s helping, but she’s not out of the woods yet. You’ll be the first to know if something shifts.”

He nods, thumb brushing gently along her knuckles.

He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stares at her hand in his.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve slept enough.”

“Don’t be selfish,” Shoko scolds without looking up, scribbling something quickly onto her clipboard. “By the way, Yaga stopped by last night.”

Gojo leans back slightly in his chair, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Yeah, I was just ambushed by him in the front hall.”

Shoko glances up now, arching a brow. “What’d he say to you?”

He stretches his legs and crosses his arms. “That he won’t tell the higher-ups — yet. But I have to keep him in the loop. And if she takes a turn for the worse again…” He trails off, jaw tightening.

Shoko sighs, setting her pen down. “He said the same to me. Told me this is already pushing it. Technically, she should be in a secure facility under the higher-ups’ watch.”

“But that would kill her,” Gojo says flatly.

“Yeah. Which is why I didn’t argue with you when you came to me.”

There’s a long pause. The only sound is the quiet rhythm of the heart monitor.

“Did he say anything else?” Gojo asks.

Shoko shakes her head. “Just that this is the last chance. If anything happens again, they’re pulling rank.”

Gojo exhales slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They both look toward you again, unconscious but stable.

“She’s always been stronger than people give her credit for,” Shoko murmurs.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Then, quietly responds, “I know.”

He pulls his hand up, rubbing his eyes once again and wincing.

“You okay?” Shoko asks, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“No,” he mutters, voice tight with annoyance. “I forgot my blindfold at home.”

Shoko snorts softly. “Rookie mistake.”

He shoots her a glare, though it lacks any real heat. “The light’s been killing me all morning.”

Without missing a beat, Shoko pulls open one of the drawers beside her and tosses a roll of bandages in his direction.

“Here,” she says. “Use these. I keep extras for the kids.”

Gojo catches them one-handed, lifting a brow. “You’re giving me pity supplies now?”

“I’m letting you walk around without looking like a zombie,” she deadpans. “You can thank me later.”

He sighs, unwinding the bandages with a resigned expression. “Remind me why I ever thought you were the nice one?”

Shoko smirks, going back to her notes. “Because I’m the only one who hasn’t smacked you upside the head yet.”

Gojo grumbles as he starts to wrap the bandage around his eyes, but there’s a softness to his movements now as he turns his head back toward your sleeping form.

Just as Satoru finishes adjusting the bandages over his eyes, a small mechanical beep interrupts the quiet in the infirmary.

Shoko glances up, frowning at the monitor.

“What was that?” he asks, immediately straightening.

Her eyes scan the readout. “Her heart rate just stabilized.”

Satoru’s breath catches. “Stabilized? Like—”

“It was like this for a bit yesterday, but it started fluctuating all night,” Shoko says, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead, then carefully lifting one of your eyelids to check your response. “But this is the first time in days it's holding steady…”

She checks your reflexes and notes something down quickly. “There’s… faint muscular activity. Twitching in the hand and upper eyelid. That’s new.”

Satoru is at your side in a heartbeat, crouching low, eyes hidden behind the fresh bandages but voice trembling just slightly. “Does that mean she’s waking up?”

Shoko doesn’t smile — she rarely does — but her voice is lighter now. “It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a very good sign.”

Satoru exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the back of your hand with aching care. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good. Just… keep going. I’m right here.”

And this time, your fingers twitch again just enough for him to feel it.

He freezes.

“…Did you feel that?” he whispers.

Shoko nods. “Yeah. I felt it too.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long moment, just watching, like if he stares hard enough you might open your eyes completely.

“You stubborn idiot,” he whispers, a laugh caught in his throat. “Only you would wait until I’m on the edge of a breakdown to give me a sign.”

Shoko steps away to update your chart, giving him the space — her version of privacy. She knows him well enough to know that even small hope makes him feel too much all at once.

Satoru leans forward, pressing his forehead lightly against your hand. “Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll go to class. But I’m coming back the second it’s over. And you better keep improving, got it?”

He pushes himself up, tugs the blanket a little higher on your shoulders, and casts a glance over at Shoko.

“Let me know if anything changes?”

“I will,” she says, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “And try not to traumatize your students today.”

“No promises,” he mutters, the ghost of a grin touching his lips.

He makes it halfway to the door before turning back one last time, lingering in the frame. The early light of morning glows faintly through the infirmary window, casting long shadows across the floor.

“I’ll see you after class,” he says softly. “So don’t do anything dramatic without me.”

Then, with one last look, he disappears down the hall.

To his disappointment, class didn’t end at 3 like it usually did. One thing led to another — an emergency faculty meeting (sans Shoko of course), a last-minute curse sighting in Harajuku that ended in a shattered plaza window, and an injured second-year who insisted they “definitely didn’t need stitches” while bleeding all over the training grounds.

By the time he returned to campus, the sun was already dipping behind the trees. His limbs were heavy, his bandage blindfold askew, and his brain fried from dealing with bureaucracy and curses alike. Still, as he pushed open the infirmary doors, every ache and annoyance seemed to vanish.

You were awake.

Not fully, not like before — but your eyes were open, lids fluttering as you blinked slowly at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell steadily under the thin blanket, and your fingers twitched when he stepped closer.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice breaking the quiet of the room.

You turned your head slightly, the movement sluggish. Your eyes found him, and though they were hazy and half-lidded, they focused.

“…S’toru?”

It came out in a whisper, barely audible, like your throat hadn’t quite remembered how to speak yet. But it was enough to bring the air rushing back into his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, crossing the room in seconds. “It’s me. I’m here.”

You gave the faintest smile before your eyelids began to droop again, your body clearly still exhausted. Satoru crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on the bed.

“I thought you were gonna sleep forever just to mess with me,” he murmured, watching your breathing even out again.

A moment later, the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway announced someone approaching. Shoko entered, pulling the door shut behind her with Yaga lingering just out of view, deep in conversation.

“She woke up about twenty minutes ago,” Shoko said softly. “Still groggy. But it’s a good sign.”

Satoru nodded, brushing your hair away from your forehead. “She said my name.”

“Of course she did,” Shoko replied, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve been breathing down her neck for days.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back in the chair beside your bed. The weight on his shoulders didn’t disappear, but it eased  just a little.

“Yaga’s on his way down,” Shoko says. “He needs more information for the report you half assed.”

Satoru groaned, slumping further into the chair beside your bed. “Of course he is. Can’t even have one peaceful minute.”

Shoko arched her brow as she crossed to the other side of the infirmary, checking the IV drip and making a few notes on the chart. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t scribbled ‘got her out, saved her life, she’s fine’ and called it a day—”

“I was emotionally compromised,” he cut in, tossing his head dramatically. “My muse doesn’t perform under stress.”

“You spelled ‘hospital’ wrong.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it.

Shoko smirked. “Yaga wants more detail on what exactly you found at the scene and how you handled it. He’s been nice about this so far, but the higher-ups will want answers eventually.”

Satoru rubbed his face with both hands, sighing loudly into his palms. “I know. I’ll give him the real report. I just… I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if I was late. If I didn’t go looking.”

He glanced back at you — still sleeping, but your brow was relaxed now, your breathing steady. No beeping machines screaming back to life. No Shoko elbow-deep in a healing technique that might not work. Just… quiet.

Shoko’s voice softened. “I know. But she’s awake now. Go fill in the damn report.”

Satoru stood reluctantly, stretching his arms overhead and casting one last glance at you before heading toward the door. “Fine. But I’m coming back after. And if Yaga gives me more than two pages’ worth of paperwork, I’m quitting.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ego on the way out.”

He flashed her a tired grin and disappeared into the hallway just as Yaga rounded the corner, gruff and unreadable.

The next morning rolls around, and for the first time since you'd been brought into the infirmary, you're more responsive than you’ve been the entire time.

When Shoko checks in just after sunrise, she’s surprised to find your eyes cracked open, blinking slowly against the pale morning light filtering in through the window.

Your head turns— sluggish, hesitant— toward the sound of the door opening, and your fingers twitch against the blanket.

“Well, good morning,” Shoko says, tone light but cautious. “Thought we might be stuck playing the long game with you.”

Your throat is dry, voice barely a whisper. “What… time is it?”

Shoko moves to your bedside, checking your vitals with quiet efficiency. “Just after six. You’ve been asleep for about five days.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the weight of her words settling in your chest. Your body still feels like lead, muscles sore, energy low, but there’s clarity in your gaze now— a spark of awareness that had been missing.

“Water,” you croak.

Shoko nods, already reaching for the cup beside the bed. She helps you sit up— carefully, gently— slipping a hand behind your back and raising the cup to your lips.

“You gave us a bit of a scare,” she says once you’ve sipped. “Flatlined for a couple minutes. Satoru nearly broke my equipment crying on you.”

You manage a small smile. “He’s a crier?”

“A dramatic one.”

Before you can respond, the door creaks open again.

Satoru steps in, hair a mess, blindfold hanging loosely around his neck, coffee in hand— and freezes when he sees you awake and sitting up.

His jaw drops slightly. The cup nearly slips out of his hand.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice still hoarse.

He crosses the room in three strides, setting the cup down so fast it tips slightly. He doesn’t sit, just crouches beside the bed, both hands reaching for yours, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“You’re awake.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He huffs, blinking hard. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but steady. “I missed you too.”

Shoko clears her throat. “I’ll give you two a minute. But don’t get too emotional, I haven’t checked her oxygen levels yet.”

She walks out, muttering something under her breath.

You and Satoru just look at each other for a long moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging gently between you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says.

“I know.”

Your lips part, the beginning of an apology already forming, something quiet and earnest, something like I’m sorry for going alone or I didn’t mean to shut you out—but Satoru just shakes his head and squeezes your hand more firmly.

“No,” he says, voice low but certain. “Not now.”

You blink, a little stunned. “But—”

“I mean it.” His gaze is steady on yours, still a little too bright. “You almost died. You don’t have to explain anything to me right now. We’ll talk later.”

The finality in his voice silences you, and all you can do is nod, your chest aching with something tender and heavy.

Instead of pressing you further, he shifts your blanket gently up around your shoulders, then takes his place in the chair beside your bed. He leans back, exhaling like he’s finally allowed to. His knees bump lightly against the frame, and one hand never leaves yours.

A comfortable silence stretches between you. Outside the window, the morning sun begins to filter more brightly through the clouds, casting everything in that familiar pale gold you used to watch together between missions.

After a few minutes, you glance over at him. “Are you gonna stay there all day?”

He smirks, the edge of his usual humor returning. “Unless Shoko kicks me out. Again.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

“Not a chance.” His expression softens. 

Shoko returns with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

She gives Satoru a look—half warning, half amusement—before walking over to your bedside and setting the clipboard down. “Alright, sunshine,” she says, sipping from her mug. “Let’s see how we’re doing.”

You shift slightly as she checks your vitals, listens to your heart, and shines a small light in your eyes. Her touch is brisk but careful, clinical with a thread of gentleness running underneath—though she’d never admit it out loud.

Satoru watches the whole thing closely, eyes narrowed in thought, even if he tries to look relaxed.

“Still a little sluggish, but not bad,” Shoko mutters. “Vitals are stabilizing. Reverse cursed technique is holding. Muscle tone’s returning slowly, and your cursed energy has started regulating again.”

She jots a few notes down, then looks back up at you. “You’re going to be monitored here for the next 24 hours. If everything keeps trending the way it is, you can go home the day after tomorrow. That gives me enough time to wean you off the cursed energy support.”

You exhale slowly, some of the weight in your chest easing. “Home sounds good.”

Satoru’s shoulders finally drop a little too.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Shoko says, raising a brow. “You’ll still need to check in with me twice a week. No fieldwork. No cursed spirits. No pushing yourself.”

You nod obediently, but she narrows her eyes. “And I mean it. I will sedate you if I have to.”

Satoru snorts. “She’ll do it too. Last month she stabbed me with a tranquilizer mid-sentence.”

“Because you were being insufferable,” Shoko mutters into her coffee.

You smile despite the dull ache in your body.

Shoko pulls the blanket up a little higher over you, a rare kindness, then straightens. “I’ll be back later with something to eat that isn’t vending machine soup. Get some rest.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving you alone again with Satoru, who’s now smiling a little too smugly.

“See?” he says. “Told you you’d pull through.”

You give him a tired look. “You were sobbing into my hospital gown two days ago.”

His smirk falters. “…No, I wasn’t.”

“Sure, Gojo. I could hear everything.”

He sticks his tongue out at you—because maturity has never been his strong suit—and sinks back into his chair with a dramatic sigh. But his hand never leaves yours.

The next day, just past noon, Satoru strolls into the infirmary balancing two paper bags and a drink carrier with his elbow.

“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, bright and loud as ever, kicking the door closed behind him with the heel of his boot. “Also I brought lunch. I figured hospital food has done enough emotional damage.”

You’re sitting up now, looking more alive than you have in a week, already dressed and ready, though a little pale around the edges. The fatigue still clings to you like a second skin, but there’s a flicker of your usual sharpness in your eyes.

“You’re late,” you say, but it’s soft. Teasing.

“Blame the kids,” he grumbles, setting everything down. “Someone started a cursed spirit summoning circle in the girls’ bathroom. I had to bribe a first-year with my pudding to rat them out.”

You raise a brow. “You bribed a kid with pudding?”

“It worked.”

He helps you into your coat, gently pulling the collar up around your neck even though it’s not cold out. You swat at his hand, and he swats back.

Shoko pops her head in just as you’re sliding off the bed. “Vitals are good, cursed energy stable. No stress, no lifting heavy objects, and if you feel dizzy, sit your ass down. Your ribs are still bruised, so stay off your feet.”

“Yes, doctor,” you both say in unison, and she rolls her eyes.

Satoru loops your bag over his shoulder, holding out a hand with a half-smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. You’ve got a date with the couch and a stack of bad reality TV.”

You take his hand. “Sounds perfect.”

You slide into the backseat of the car, the leather cool beneath you. Ijichi gives you a small, polite nod from the driver’s seat as you buckle in.

Satoru climbs in after you, shutting the door with a casual thud. “Ijichi, you know where to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Ijichi says, eyes already on the road ahead.

You glance sideways. “Where are we going?”

Satoru leans back with a smug smile, arms stretched out across the backrest behind you. “My place. You’re staying with me for a few days.”

Your eyebrows lift. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You almost died, remember? You're not exactly cleared for independent living yet.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He scoffs.

You try to protest again, but he cuts you off, voice just a little softer this time. “I’m serious. You need rest. Just... be somewhere safe. With someone who can keep an eye on you.”

Your lips part, but the sincerity in his tone stalls your words.

“…Fine,” you mumble. “But only because I don’t want to hear Shoko yell at me.”

“She’d kill you,” he grins.

“And probably bring me back just to do it again.”

“Exactly.”

Ijichi pretends he doesn’t hear any of it, eyes on the road, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement.

It had only been a little over a week since you'd last been in Gojo's apartment — cooking dinner barefoot in his kitchen, curled up under a throw blanket on his couch while some forgettable movie played in the background. But to him, it felt like a lifetime.

The moment you step through the door, something in the air shifts.

He doesn’t say anything right away — just watches as you take slow steps inside, your gaze moving over the familiar furniture, the books scattered on the table, the mug he never washed because it reminded him of that night.

You hesitate at the entrance, almost like you’re not sure you belong there anymore.

“Same place as before,” he says gently, nodding toward the bedroom. “I washed the sheets. Even got you new pajamas.”

You glance back at him, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, walking past you to toss his keys into the bowl by the door. “Well, I didn’t plan on almost losing you either. So here we are.”

You don’t answer, just move farther inside, letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the couch. The familiar scent of him — something warm and sharp, like citrus and incense — settles around you, and for the first time since waking up in that infirmary, you let your guard down.

Satoru stands in the kitchen for a moment, pretending to busy himself with the kettle, but his eyes are still on you.

“You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Then rest,” he says simply. “You’re safe here.”

You nod again, this time slower, and head toward the bedroom, your fingers brushing the edge of the hallway wall as you pass.

Behind you, he exhales softly and lets the kettle boil.

“I’m going to swing by your place with Ijichi,” he calls out from the kitchen. “Do you have anything you need?”

You pause in the doorway of the guest room, glancing over your shoulder. His voice carries easily from the kitchen, but there’s something gentler about it than usual — no trace of his usual teasing lilt.

“My charger,” you call back. “And maybe my laptop? If I feel up to working tomorrow.”

There’s a moment of silence before he responds, “Got it. Anything else?”

You think for a second. “Toothbrush, skincare. And that grey sweater I borrowed from you on my desk chair.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then adds, “I’ll text you if I can’t find anything.”

You nod even though he can’t see it and step into the room, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. It smells faintly of his laundry detergent  and despite the dull ache still lingering in your body, you feel the tension in your shoulders start to unwind.

From the kitchen, you hear the rustle of keys, the soft clink of a mug being set down.

“I won’t be long,” he says, appearing in the hallway, jacket already slung over one shoulder. “Shoko said she’ll swing by later to check on you, but if you need anything before I’m back—”

“I’ll call,” you finish for him, smiling faintly. “I know.”

Satoru gives you a look and then nods. “Good. Lock the door behind me.”

And with that, he slips out, leaving the apartment quiet, warm, and oddly comforting  like a space that was waiting for you to return.

You sit there for a few minutes after the door clicks shut, listening to the faint sounds of Satoru's footsteps retreating down the hall, then the distant whir of the elevator.

The quiet is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The light filtering in through the window is soft, early afternoon sun warming the apartment in a way that makes you feel... safe.

You let out a slow breath and glance around. His place is tidy, but lived-in. A throw blanket half-folded on the couch, a stack of paperwork on the kitchen island, a half-read manga beside his bed, and a small glass cabinet filled with old digimon memorabilia. It’s so Satoru it almost makes you smile.

You pad into the kitchen first, tugging open a cabinet to find a glass. It's exactly where it was last time. The familiarity is soothing. You fill it with water and sip slowly, the coolness grounding you.

After setting the glass in the sink, you open the fridge. A few energy drinks. Miso soup in a container with Shoko’s handwriting on the lid. Way too many instant puddings.

You shake your head with a tiny laugh, grab a pudding cup anyway, and make your way to the living room. You curl up on the couch, blanket over your legs, spoon in hand.

The silence settles again, but now it feels companionable. Like the apartment is breathing with you.

Eventually, you gather the strength to shower. You find a fresh towel folded neatly in the guest bathroom and one of Satoru’s oversized shirts folded at the end of the bed — probably left there on purpose. You smile to yourself, tug it on after your shower, and sink back onto the couch with damp hair and clean skin.

By the time Satoru returns — arms full of your things, sunglasses pushed up into his hair — you’ve drifted off, curled into the corner of the couch, the pudding cup half-empty on the table and one of his throw blankets pulled over your shoulders.

He stops in the doorway. His expression softens.

“Home already, huh?” he says quietly, mostly to himself. He moves around the apartment like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace.

He’s grateful you’re here to disturb it at all.

Satoru moves as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him with a soft click before walking past the couch where you’re sleeping. He pauses for a second, taking in the slow rise and fall of your chest, the soft grip you have on the edge of his throw blanket. His lips twitch into a quiet smile.

Then he exhales and gets to work.

He carries your duffel bag into his bedroom. He sets the bag on the bed, then crouches to unzip it. For a second, he just stares. The sight of your things — your hoodie, your face wash, the book you never finish — hits him in a way he doesn’t expect.

“This is fine,” he mutters to himself. “Totally normal.”

He begins unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. Not all of them — just the essentials. He folds each piece neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles like it’ll somehow make you feel more at home. He sets your charger on the nightstand. Lines up your shampoo and skincare in the bathroom next to his ridiculous five-step eye cream routine.

He swaps out one of his pillows with your smaller one from home. Adjusts the blanket. Fluffs the comforter

He stands there for a second, glancing around. His bedroom has never really felt like anyone else’s space. But now, your things sit in small, careful clusters. It looks like you belong.

He walks back out into the living room, catching another glimpse of you curled up on the couch, still in his shirt. His chest pulls.

Quietly, he grabs a spare hair tie and your toothbrush from the bathroom — remembering how annoyed you get when you forget the little things — and sets them on the nightstand, too. Then he picks up your water glass, refills it, and places it gently beside the bed.

When he’s done, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and lets out a breath.

His room has never looked so good.

He lingers for a moment longer before finally pushing off the doorframe with a quiet sigh, heading toward the bathroom. The shower runs hot the way he likes it, steam curling around him as he scrubs away the exhaustion and lingering stress. He lets the water run down his back for a minute or two longer than necessary, grounding himself in the silence before stepping out and toweling off.

His hair, damp and unstyled, flops messily over his forehead, sticking out in soft waves. He doesn’t bother to fix it. Instead, he throws on a hoodie and sweatpants, then pads back into the bedroom.

You’re still curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket, face soft in sleep. He crouches beside you and gently brushes your hair out of your face. “Hey,” he whispers, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed.”

You blink slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and look up at him. Then you squint, lips tugging into a sleepy, amused smile. “Your hair… it looks like how it did in high school.”

He snorts quietly, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah, I just washed it.”

Still half-asleep, you mumble something incoherent and reach for him. He scoops you up easily, carrying you bridal-style across the room and gently settling you into his bed. Once you’re tucked in, he disappears for a moment, then returns with your meds in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Sit up for a second,” he murmurs, helping you take the pills before placing the glass on your nightstand. “There. You good?”

You nod sleepily, already sinking back into the pillows.

He’s gone again before he returns with a small bowl of rice and miso soup, carefully balanced in his hands.

“You didn’t eat anything earlier,” he says, sitting beside you. “Just a few bites, okay? You’ll feel better.”

He helps you sit up again, blowing gently on the spoon before holding it out to you. You eat quietly, slowly, with your eyes half-lidded, and he doesn’t rush you once.

When you’re done, he sets the bowl aside, tucks you back under the blankets, and sits beside you for a while, brushing your hair back from your face again.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice still faint but steadier than before.

He offers you a gentle smile, brushing your hair back one last time. “Yeah… of course,” he says. “Get some rest, okay?”

He starts to stand, turning to head out, but your fingers curl around his wrist before he can take a step.

“Wait,” you whisper. “We need to talk.”

He stills immediately, eyes flicking down to where your hand holds his. Then he nods—quiet, solemn—before sinking back down to sit beside you.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Now,” you say firmly, eyes locking onto his.

“Not now,” he tries, gentler this time. “You’re tired. You just got out the infirmary.”

You shake your head, voice unwavering. “Satoru, if you don’t sit here and listen to what I have to say, I swear I’ll get up and walk straight out that door.”

He stares at you for a second, jaw tightening, before he swallows hard, defeated.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

You pat the mattress beside you. He hesitates for just a moment, then walks over and sinks down slowly onto the bed, settling on top of the covers beside you.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you both murmur, breaking the silence.

You blink, then let out a small, breathy laugh. “You first.”

But he shakes his head. “No, you go.”

You sit up just a little, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but gaze steady on his. “I… I’m sorry,” you say again. “You were right. About Suguru. I keep holding on to him like if I just try hard enough, maybe I can make sense of everything again. But I can’t, I know I can’t. And it’s not fair to you to drag you into this mess, I know you miss him too.”

He listens in silence, eyes fixed on yours. When you finish, he sighs, looking down at his hands.

“I shouldn’t have picked that fight,” he says, voice low. “There was no reason to push you. I just… I don’t know. I was scared. You always call me when something’s wrong, and this time, you didn’t. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, maybe you would’ve felt safe enough to.”

“That’s not true,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. “You weren’t wrong. I just… wasn’t ready to hear it.”

He lifts your hand slowly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I still should’ve handled it better.”

“You were just being honest. You were right.”

“No, I was wrong.”

“No—”

He cuts you off with a quiet chuckle. “God, we’re really doing this?”

“What, apologizing each other to death?”

“Exactly.” He leans back on one elbow, eyes tracing your face. “But… if we’re being honest… then I guess I should say it.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart beginning to race.

“Satoru?”

He hesitates for only a breath. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s quiet again, except now, it’s a different kind of quiet.

You don’t say anything at first, just stare at him, stunned. His eyes stay on yours, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I know it’s a bad time,” he adds quickly. “And you don’t have to say anything. I just… needed you to know. After everything, I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t feel that way.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Satoru…”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words sinking in.

“It’s okay,” he says again, voice softer now, as his thumb brushes over your hand. “But you almost died, and I was so scared you’d go without knowing how much you mean to me.”

His eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening.

“I remembered how much I regretted not telling Suguru. I kept thinking… if I’d said something sooner, maybe—” He cuts himself off, eyes glossy but steady. “I don’t want a repeat of that. Not with you.”

You squeeze his hand, heart twisting.

“I’m still here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, glancing back at you with a quiet sort of relief. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you. Slowly, carefully, he scoots a little closer, just enough for your knees to touch beneath the blanket. He doesn't want you to move, not when you're still healing.

“You’re my best friend,” you murmur, voice quiet against the soft cotton of his shirt. “And my favorite person in the world.”

You feel the hitch in his breath before you even glance up.

Without really thinking, your fingers seek out his. Like second nature, he lets you pull his hand into yours. His thumb brushes along the side of yours, tracing idle lines into your skin.

“You’re mine too,” he says.

You lift your head, eyes catching his. There’s something in his gaze that hasn’t been there before, or maybe it has, and you just hadn’t dared to look closely enough.

Neither of you says anything for a beat too long.

And then, without planning to, you lean in and he does too.

The kiss is hesitant at first. Barely there. Just the brush of lips, a question asked in silence. But the second you move closer, hand tightening in his, Satoru deepens it — careful, reverent — like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish.

When you part, your foreheads rest together, breath shared.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

You thought saying it would feel like release, but instead, it twists like a knife in your chest. The words fall from your lips, and the guilt that follows crushes you. You can feel it in your throat, in the way your body trembles as the sobs begin to rise — small at first, then unbearable.

Satoru lets his head fall back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling in stunned disbelief. “Don’t be,” he says softly. “You don’t know how many years I’ve imagined that… kissing you.”

But he doesn’t notice at first. Not until your shoulders start to shake.

When he looks down, he finds the tears already slipping down your cheeks, silent and raw. His expression shifts instantly, the warmth of that moment fading into worry.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching for your hand again. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t even look at him. “I still love him,” you confess, voice cracking. “I still love Suguru.”

The silence after feels like the air has been sucked from the room, your loud sobs filling the space.

“I care about you,” you continue, voice strained and trembling. “I do, more than anyone. But I don’t know how to stop loving him. And it’s not fair to you.”

You finally look at him. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s about to say something. But nothing comes out right away. Just the weight of truth sitting between you both.

“I’ll take it,” he says, so quietly it makes your breath catch. “I’ll take whatever part of you you can give me. Even if it’s not all of you. Even if he still has most of you.”

Your face crumples again. “You don’t deserve that.”

He doesn’t argue. Maybe because he agrees. Maybe because he knows it wouldn’t matter — not to his heart, which has always made terrible, stubborn choices when it comes to you.

The silence stretches long and heavy.

“I’ll go home tomorrow,” you murmur. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Stay.”

You look at him in confusion, eyes puffy and rimmed red. “Why?”

“Because I’d rather be near you, even if it hurts, than wonder if you’re okay from a distance.” His voice breaks a little. “And someone has to make sure you take your meds and eat and actually sleep through the night.”

There’s something unbearable in his kindness.

So you stay.

And for the next several days, he takes care of you like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask for more. He just… shows up.

He brings you tea in the morning. He warms the food even when you only eat a few bites. He gives you space when you need it and company when the silence gets too heavy. He doesn’t say Suguru’s name. He doesn’t cry in front of you.

But you notice the way his eyes linger sometimes, full of something you can’t bear to name. You notice the way he always sets out two glasses of water, even if you only use one.

You notice how, even with a broken heart, Satoru Gojo still chooses you.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 02

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend… just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (1.2k)

CONTENT — time jump, post suguru deflection, references to jjk spoilers, ooc kinda a little idk

a/n: boy wth boy this is so buns enjoy

series m. list | m. list | << prev | next >>

March, 2013

“I can sense it,” Satoru says, dropping down beside you on the couch in the common lounge. His presence is abrupt but familiar, the cushion dipping under his weight as he exhales sharply. His hands come up to his eyes, rubbing at them like he’s trying to wipe away more than just exhaustion.

“Sense what?” you ask, brows knitting together as you gently tug his wrists away. His fingers fall reluctantly into his lap, but he doesn’t resist.

“His cursed energy,” he says quietly. “Suguru’s. He was in Sendai.”

The words hang there between you, suspended in the quiet hum of the lounge lights and the distant shuffle of footsteps down the hall. You feel it instantly — that subtle shift in the air, like the room’s been tipped off balance.

You swallow. “Are you sure?”

Satoru nods once, slow and heavy. “I’d know it anywhere.”

He leans back, head resting against the couch cushion, the tension in his jaw refusing to let go. His blindfold sits pushed up on his forehead tonight, leaving his eyes exposed — raw, red around the edges, but sharp as ever.

“I didn’t try to follow it,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t know if I should.”

You watch him, unsure if he’s asking for permission or forgiveness.

“It’s fine,” you say. “That’s my job anyway.”

“Yeah, well, it’s bullshit,” he snaps, more tired than angry. “We both know we won’t find him unless he wants to be found. Yaga’s just wasting your time.”

You don’t disagree.

Because he’s right.

The truth sits between you both — bitter, inevitable. Suguru’s always been ten steps ahead when he wants to be. And if he left something behind in Sendai, it wasn’t a mistake.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “I think Yaga knows that. I think he’s just trying to give us something to hold onto.”

Satoru scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, well. He can keep it.”

“I dream about him, you know?” he says suddenly, like it just slipped out. “Still. Sometimes it’s back when things were normal. Sometimes it’s…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

You don’t push him.

“He was in Sendai?” you ask again, quieter this time.

Satoru nods. “Not for long, but long enough to leave a trace.”

The words sit like weight in your chest. You press your hands into your thighs to keep them from shaking.

“Maybe he wanted us to know.”

Satoru doesn’t answer.

He just stares ahead, jaw tight, eyes distant. You can see it—he’s already somewhere else. Back then. Back there. Wherever Suguru last was.

The silence stretches. Not cold, but heavy. Like grief that’s gotten too familiar to flinch at anymore.

You shift slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “You’d tell me if you saw him, right?”

He turns to look at you, slow, like the question pulled him back to the room.

“Of course I would,” he says.

But there’s something in the way he says it—gentle, almost careful—that makes you wonder if he’s telling you the truth, or just what he thinks you need to hear.

You nod anyway. Because you’re both tired. Because neither of you has the heart to argue about Suguru anymore.

Satoru gets up, stretching slightly before stepping in front of you. “Okay, time to get up,” he says, already reaching for your hands. He doesn’t wait for your answer — just laces his fingers through yours and tugs you to your feet with that signature mix of ease and insistence.

You groan a little at the movement, but you go willingly.

“I don’t have any more classes,” he announces, stretching his arms over his head. “So, you, my sweet best friend, will now be making me dinner.”

You blink at him. “Why am I making you dinner?”

“Because,” he says, tapping the bridge of your nose with one finger, “Because I’m emotionally fragile, and you’re the only one who doesn’t actively try to murder me.

You follow Satoru out of the lounge, his carefree stride leading the way like always.

He chatters on about udon or curry or something else you’re only half-listening to, his voice a comfortable blur against the quiet halls.

You wonder if he knows. If he hears it in your silence.

But you don’t say anything. You’d be in a position half as bad as Surguru if anyone knew what you had almost done.

You’re nearly back at your place three hours later, walking distance from Satoru’s fancy apartment. You spend most of your time there anyway, but tonight you needed your own space. 

He’d insisted on walking you back, of course. Big dramatic sigh, hand to his heart, something about “chivalry” and “being a gentleman.” But you didn’t let him.

Even the strongest needs to rest.

He didn’t argue too much. Just looked at you with that tilted-head, squinty-eyed thing he does when he’s pretending he’s not worried.

You promised to text when you got home.

The street is quiet now. You can still taste the faint salt of the miso he made you stir, the warmth of his kitchen light clinging to your skin like smoke.

You step up to your door, hands already reaching for your keys, and for a moment you just… pause.

The entire walk back, your mind had been drifting — falling into that quiet place where memory lives too close to the surface.

You thought about when you were fourteen and kissed Suguru for the first time. How nervous he was. How his hands felt when they cupped your face. 

You thought about the week before your fifteenth birthday, when Satoru and Shoko walked in on the two of you in an empty classroom, lips locked, hands tangled, the moment crashing like glass as Shoko muttered “Finally” and Satoru screamed so loud someone set off the fire alarm.

And then you thought about sixteen.

When he looked at you like the world wasn’t something he hated yet. When he said, “When we’re older, let’s just get married, yeah?” so casually.

Because part of you wanted to believe that future was real. And now, part of you wants to convince yourself this very moment isn’t and that maybe your imagination is running wild, stirring up ghosts because you haven’t properly let them go.

But you know Suguru far too well for that.

The shift in the air. The precise weight of his cursed energy. You know it like you know your own breath.

You scan the street again, eyes flicking to the corners, the rooftops, the cracks between shadow and light.

Nothing. But he was here.

You don’t reach for your keys. Instead, your hand dives back into your bag and pulls out your phone. You barely feel your fingers as you unlock the screen and tap Satoru’s name.

He picks up on the second ring. His voice is warm, teasing. “You miss me already, sweetheart?”

“Satoru.” Your voice shakes. “Satoru.”

He pauses. You hear it immediately — the shift in tone, the way he sits up straighter even through the line. “Yeah?”

“He was here,” you breathe. “He wants to be found.”

“Woah, slow down—what do you mean? Who—”

“I’m not confused, Satoru.” You’re pacing now, feet light, eyes still scanning every inch of the block. “I’d know his cursed energy anywhere. He was outside my house.”

Silence.

Then: “I’m on my way.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Hurry.”

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 09

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (11.5k) not proofread

CONTENT — hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, minor HI/PD spoilers

a/n: everytime spotify changes their freaking lyric format i crash out and consider killing someone off.

series m. list | m. list

February, 2015

Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore—not since the attack in the marketplace. You’ve stopped expecting rest to find you at night, not when you toss and turn for hours on end. These days, the only time you truly sleep is after missions—when your body gives in, heavy and worn from exorcising one curse after another. Even then, it’s dreamless and hollow. The kind of sleep that feels more like a pause than actual rest.

Your complexion has dulled in the mirror, fading from whatever glow you once carried. The shadows beneath your eyes have deepened, a brown that reminds you of Shoko’s—except hers came with cigarettes and long hours at the morgue. Yours came from something else entirely and you haven’t found the words for it yet.

You haven’t slept properly in nearly a week.

The mission in Hakone had dragged on for far too long—an abandoned ocean liner infested with first-grade spirits, twisted and feral from years of neglect. Saltwater still clings to your skin, even after multiple showers. Your train ride back to Tokyo had been predictably unpleasant—crowded, overheated, and just quiet enough to remind you how bone-deep your exhaustion ran.

But at least you were heading home… ish. Jujutsu High. Where your office had a couch that, while lumpy, was good enough for a nap. The paperwork from Hakone could wait. You’d sign the reports after an hour of shut eye. Maybe two.

You push open the side entrance, ignoring the sting in your shoulder from where a curse had clipped you mid-exorcism, and head down the corridor. Your steps slow as you near your office door, already imagining how sweet it’ll feel to collapse into silence.

But when you open the door, your exhaustion turns to confusion.

Because sitting on your couch—your sacred, nap-destined couch—are Kento Nanami and Satoru Gojo.

Nanami looks as crisp and composed as ever, suit jacket folded neatly over one arm, his posture as straight as if he hadn’t just barged in uninvited. Gojo, in contrast, is sprawled sideways across the other end of the couch, legs hanging off the side, sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose despite the dim lighting.

“What the hell,” you say, blinking slowly, “are you doing in my office?”

Gojo lifts his hand in a lazy wave. “Surprise welcome committee,” he grins. “We heard you almost got eaten by sea ghosts.”

Nanami clears his throat. “We have something to discuss.”

You sigh, dragging your feet over to your desk to drop your bag, letting it fall with a thud. “Can it wait until I’ve slept?”

“No,” they say in unison.

You glance between them, then up at the ceiling like it might offer mercy. It doesn’t.

“Of course it can’t.”

It wasn’t just sleep you’d been neglecting lately. You’d been avoiding other things too—like talking to Satoru.

After he’d practically nursed you back to health, despite your attempts to push him away, things between you had grown complicated. The kind of complicated that settled into silence. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to speak to him—if anything, you wanted to more than ever. But after helping you through the worst moments of your life, after staying by your side when you were too broken to ask for help, Satoru had started looking at you differently. Like he was waiting for something you couldn’t give.

And the worst part?

You loved him, too.

Not in a small, fleeting way. But no matter how deep your love for Satoru ran, it would never quite measure up to what you still felt for him, Suguru, even if it was not really anything anymore. And that would make everything impossibly messy.

Because you knew Satoru deserved more than to be second to someone who’d walked away.

And still, your heart hadn’t caught up to your logic.

You sink into your chair with a long sigh, the wheels creaking as the impact sends it gliding backward a few inches. Your boots thud against the desk as you kick your feet up. “What is it this time? Another mission? Because if it is, tell Yaga I’m not go—”

“It’s Geto,” Nanami cuts in, calm but firm. “We have a lead.”

Your legs drop to the ground instantly.

Across the room, Satoru rises from the couch with a lazy stretch, long limbs unfolding as he strides over to your desk. 

“What kind of lead?” you ask, already bracing.

Nanami stays standing, shoulders squared. “It goes back to something I mentioned to you a year ago about my former coworker.”

You nod, remembering. “The daughter who showed signs of a curse.”

“Exactly.” He adjusts his cuffs as he continues. “The family believes it was the work of a ‘god’ who answered their prayers.”

You narrow your eyes. “A god that knows how to remove curses.”

Nanami nods once. “And that’s not all. The girl’s still attending services at the new temple. Except it’s not registered under any known sect or shrine. We don’t really know what or where it is.”

Your stomach twists.

Satoru leans forward, now behind your desk, fingers absently toying with a pen, then the edge of your notepad, then spinning your lucky paperweight. He doesn’t interrupt, but you can feel the tension in the air every time the object clacks against the wood.

Nanami’s gaze sharpens. “It gets stranger. The coworker put in her two-week notice about a month ago… then disappeared only a few days later. No forwarding address. No contact. She just vanished.”

“The daughter?” you ask quietly.

“Staying with relatives,” Nanami says. “But she’s been talking. Says her mom was summoned by a higher being. That she had to ‘serve the divine.’”

Satoru’s paperweight hits the floor. He doesn’t bend to pick it up.

“Is it him?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“We’re not sure,” Nanami admits. “But it’s worth looking into. We got an address from the family, but it just led to this old elementary school.”

You raise a brow. “School’s connected?”

He nods. “The girl said that’s where she met the god. And several other students at her school have started showing the same symptoms she had before. There’s a pattern.”

Silence hangs in the air. Satoru finally speaks, his voice softer than usual. “If Geto’s behind it… he’s escalating.”

You look between the two of them, your fingers curling slightly into your thigh.

Nanami steps back, collecting his notes. “We’re being cautious. No sudden moves. I’ll get more details before we act.”

“And what do I do in the meantime?” you ask.

Satoru finally picks up the paperweight and sets it down carefully. “Try to sleep. We’ll need you sharp if this goes sideways.”

You almost laugh at that. Try to sleep? When he might be out there, building temples and gathering children like disciples?

Still, you nod. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

Nanami gives a short nod, already turning toward the door.

Satoru lingers, tapping your desk once with two fingers. “Don’t go running off alone this time.”

His voice is quiet. Serious.

You nod again, slower this time.

You wake to the sound of a sharp knock against the door, the sudden noise dragging you out of a sleep you didn’t even remember slipping into. Your head lifts from your arms, a faint crease on your cheek from the fabric of your sleeve.

“Come in,” you croak, rubbing at your eyes.

The door slides open, and Nanami leans in, his expression unreadable as always. “You’re awake.”

“Barely,” you mutter. “How long was I out?”

“A good five or six hours,” he replies, stepping into the room. “Feel any better?”

You nod slowly, sitting up straighter and glancing around your office as if the stacks of paperwork might have completed themselves while you were unconscious. No luck.

“What’s up?” you ask, stretching your neck.

“Yaga gave us the go-ahead,” Nanami says. “We have clearance to investigate the school.”

You blink, sleep falling away a little faster now. “Really?”

He nods.

A pause lingers before you ask, more carefully this time, “Is Satoru coming?”

Nanami’s answer is quick, but not unkind. “Yes. He’s finishing up another mission and will meet us there.”

You nod again, but this time you don’t say anything.

Nanami watches you for a beat longer, as if weighing whether to say more, then simply adds, “We leave in twenty.”

Then he’s gone and you’re left alone again.

You stand slowly, grabbing your uniform from where you’d slung it hours ago, and prepare to walk straight back into the mess you’d barely gotten any rest from.

Nanami is already waiting when you make it to the side road leading toward the mountain entrance of Jujutsu High.

The morning air is cool and crisp, the kind that smells faintly of dew and old stone. Ijichi’s car idles just ahead, the faint whir of the engine the only sound in the quiet.

Nanami glances up from the file in his hand as you approach. His coat is already slung over one shoulder, collar turned neatly, and his tie crisp.

“Right on time,” he says, offering the briefest nod.

“Good morning to you too,” you murmur, falling into step beside him.

He raises a brow. “Sleep helped, I see.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, but don’t deny it.

Ijichi steps out of the car and gives a quick, polite bow before opening the back door for the two of you.

As you slide in, Nanami speaks quietly, glancing once toward the trees surrounding the narrow road. “The mission is simple. If there are curses, we exorcise them. If there are squatters, I’ll remove them. You can handle recon—look for any signs that might trace back to my old coworker or the temple the girl mentioned.”

You nod. “And if there’s neither?”

“Then we take what we can. Files, photos, anything left behind. If this is connected to Geto, we won’t be the only ones searching.”

His tone is calm, but there’s something taut underneath it—a suspicion he hasn’t voiced yet. You don’t push.

Instead, you glance out the window as the car rolls forward, winding steadily down the road toward the city outskirts, toward the quiet little elementary school that shouldn’t be anything more than abandoned chalkboards and forgotten toys.

The drive takes no longer than thirty minutes, the road growing narrower and rougher the closer you get to the edge of the residential district. The school itself sits just outside the boundary of a quiet neighborhood, nestled between a slope of overgrown woods and a narrow canal. It looks harmless from a distance—like any other elementary school left to time and ivy.

As Ijichi rounds the final corner, Nanami shifts forward in his seat, reaching behind him with practiced ease to fasten his blunt-tipped butcher’s blade across his back. The leather harness clicks softly as he adjusts it into place, his movements precise and wordless.

By the time the car rolls to a stop just beyond the rusted front gate, he’s already stepping out. You follow behind him, boots crunching over gravel.

Nanami leans into the open window. “We’ll give you a call for pickup.”

Ijichi nods, hands at ten and two, ever the cautious observer.

Nanami closes the door gently, then turns to face you. The tension in his shoulders isn’t panic—it’s calculation. Focus. Years of experience wearing the weight of situations like this without flinching.

“Ready?”

You nod once, your fingers flexing instinctively at your side, already sensing the faint hum of cursed energy crawling in the cracks of the earth beneath your feet.

He says nothing more.

Together, you step through the sagging gate, the hinges groaning under the weight of years and something else entirely—something just beneath the surface. The air grows colder with every step, and the silence that greets you inside the fence is thick. Ominous.

The school looms ahead.

Nanami exhales, his hand falling to rest casually near the hilt of his blade as he surveys the warped structure ahead. Paint peels in long strips from the outer walls, the windows on the upper floors either shattered or fogged with grime. You can feel the residue of something old and malevolent clinging to the building—thick and stagnant, like the last breath of a dying curse.

“Can you sense Gojo?” he asks, eyes still fixed on the shadows pooling near the school’s double doors.

You close your eyes briefly, extending your awareness across the perimeter.

“No,” you reply, taking a few quiet steps forward. “He’s not here yet.”

Nanami sighs. “Typical.”

You don’t have to ask to know what he’s thinking—Gojo being late to something important is hardly new, but this mission isn’t routine. 

“We’ll wait for him,” Nanami says firmly. “Then place the veil and make entry.”

You glance at him. “And if he doesn’t show for a while?”

“He’ll show soon,” Nanami mutters, adjusting the strap of his harness. You look back toward the road.

“Hopefully,” you say quietly.

Ten minutes pass and there’s still no sign of Satoru.

You’re flat on your back in the overgrown grass now, limbs sprawled out in a starfish position, staring up at the dull stretch of grey sky. Nanami stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, silently watching a tree sway in the light breeze. You don’t ask why. With Nanami, it’s often better not to.

At fifteen minutes, there's still no flicker of cursed energy and no obnoxiously cheery "I'm here!"

“You think there’s a playground?” you ask, turning your head lazily toward him.

“Probably around back,” he replies without looking at you.

By the twenty-minute mark, you’re both sitting on a pair of rusted swings behind the school. The chains creak as you rock gently back and forth, boots skimming the gravel below. Nanami doesn’t swing so much as let the motion carry him in slow arcs, his usual stoicism softened by a distant smile.

“Remember when Haibara sprained your ankle on the swings?” he asks, eyes still ahead. “That night we snuck into that abandoned playground near Saitama.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “Oh my god, yes. You two dragged me out because I was spiraling over my promotion mission the next day.”

Nanami chuckles. “You said you needed to clear your head, and then five minutes later Haibara sent you flying into a metal bar.”

“I had to bribe Shoko into healing me at three in the morning,” you add. “She made me run all her errands for a week.”

“She still talks about that,” Nanami mutters, shaking his head.

You both lapse into quiet laughter, the kind that rests comfortably between people who’ve seen too much of life together.

And still, no Gojo, even a half hour later.

You’re on your stomach on the swing now, fingers gripping the twisted chains as you spin yourself around, letting the momentum unravel in a dizzy whirl. The breeze brushes your cheeks, the faint squeal of metal echoing through the otherwise quiet grounds. It’s mindless and childish—and exactly what you need.

"Having fun without me?" comes a familiar, too-casual voice from behind.

You blink through the haze of dizziness just as the swing slows. Nanami doesn’t even turn.

“Forty minutes late, Gojo,” he says flatly, checking his watch like it offended him personally.

“Aww, Nanamin,” Gojo purrs as he saunters closer, shades glinting. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” Nanami replies without hesitation.

Gojo places a dramatic hand over his heart. “Cold as ever.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Nanami mutters, standing. “Veils up. We split up—I'll check the west wing and look for squatters. You two sweep the classrooms, look for any cursed residue or leads.”

“Can I go with you instead?” you ask Nanami. It’s said lightly, almost teasing, but the moment it leaves your lips, silence settles.

Gojo doesn’t say anything. But the smile he always wears falters for a fraction of a second.

Nanami looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing slightly, but says nothing. He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, then nods once. “Call if anything happens.”

Then he’s off, boots crunching over gravel as he disappears down the path leading to the west wing.

You glance over at Gojo, who’s already walking ahead.

“Ready, partner?” he says over his shoulder, his tone bright, but not quite playful.

You fall into step beside him, the silence thick between you. For a long moment, all you hear are the echoing sounds of your shoes against the worn concrete and the faint wind whispering through broken windows.

“So,” you finally say, just to fill the space. “Still teaching first-years?”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs. “They’re louder than ever. One of them mistook my blindfold for a sleep mask the other day.”

You hum a short laugh. “I’m surprised they let you near children at all.”

“Rude,” he says, his lips quivering faintly, forcing a laugh.

Another pause.

“You look tired,” he adds quietly.

You glance over at him. “You don’t.”

He smirks. “I never do.”

You roll your eyes. But he catches the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers flex at your side.

“Let’s start with the gym,” he says, motioning to the right. 

You nod, grateful for the shift in focus.

As you both step through the darkened hallway, your arm brushes his. Neither of you pull away.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Gojo says, his voice echoing slightly as he steps into the wide, empty gym.

You don’t look at him right away. The air smells faintly of dust and old rubber, the kind of place that’s been untouched for years, save for the occasional squatter or stray echo.

“If this is about the report error I had last month,” you start, tone light but deflective, “it was a genuine mistake. Yaga already gave me hell for it.”

But you know that’s not what this is about.

“You know what this is about,” he says simply, not rising to your deflection.

He kicks a soccer ball that must’ve been left behind watching it roll across the floor and into the wall with a dull thud.

You finally glance over at him, but he’s not looking at you. Hands in his pockets, shoulders squared but tired. Like he’s been carrying the weight of a conversation that hasn’t happened yet.

“Yeah,” you murmur, peeking your head into a storage closet tucked in the corner of the gym. It’s dim inside. The light trailing in from a window in the corner reveals the dust circulating the room. A few warped hula hoops hang off a broken hook, and in the far corner, a child-sized basketball net stands forgotten, its plastic rim cloaked in spider webs.

You grimace, a shiver crawling down your spine. God only knows what kind of bugs are nesting in there.

Shutting the doors, you try to brush it all off. “We don’t have to talk about it,” you say, casually, like it doesn’t hang heavy between you both. “It’s fine.”

From behind you, Satoru exhales a breath. “There’s nothing here,” he mutters. “Come on. We’ll check the hallway through the back.”

His long strides carry him out of the gym. You trail after him, the words you didn’t say still pressing like weights against your chest.

The hallway stretches before you like a gaping mouth—long, dim, and far too quiet. If it weren’t for the slant of sunlight still clinging to the floor behind you—and the quiet presence of Satoru at your side—you might’ve turned back.

“You take the ones on the left,” he says, eyes scanning the right wing. “I’ll go right.”

You nod, fingers brushing the edge of the old wall as you begin your sweep. Each step echoes off the tile, the soles of your shoes kicking up thin trails of dust. The first door you push open creaks on its hinges, revealing a classroom frozen in time—desks crooked, chalk half-scrawled across the blackboard, as if everyone just… left.

You scan for any traces of cursed energy, your senses sharpened, your body poised—but there’s nothing. Just old paper, stale air, and a faint scent of mildew clinging to the curtains.

The next room is much the same. This one has small, crumpled drawings still pinned to the back wall—childish scribbles in bright colors, one even labelled “mama.” It’s eerier than it is sweet. You don’t linger long.

In the third room, a faint sound makes you freeze.

You pause in the doorway, ears straining.

It’s soft. Tapping?

You step inside slowly, eyes scanning the corners.

A loose piece of ceiling tile shifts slightly in the breeze from a cracked window. Just that. Your jaw unclenches.

But something still feels… wrong. Like the air’s a little too thick. You let your cursed energy pulse, casting a wider net—and there it is. Faint. Faint, but there.

A residue.

Not active. But recent. Something was here.

You lift your phone and text Satoru:

[You]: one of the rooms has trace cursed energy [You]: something’s been here recently

Three dots appear immediately.

[Satoru]: Got something weird on my end too. Wanna meet in the gym and compare notes? [You]: omw

You turn, giving the classroom one last glance before stepping back into the hallway.

You meet Satoru back in the gym, your arms crossed, face tight with focus.

“There’s cursed residue in one of the classrooms,” you tell him, motioning with your head toward the hallway. “Not that strong though.”

He gives you a slow blink, adjusting the collar of his uniform. “Which room?”

“Third on the left. Can you check it out? Your Six Eyes might catch something I missed.”

Satoru nods, his easygoing air dimming into something more serious. “Lead the way.”

You walk together in silence until you reach the classroom. You push the door open and let him step in first, watching as his gaze sweeps the room. His fingers brush the air, slow and deliberate. After a moment, he speaks.

“There was a curse here,” he confirms, voice low. “Low level one, but it’s almost like it was summoned, then dismissed.”

“Summoned,” you echo, throat dry. “Which means whoever was here knew what they were doing.”

“More than that,” he adds, kneeling near the chalkboard. “This wasn’t just some wandering cursed spirit. It’s tied to something bigger.”

Your stomach churns.

“Do you think—?”

“We need to be careful,” he cuts in gently. “Don’t jump ahead.”

You nod, then tilt your head at him. “You said you found something too?”

He stands, brushing his hands on his pants. “Yeah. Come see.”

You trail behind him through a side hallway, toward one of the smaller classrooms tucked near the back of the school. Satoru pushes the door open and steps aside, letting you in.

It’s a younger classroom, for children maybe under ten. Paper cranes hang from the ceiling. Crayons are scattered across the floor. But it’s the wall of drawings that catches your eye.

“That one,” he says, pointing.

You walk closer. Crude figures, drawn in waxy color. A house. A family. Three people standing outside a small shrine—one taller man, one child, another figure you assume is the father.

Inside the shrine, behind its dark doors, is a fourth figure.

“The mom,” you murmur.

Satoru nods. “The girl labeled them. See? ‘Papa, me, Oji.’ And then just… ‘Mama.’ In the shrine.”

A chill crawls up your spine.

“This could be the same family Nanami told us about,” you say. 

“Mmhm. I thought the shrine looked weird too. So I checked the whole perimeter. There’s nothing like it nearby.”

You glance at him. “So either she was imagining it—”

“Or it exists somewhere else,” he finishes, “and she’s been there.”

You both stand in silence, staring at the crayon drawing.

“Curses in the building,” you mutter, “A missing mother, and a shrine no one’s ever seen.”

Satoru exhales slowly. “We’re not dealing with just a cult.”

You nod, eyes narrowing. “We’re dealing with a system.”

He lifts his phone. “Let’s call Nanami. We need to rework our approach.”

You and Satoru step back into the hallway, the stale air settling heavy between you. You don’t need the Six Eyes to feel the tension crackling between your shoulders, and you don’t need cursed energy to know he’s mad at you.

Satoru dials quickly, phone pressed to his ear. “Nanamin. We found a drawing. The shrine’s in it—the mother’s inside. Looks like the kid’s been there. And there’s cursed residue in the building, third room on the left, western wing.”

You hear Nanami’s voice on the other end, calm but clipped. “Copy. I’ll check the perimeter again, see if I can find entry points. Let’s all reconvene in the courtyard in one hour—unless we find something first.”

“Got it,” Satoru says, already pocketing the phone before turning to you. “Let’s sweep every room. I’ll take the right side.”

You nod, motioning left. “I’ll do the same.”

But he doesn’t move. Not right away.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he asks, eyes narrowed—not in worry. In irritation.

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer, just starts walking. You catch up.

The silence is thick as the two of you make your way through the corridor, checking each classroom. The first is empty. The second has a broken chalkboard, some smashed desks. The third has shattered windows and bird droppings.

And still, no sign of a curse.

You break the silence first.

“Satoru, if you have something to say, say it.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just opens the next door with a little too much force. “I’ve tried to talk to you, you just don’t want to hear it.”

You exhale, the weight of exhaustion and guilt settling heavy on your chest. “This isn’t the time.”

“No, it never is,” he mutters, stepping over some broken tiles. “There’s always something more important, isn’t there? Some curse. Some mission. Some ex-boyfriend you can’t stop thinking about.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

He looks at you then, finally. And his expression is unreadable. “Yeah. I think you’re the one being unfair.”

Before you can respond, there’s a flicker of cursed energy—a pulse, faint but close.

You both go still.

You exchange a glance. Truce, for now.

“Next room,” you murmur.

He nods. “Let’s go.”

The next room is the girls’ bathroom. The boys’ is across the hall, but neither of you comments on the choice as you step inside. Satoru follows, the door creaking closed behind him.

The cursed energy is still faint. Nothing strong enough to warrant alarm. Still, your instincts are on edge.

Satoru leans against the wall near the sinks, arms crossed, watching as you make your way down the line of stalls, kicking each one open.

“You know,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, “if I’d known telling you how I felt would mean losing you… I wouldn’t have said anything.”

Your foot hovers over the next stall.

“I…” you start, but the words fall flat. There’s too much to say, and none of it feels like enough.

He exhales sharply, stepping off the wall to follow behind you. “You’re still everywhere. Work. Missions. Our friends. You’re in all of it. And I—I miss you. Every goddamn day.”

You peer into another empty stall, the same worn tile, the same rusted plumbing. “I don’t know what to say, Satoru.”

His laugh is bitter. “Of fucking course you don’t.”

You move to the last stall. You hesitate, then kick it open.

Something flickers in the corner.

A curse—small, frail, barely clinging to the cracked wall like a dying moth. Fourth grade, maybe even lower if possible. But it reacts to your presence, shrieking weakly, crawling toward you. You stumble backward, your cursed energy already sparking to life in your chest.

You collide with Satoru. Hard. The impact sends you both stumbling, him into the sink and you landing awkwardly on the grimy floor.

In a blink, he steps forward, flicks his wrist, and the curse vanishes in a burst of static light.

“Seriously?” he mutters. “That thing looked like a rotted sock.”

He offers you his hand.

You hesitate—then take it.

He pulls you up with ease, and his hand doesn’t let go right away. The touch lingers. God, you’ve missed this.

“You really shouldn’t be in the girls’ bathroom,” you say, trying for levity. Your voice is too soft to carry the joke properly.

He raises an eyebrow. “I just saved your life.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips curve slightly. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he says. “Say thank you.”

You look up at him. His hand is still holding yours.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

You both step out into the corridor, the heavy bathroom door swinging shut behind you with a metallic clang. The light’s changed—it’s dimmer now, the sun filtering through clouded windows casting everything in dusky gold. Dust floats in the air like ash.

“Let’s go down that hall,” you say, nodding toward the west wing, where the classrooms taper off into offices and utility rooms. The hallway stretches out, long and shadowed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against cracked tiles.

Satoru falls into step beside you, his hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“We’re not done,” he says, voice even but firm. “We need to talk about this.”

You glance at him, the weight of his words sinking in fast. “Satoru…”

“I know. There’s a mission. There are curses. It’s not the right time,” he mocks, keeping his eyes ahead. “But it’s never the right time with you. You always run before we get there.”

“That’s not fair,” you murmur.

“Isn’t it?” he shoots back, finally turning to look at you. “You keep saying that, but I remember standing by you, watching you die, thinking I was about to lose the person I love. And when you got better, you shut me out. Again.”

You stop walking.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t know how to be friends with you without wanting more.”

“And what’s wrong with wanting more?” His voice is low now, not angry—just tired. “I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

The hallway buzzes faintly with cursed energy again. There’s something still lurking in this building. But neither of you moves.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “You’ve always been the strongest, the brightest, the most untouchable… and I don’t want to be the thing that slows you down.”

His face softens. Just a little.

“You’ve never slowed me down,” he says.

A long pause settles between you.

“Let’s finish the sweep,” you say, barely above a whisper. “One thing at a time.”

He nods, stepping past you to take point.

You push open the cafeteria doors, the hinges groaning against years of rust and disuse. The room sprawls before you—large, cold, and empty, save for the scattered long tables and plastic chairs warped with time. Dust lies thick over everything, and the silence is heavy. Oppressive.

Satoru trails a few paces behind you, his footsteps the only sound in the room.

“I don’t get you,” he says finally, his voice quiet but edged. “I told you I was okay with whatever you decided. But I didn’t know you’d decide to completely shut me out.”

You stop near the center of the room, shoulders tense.

“Satoru, please,” you murmur, not turning around.

“I just…” He hesitates. “I can get over it. I can move on. We can be friends again—just tell me what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, nodding toward the kitchen doors at the far end. “It’s not about that.”

“Then why does it feel like a punishment?” His voice sharpens, frustration bleeding through. “If I didn’t mess up, why won’t you look at me?”

You turn slightly. “Because you didn’t mess up. That’s the whole point.”

He stops walking. Silence stretches between you like thread about to snap.

“Just tell me,” he says, louder now, more insistent. “Tell me what I did.”

You reach the kitchen doors and rest your hand on the worn push plate, not opening it just yet. You breathe in, then out, trying to keep your cool.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Satoru,” you say. “I like you. God, I like you so much it scares me. And maybe I don’t know how long I have in this life, maybe none of us do. But I also—” your voice falters, “—I also still love Suguru. I know he’s gone. I know what he chose. But he was my first everything.”

You glance back, and for once, his expression is unreadable.

“But you…” you continue, voice breaking slightly, “You are everything. You’ve been my everything since the moment he left. And I could never, ever ask you to be second to him. That would be cruel.”

You see it hit him—sharp and fast, but just as he's about to speak—

A guttural growl tears through the air.

The doors explode open from the kitchen behind you, a massive curse bursting through with a sickening screech. You barely register its shape before you're flung across the cafeteria like a ragdoll, slamming into the wall so hard your vision whites out.

Pain blossoms down your side and ribs as you collapse to the floor, breath knocked clean from your lungs.

You hear him shout your name, voice laced with panic.

There’s no time to recover before the curse lunges again.

But you already feel it—a crackle in the air as Satoru’s cursed energy flares.

The curse rears back, its hulking body radiating a pressure that buzzes under your skin. You’re on your feet before it can strike again, ignoring the sharp throb along your ribs.

It's a special grade. A nasty one. 

Nothing Satoru can’t handle on his own. But nothing you can’t handle without him either.

He’s already in the air, blue-tinted cursed energy pooling at his fingertips, buying you time.

You unzip your jacket with a practiced flick, air shifting as your technique awakens.

“Silken,” you breathe.

The cursed threads unfurl, invisible to all but the most trained sorcerers. They pulse from your chest like tendrils of light, winding through the air before latching onto the curse’s limbs, back, shoulders—threading through its cursed energy channels like needles in cloth. You grit your teeth, focusing.

You don’t need to defeat it, you just need to stall.

The threads tighten and pulse. With a snap, your technique pierces the creature’s cursed core, momentarily rewiring its energy flow. Your breath stutters as you slip into its mind, diving deep into whatever fragmented consciousness it has. The silks flicker—

A memory.

An apparition begins to form, your threads pulling it into the space between reality and illusion.

But the curse is smarter than it looks.

It thrashes violently, senses you within its mindspace, and launches a volatile burst of something cursed straight toward you.

“Toru!” you scream before you can stop yourself.

And for a second—just a split second—his infinity flickers.

Your voice. Your voice pulled him out of it.

The blast hits him square in the chest, slamming him backwards into the wall with a sickening crack of concrete and skull.

You hit the ground, not too hard, but enough that the wind is knocked out of you. Your threads retract in a panic, unraveling the curse’s illusion. You scramble to your feet, blood roaring in your ears.

Something’s wrong.

This curse… it’s not fighting anymore.

You reach out instinctively—and your heart drops.

It’s already been exorcised.

The energy is wrong. Hollow. Something—someone—already destroyed its core and left only the shell.

A puppet.

You get it now.

You whip around and sprint to Satoru.

He’s slumped on his side, long limbs twisted awkwardly, blood seeping from a gash on his temple. His blindfold is loose around his neck, face pale.

“Satoru,” you breathe, falling to your knees beside him, already reaching for his hand. It’s warm.

Your eyes sting. Your vision blurs.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to distract you, I didn’t think—”

His fingers twitch against yours. You bow your head, pressing his hand to your cheek.

“Get out,” you yell in between short sobs, not to him but to the curse that still lingers like a shadow in the air. Your voice sharpens. “Get out. Get out. Get out and go back to wherever you came from.”

It listens.

The space grows cold as the cursed presence retreats, out through a crack in an upper window.

You feel him shift before you see it, his hand squeezing yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You’re kinda loud, you know.”

You choke on a laugh, a sob hitching in your chest. “You’re an idiot.”

“Love when you flirt with me,” he teases, wincing as he tries to sit up.

“Don’t move,” you say, brushing the blood-streaked hair off his forehead with trembling fingers. “Let me see.”

He blinks up at you, eyes soft now, as if nothing else matters but the look on your face.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you whisper, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms come around you, steady and warm.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “As long as you’re here, I’m okay.”

Your face buries into the curve of his neck, breath hitching as your mascara smudges against the fabric of his uniform. His skin is warm, pulse steady beneath your cheek, and his hands—gentle despite the size of them—thread through your hair.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice rasping low into your ear. “I’m okay.”

But you don’t move. Not until your chest stops trembling and the ache of fear in your ribs starts to dull. Then, slowly, you pull back.

Your hands find his face instinctively, cradling it like something fragile. His cheeks are damp with sweat and blood, streaked where it had trickled down from the gash on his temple. Your thumb swipes gently beneath his eye, clearing a smear of red.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything—not with words at least.

Because you’re already leaning in, lips brushing his softly at first, as if asking permission.

And when he kisses you back—when his mouth meets yours fully, hands sliding to your waist to pull you closer—it’s not rushed or frenzied, but deep and slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing it.

The taste of his blood lingers faintly on your tongue, but it’s overwhelmed by the warmth of him, the way his fingers curl into the fabric at your hips like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

You pull away slowly, breath still trembling, a delicate thread of saliva connecting your lips to his before it breaks. His mouth is red—blood and you—but he doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the floor, voice barely audible over the ringing silence that follows.

“Don’t be,” he says softly.

His hand rises, thumb slipping under your chin, coaxing your gaze back to him. The touch is gentle, steady, like he’s afraid you might break again. His eyes search yours with quiet patience.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice lower now, almost a whisper.

You exhale, shaky, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins, making everything feel too fast and too fragile.

“I’m done,” you say. The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them. “I’m done being scared.”

His brows draw in slightly, but he stays silent, waiting.

“I love you, Toru.” Your voice cracks, just a little. “I love you, and I love Suguru. I always will. But I’m tired of running from what’s left. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this—don’t want you.”

You meet his gaze fully now. “So if you still want me… I’m not going to be scared anymore.”

Satoru’s eyes widen, just barely, and for a moment you think he might say no. But then his hands slide up, one resting over your cheek, the other at your waist.

“You mean that?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your face. “You’re really not going to run anymore?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I mean it.”

He grins then, soft and real, like the sun cracking through a stormcloud. “Good,” he says, leaning in. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s deeper this time, slower. He pulls you closer, and for a fleeting second, the world is just you and Satoru.

Then—

Ahem.

You both freeze, turning toward the doorway where Nanami stands with his arms crossed, expression somewhere between neutral and irritated.

“If you’re done,” he says, dryly, “I’d like to know what the hell happened here.”

Satoru sighs, still holding your waist. “Special grade showed up, that’s all.”

Nanami frowns. “So where is it?”

“Oh.”

You exchange a glance with Satoru before stepping forward, brushing dust off your jacket. “It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

You nod. “It had already been exorcized.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Nanami says. “You said it attacked—”

“I got into its head for a second,” you explain, voice steadier now. “And I recognized it. It was one of Suguru’s curses. One he absorbed on our last mission together. It was here keeping watch or something.”

Satoru straightens beside you, his smile gone. “So this really is tied to Suguru.”

The room is quiet for a beat too long.

“Well,” Nanami says finally, “that’s… something.”

Nanami nudged his head backward, and you all begin to head toward the exit when Satoru suddenly pauses.

“Wait. We didn’t check the kitchen yet.”

You stop mid-step. “You think there’s more?”

“Dunno,” he says. “But the curse was in there, doesn’t sit right.”

You all double back and push open the double doors to the kitchen. It’s dusty and dim, but in the corner of the room, stacked beneath a tarp, are several wooden crates labeled for shipment.

Nanami pulls the tarp away, revealing the crate tops clearly marked with a return address—somewhere on the outskirts of Tokyo.

Satoru pries one open with a flick of cursed energy.

Inside, nestled among straw and paper, are cursed tools: blades; talismans; sealed charms.

You inhale sharply.

“He was guarding these,” you murmur. “Which means…”

“…If Suguru is running that temple,” Satoru says darkly, “he’s getting shipments of cursed tools. Probably using the school as a front.”

Nanami closes the lid carefully. “Then we know our next stop.”

“We’ll need approval first,” you say, already pulling out your phone and snapping pictures of the address labels and the cursed tools nestled inside the crate. “We can’t just act without clearance. Not if it’s this important.”

“Right, right,” Satoru mutters, crouching beside you. “But do you think they’d care if we just… took one?” He lifts a cursed dagger delicately, inspecting the seal that hums faintly with energy. “You know, for research.”

You shoot him a look. “Put it down, Satoru.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, but sets it back in the straw lining. “You’ve gotten bossy.”

You ignore him, moving down the line of crates, documenting everything you can. Nanami methodically opens each one, revealing more tools, scrolls, and objects of power that shouldn’t be in an abandoned school, let alone in unlicensed circulation.

“I’ll forward this to Yaga,” Nanami says, taking his own photos. “It’ll take a few days to get through protocol, but this should be enough to greenlight an investigation.”

“Assuming it doesn’t disappear before then,” you murmur, scrolling through your camera roll to make sure the images are clear.

Then it hits you.

“Wait—” you say, sharply. Both men look at you.

“That curse,” you start again, voice tightening. “It didn’t resist.”

Satoru blinks. “What?”

You straighten slowly, the realization sliding into place like ice in your veins. “I think it wanted us to find this.”

Nanami curses under his breath. “You think it was reporting back.”

You nod, dread creeping up your spine. “If it’s one of Suguru’s, it’s bound to him. Even if it was dormant. If it was watching the crates… it might’ve been keeping an eye on who found them.”

Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Then he knows…”

“...Or he will know,” you continue.

“Soon.”

The air in the kitchen turns heavy, the weight of Suguru’s name pressing down.

“Shit,” you mutter. “This could’ve been a trap.”

“No,” Nanami says grimly.

You feel your heart pound in your chest as the three of you look down at the crates again. The address, the tools, the curse—it all adds up to one thing:

He’s ready to be found.

“Let’s get out of here,” Satoru says, standing to full height, his voice steeled now. “And make sure we don’t wait for him to make the first move.”

“Agreed,” Nanami says.

You nod, slipping your phone into your pocket, your fingers brushing the fabric at your chest.

You’re in Satoru’s apartment for the first time in months, and it feels both painfully familiar and completely foreign. The soft hum of the city drifts in through the half-open window, and the smell of his laundry detergent still clings to the shirt you borrowed—a faded white one with the collar stretched from wear.

Your hair is damp, curling at the ends as you stir the pot on the stove. Udon noodles twist in the bubbling water, and you work quietly beside them, mixing rice vinegar, soy sauce, and a spoonful of peanut butter into a smooth, savory sauce. The rhythm of the motion is calming, grounding. You’d forgotten how quiet it gets in Satoru’s apartment without his voice filling every space.

He’s in the shower now—finally. The image of his head hitting the wall, the blood down his face—it keeps replaying in the back of your mind. But you shake it off, focusing on the scent of sesame oil and garlic now wafting up from the pan.

You glance around as you stir, eyes roaming over the kitchen. Not much has changed. A few new photos on the fridge—one of Shoko flipping the bird at a rooftop party, and another of Nanami looking deeply unimpressed while holding a sparkler. A cracked mug still sits on the windowsill, filled with a forgotten stick of incense. The calendar above the sink is still stuck on March.

You’re pouring the sauce into the pan when you hear the bathroom door creak open. The sound of soft footsteps pads through the hallway, followed by the familiar rustle of his towel as he ruffles it through his hair.

“Smells good,” he says from behind you, voice lower, a little rougher after the heat of the shower.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s in grey sweatpants, a different towel draped around his shoulders, hair sticking up in all directions.

“I figured you’d be too tired to cook,” you say, tossing the noodles into the sauce.

“I am,” he admits, stepping into the kitchen. “But you doing it? That’s something I could get used to again.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your smile. “Don’t get comfortable.”

But you don’t stop him when he comes up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulder, resting his chin on his right hand.

For a long moment, you both just stand there, wrapped in the warmth of the stove and the silence between you.

“You’re staying tonight, right?” he asks quietly.

You stir the noodles once more, turning off the heat. “Yeah. I’m staying.”

“Good,” he murmurs, letting go only to press a kiss to your shoulder.

You exhale slowly, tension leaving your spine as you lean back into him.

“I missed you,” you say.

His grip tightens slightly. “Me too.”

You turn around, towel still in your hands, and reach up to gently push his damp hair back from his forehead. It’s still warm from the shower, sticking in soft strands against his skin.

“Bend down,” you say softly, eyes narrowing. “Let me see.”

Satoru raises a brow. “I already told you, angel,” he drawls. “I fixed it. Reverse cursed technique, remember? Top of my class.”

You roll your eyes and swat at his arm. “Bend.”

He sighs (dramatically, of course) but leans forward until his face is just inches from yours. The world tilts slightly when he’s this close, blue eyes glinting in the low kitchen light, teasing and smug even now.

You ignore it, peeling back the little bandaid you slapped on him earlier. The skin underneath is smooth, barely a mark left where blood once trickled down his temple.

You trace your thumb over it gently anyway.

“Hardly even a scratch,” you murmur.

“Told you,” he smirks. “Built different.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Built annoying, maybe.”

He grins, and before he can make another smart remark, you let your hand slide from his temple to his cheek, holding him there for a beat longer than you need to.

He leans into it without thinking, and his voice drops.

“Thanks for patching me up anyway,” he says, quieter now. “I liked it. Felt like… before.”

Your heart catches in your chest.

You feel the heat creep up into your cheeks, spinning back around to the counter before he could say anything more.

“I’m making udon, by the way,” you say, voice a little tight.

“Sounds delicious,” he replies, casual as ever. You hear his footsteps come closer, and then feel the familiar warmth of him behind you, arms circling your waist. “I never thought life could be this good again.”

You don’t turn, just keep stirring. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” His voice is softer now, closer to your ear. “I don’t feel completely miserable. I’m getting taken care of. And my beautiful, beautiful girlfriend is making me dinner in my kitchen.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then you turn slowly in his arms, spoon still in hand. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

Satoru pauses. His hands loosen slightly. “Oh.”

He pulls back instinctively, like you’ve swatted him without meaning to.

“I mean,” you add quickly, the words tumbling out too fast, “you haven’t asked me.”

You don’t look at him. Instead, you gaze at the ground, pretending like your cheeks aren’t burning.

You haven’t dated anyone since you were seventeen. You’ve fought hundreds of cursed spirits, gone on solo missions, walked into enemy territory without backup. But this? This makes your hands shake and feel like your heart will burst out of your chest.

He’s quiet for a second. You almost worry he’s going to joke it off like he always does.

But instead, he slips one hand under your chin and tilts your face up gently.

“I’m asking now,” he says, his voice low and sincere in a way that startles you. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Your lips part, but for a second, you can’t find your voice. You just nod—slow, awkward, but certain.

Satoru grins. “That’s a yes?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a yes.”

And he kisses you—quick, smiling against your lips—before pulling back with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Great. Now I can say my girlfriend makes the best udon in Japan.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile creeping onto your face is impossible to stop.

You turn back around, mixing the sauce into the noodles with a quiet focus, trying to ignore the giddy fluttering in your chest. “Grab me two bowls, please,” you murmur.

“Anything for my girlfriend,” Satoru teases, drawing out the word like it’s brand new on his tongue.

You glare over your shoulder but can’t quite suppress your smile. He sets two bowls down beside you, and you scoop generous portions into each, topping them with some finely chopped scallions and the last bit of chili oil from the bottle.

You pass him a pair of chopsticks. “You break it, you wash the dishes.”

“I’m a professional chopstick user, I’ll have you know.”

You snort. “Right. That explains all the takeout containers I’ve seen in your recycling bin.”

Satoru just grins and carries the bowls over to the couch. You grab your drink and follow, curling up beside him with your knees tucked under you.

The TV is on, volume low, flickering with the soft colors of some late-night cooking show. It feels oddly domestic—like this could be just another Tuesday night, not the first time you’ve both let yourselves be close again.

Satoru slurps a noodle, humming in satisfaction. “You know, this might actually heal you not talking to me for months.”

You laugh. “It’s just noodles, Gojo.”

“Just noodles?” He leans into you with wide, exaggerated eyes. “This is a like love letter, sweetheart.”

You bump your knee into his. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He nudges back, smiling. “I know.”

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the warmth of the food and his presence finally loosening the knot in your chest that’s been there for months.

“You’re a real romantic, you know,” you say, leaning back and stretching your legs out onto his lap. “Asking me to be your girlfriend in your kitchen. Over noodles.”

Satoru lifts a brow, smirking. “Hey, these aren’t just noodles. This is a milestone meal. First thing you’ve made me since you decided you don’t hate me.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. You set your empty bowl down on the coffee table. “Still. No flowers? No grand gestures?”

He leans back like a prince in his throne, arms draped over the back of the couch. “I could’ve asked you on a mountaintop, with fireworks and a choir to serenade you. But then I’d have to hike. And you know I only do cardio when there’s exorcising involved.”

You laugh softly, resting your head against the arm of the couch. For a moment, the room is quiet. Then he asks, voice dipping into something softer, “How did Suguru ask you?”

Your smile falters into something gentler, a memory pulled up like a faded photograph. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt—his shirt.

“It was early summer. Just a few months into school. We used to sneak out at night and sit on the stairwell by the vending machines.” You pause, swallowing. “We’d just talk. Or make out. Or both. One night, I asked him what we were and he looked at me like I was an idiot. He thought we’d been dating the whole time. Then he bought me a grape popsicle and officially asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Satoru exhales through a soft laugh. “Wow. I never figured he had it in him.”

You glance at him. “He didn’t. Until he did.”

He finishes his food and leans forward to place the bowl on the table. A quiet stretches between you again.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head without hesitation. “No. I like when you talk about him. You’re the only one who still does like that.” His voice turns dry. “Everyone else talks like he’s a headline or pure evil.”

You shift, brushing your fingers gently over his knee. “He was never either of those things. Not to us.”

He nods once. “I was just thinking about asking again. Properly this time. With flowers. Maybe even a cake.”

“Don’t,” you say, and he stills.

He watches you for a moment longer, something tender blooming behind those crystal blue eyes.

“I mean, Suguru is Suguru,” you say, fiddling with your chopsticks as you scoop up the last of your noodles. “I want you to be you.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. It feels too raw, too much like something honest slipping out when you’re still trying to learn how to breathe around your feelings.

You finish the last bite and set the bowl gently on the coffee table beside his. “And you are,” you add, a little quieter. “You’re nothing like him. You never have been.”

Satoru doesn’t respond right away. He just reaches for your legs again, his hand settling on your shin. His thumb brushes absentminded circles against your skin.

“That’s good,” he finally says. “Because trying to be someone else sounds exhausting.”

You snort, leaning back into the cushions. “You already exhaust me enough as it is.”

“Hey,” he nudges your foot playfully. “I’m a delight.”

You don’t argue.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and grounding, and when you glance over, he’s not even looking at the TV anymore—he’s just watching you.

When you finish your food, you stack your bowl gently on top of Satoru’s and set them both down on the coffee table, sinking deeper into the couch with a content sigh. The TV flickers in front of you, but your eyes are already drifting closed, a slow yawn pulling from your lips.

You barely register the shift of the cushions as Satoru stands, lifting your legs with surprising care and placing them down. There’s the soft clink of bowls in the sink, water running briefly, then the quiet return of footsteps.

“Where’d you go?” you murmur, eyes still closed.

“Just put the dishes away,” he says, bending down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, his voice low and sweet. “They can wait till tomorrow. Come on—let’s go sleep.”

You nod, sluggishly rising to your feet as he grabs the remote and flicks off the TV, the apartment settling into a warm hush.

He laces his fingers through yours, tugging you toward his bedroom with boyish excitement practically radiating off of him.

“I’m so excited,” he grins, glancing at you over his shoulder. “First time sleeping together.”

You roll your eyes, giving his calf a playful nudge with your foot. “You’re such a dork.”

“God forbid a man be excited to fall asleep next to his girlfriend,” he gasps dramatically, hand clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him.

“If you kick me in your sleep, you’re in the guest room,” you warn, trying not to smile.

He pouts exaggeratedly, dropping your hand as he walks into the room and begins pulling off his shirt. “Noted. No kicking. I’ll sleep like a corpse.”

You laugh, reaching behind you to gently close the door with a soft click. You stand there for a moment, just watching him—his back to you, his hair still slightly damp, the way he hums tunelessly to himself as he rummages for something to sleep in.

You can’t help but smile.

Not because it’s perfect, but it finally feels like something real.

“We didn’t get it,” Nanami says as he bursts into your detective’s classroom, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Satoru’s already spinning lazily in your rolling chair, feet propped up on your desk, munching on some pocky he stole from your drawer. You’re crouched on the floor in front of your caseboard, carefully mapping connections with red string between the now printed photos you took at the elementary school and notes — all connecting to how it leads back to Suguru.

“Nanamin!” Satoru exclaims, dramatically flinging his arms open. “She’s being mean. She won’t let me kiss her.”

“I’m working,” you snap, barely sparing him a glance. You straighten to your full height, brushing dust from your pants as you look over at Nanami. “What did you say?”

Nanami exhales, dropping the file he’s holding onto your desk with a quiet thud. “We didn’t get approval.”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean we didn’t?”

“I mean,” he says, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them up his forearms like he’s preparing for war, “Yaga said no. Too many variables. If we’re wrong and it isn’t Geto, we risk exposing resources, drawing attention, and possibly walking into a trap. He doesn’t want to authorize anything until we have definitive proof.”

Satoru finally stops spinning, feet hitting the floor. “We have proof,” he argues. “Or at least enough to act on. You saw the cursed tools shipment—”

“Circumstantial,” Nanami cuts him off. “That’s what Yaga said. There’s no signature, no link that directly ties it to Geto.”

You grit your teeth, looking back at the board you’ve pieced together over sleepless nights. All of it — the cursed spirit, the girl’s story, the tools — it had to be him. You can feel it in your bones.

“We wait?” you ask, voice low. “That’s it? Just sit here and do nothing while he gains more ground?”

“For now,” Nanami says quietly. “Unless we want to do this off the books.”

Satoru’s head snaps toward him, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Now we’re talking.”

You exchange a look with Nanami.

“…How off the books are we talking?”

“Well,” Satoru begins, sliding off your desk with the kind of smug confidence only he can pull off, “I’m the strongest. Technically, I can do whatever I want.”

You deadpan. “Yes, we’re well aware. But that doesn’t exactly help Nanami or me when we get hauled in for unauthorized action.”

“You’ll be fine,” he shrugs, closing the distance between you. “Worst-case scenario? I threaten to quit. Works every time.”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “Surely by now they’ve figured out you’re full of shit.”

“Nope,” Satoru grins. “I actually quit once. For three whole days. Yaga was practically on his knees begging me to come back. I was going to anyway, but he didn’t know that.”

“Charming,” you mutter. “So what time are we doing this?”

Nanami checks his phone. “I’m supervising a second-year mission but should be done in a couple of hours.”

You grab Satoru’s wrist without ceremony, lifting it to glance at his obscenely expensive watch. “I can wrap up here in about two hours too.”

“Perfect,” Nanami nods. “Gojo?”

“Again,” Satoru repeats with exaggerated patience, “I’m the—”

“Strongest. Yes. We know,” you and Nanami say in unison.

Satoru sighs like he’s surrounded by fools. “I promised Fushiguro’s kid I’d stop by today. He’s been grumpy lately, thinks I forgot about his last tournament. I’ll meet you guys at the side entrance at seven.”

“Thank you,” Nanami says, finally relenting.

“Alright,” you say, already pulling out your phone and unlocking it. “Let’s keep it simple tonight. Just reconnaissance. We see what’s there, if the address checks out, and whether it’s connected to Geto. No action unless we absolutely have to.”

You tap quickly on the screen. “Sending the address to Ijichi right now.”

Satoru’s head tilts slightly, smiling lazy. “I love when you take charge.”

You shoot him a look.

Nanami’s already halfway out the door. “I’ll see you both at seven. Try not to kill each other before then.”

“Only if he behaves,” you call after him, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“Can’t make any promises,” Satoru says, grinning like a man who absolutely never will.

You nudge him in the side with your elbow, and he immediately doubles over like you’ve delivered a fatal blow.

“You don’t love me,” he gasps, clutching his ribs like you’ve stabbed him. “You’re going to break up with me. You hate me. This is emotional abuse.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, grabbing the front of his jacket and tugging him upright.

You rise up on your tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his lips.

“There,” you say, pulling back with a smirk. “Your kiss. Now go. And tell Megumi I said hi before he pretends not to know you again.”

Satoru grins, recovering from his mock-injury instantly. “He’s going to pretend, but I know he misses me.”

“Delusional,” you call out as he heads toward the door.

“Hot,” he calls back, winking over his shoulder.

“Go!” you laugh, shaking your head as the door swings shut behind him.

It’s exactly 7:00 when Nanami steps out from the trees, punctual as ever. He’s still in his uniform, tie perfectly knotted, not a hair out of place. You, on the other hand, have swapped yours for something more comfortable, arms crossed as the mountain air settles cool around you.

He glances around. “Is he late again?”

You shake your head, barely hiding your smirk. “Not this time. I called him myself, made him swear on whatever’s left of his dignity. He should be here any—”

A sharp whoosh of cursed energy cuts through the still air.

You both turn at the same time.

“—minute,” you finish, as Satoru Gojo materializes beside you with a smug grin and absolutely no sense of urgency.

“Ijichi’s around the corner,” Nanami says, already taking long strides ahead.

You fall into step beside him, glancing back once to make sure Gojo’s following—which, of course, he isn’t immediately. He’s admiring the scenery like you’re on a leisurely stroll instead of heading toward a potentially cursed site.

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t stall the car trying to parallel park again,” you mutter.

Nanami huffs, not quite a laugh, but close. “He wouldn’t need to if Gojo didn’t always insist on giving him directions.”

“I’m helping,” Gojo calls out from behind, grinning. “He said turn left, I said believe in yourself. Same thing.”

You and Nanami share a look.

“I tried to contact the property manager, but they didn’t get back to me,” Nanami says as you approach the street. “You and Gojo do a perimeter sweep, see if anything feels off before we go in.”

“Got it,” you nod, eyes scanning the nondescript building tucked between empty lots and old signage. Whatever’s happening inside, it hasn’t drawn much attention—yet.

Gojo finally catches up, hands in his pockets, leaning close enough to bump your shoulder.

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he singsongs. “Let’s go, partner.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already moving.

“This is as far as the road takes us,” Ijichi says, easing the car to a stop. “You’ll have to continue on foot from here. I’ll turn around and wait at the entrance.”

“Thanks, Ijichi,” you say, stepping out and stretching your legs as Nanami and Gojo exit from the back.

The forest around the old access road hums low with insects, the air thick and unmoving. You glance toward the trailhead carved between overgrown brush and worn stone steps, and a strange shiver runs down your spine.

“This place feels… familiar,” Satoru murmurs, now standing beside you. He slides his fingers between yours, and despite the warmth of his touch, the feeling doesn’t go away.

Nanami’s already a few steps ahead, checking a map on his phone. “This path should take us around to the rear of the building. From there, we follow the ridge by the water—it loops around to the front.”

You nod, watching the overgrowth sway slightly in a wind that doesn’t exist. Satoru squeezes your hand once.

“Let’s move,” Nanami calls over his shoulder. “The longer we wait, the darker it gets.”

You tighten your grip on Satoru’s hand, and the three of you step into the shadowed path.

The path isn't long—maybe ten minutes at most—and though overgrown in places, it's easy enough to navigate with Nanami leading the way and Satoru occasionally brushing branches aside for you with exaggerated flair.

When the trail finally spits you out into a clearing, the back of the building comes into view. It's unassuming, almost disappointingly ordinary. Cracked concrete steps, faded paint, a rusted metal door hanging crooked on its hinges. It could be any abandoned office or storage facility—nothing to hint at what it once was.

“Weird,” you murmur, stepping up beside Nanami. “I thought it’d feel more… cursed.”

“That’s the problem,” he replies, eyes scanning the windows. “It doesn’t.”

Satoru tilts his head. “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, horror movie.”

But even as you joke, you can’t shake the unease crawling along your skin.

Nanami turns left, toward the edge of the slope. “This way. The ridge runs along the water.”

You follow, stepping carefully on the narrow path that hugs the cliff. The lake below is still, murky, a perfect mirror of the grey sky above. It’s quiet enough that the sound of your footsteps crunching against gravel feels deafening.

Satoru falls into step beside you again. “Still feel familiar?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares straight ahead.

“Too familiar,” he finally says, so low you almost miss it.

You’ve always liked this part of Tokyo—where the mountains ran deep and the air smelled like pine and rain, where secrets seemed to settle into the earth like old bones. Where mysteries came alive and whispered to those brave enough to listen.

The ridge winds around to the front of the building, the path narrowing slightly as moss creeps over the stone. As it opens up again, you can see the full facade.

Satoru’s hand tightens suddenly in yours.

You glance up at him. “What is it?”

Ahead of you, Nanami comes to a full stop. His shoulders are stiff, his head bowed slightly like he’s trying to read Gojo’s mind.

“This is it,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent.

You and Satoru both exchange a glance.

“What is?”

Nanami turns back forward, slowly.

“The Time Vessel Association,” he says, voice heavy with finality. “This is where I killed Toji Fushiguro.”

And just as the words leave his mouth the front doors creak open.

But no one is standing there.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 05

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (9.7k)

CONTENT — fluff, making out, suggestive, gojo is such an oblivious sweetheart, gojo is also really greedy, implied intercourse, reader meets sugurus family,

a/n: i think i accidentally made suguru fatherless. also i do not write smut for minors (which suguru and reader currently are) so you do not get details. do not fret, smut will be coming soon! i actually based some of this chapter on my first like hook up, except we were both girls and she was my friend lol. hope you enjoy, this was 100% my favourite chater to write!

series m. list | m. list

Late December, 2005

Snow fell thick and heavy on the train ride to Suguru’s hometown, soft white piling against the windows as the city blurred away behind you.

It was only a short trip, but even so, a quiet knot of nerves had settled in your chest the closer you got.

You were not just meeting your boyfriend’s family for the first time. Hiding your relationship from Satoru on campus was one thing, but doing it in an environment where everyone already knew about the two of you would be a lot harder.

Currently, Suguru sat beside you, coat draped over both your laps for warmth, his hand lazily intertwined through yours beneath the fabric. His head leaned against the window, watching the snowfall in easy silence.

You weren’t sure if he noticed your nerves or if he was just that good at pretending not to.

Satoru sat on the opposite of you, stretched long across his seat, practically vibrating with energy.

He was yapping (as usual). This time about clan traditions during the holidays, the sheer number of guests they’d usually host, the ridiculous decorations, and how this was his first Christmas away from home.

“Honestly,” he said, mouth full of some kind of sweet he’d picked up at the station, “I’m not even mad about it. Less bowing, fewer stuffy relatives asking when I’m taking over some dumb seat.”

You hummed politely, but your attention kept drifting — to the snow, to the town you were heading toward… to the warmth of Suguru’s hand still curled under the shared coat, thumb brushing slow circles against your palm.

Beside you, Satoru kept talking.

“…I mean, if your mom’s cooking is even half as good as you say, Suguru, I might stay for New Year’s too,” Satoru grinned.

Suguru chuckled softly. “She’ll be happy to feed you.”

“Good,” Satoru grinned wider. “I’ll keep her company.”

He turned to face you, leaning in a little too close.

“Have you seen Suguru’s mom?” Satoru asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Total smoke show.”

You nearly choked on a laugh, glancing toward Suguru, who, to his credit, only rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Do not start,” Suguru warned, voice low with long-suffering patience.

Satoru only grinned wider. “What? It’s a compliment! I’m practically part of the family now.”

You covered your mouth, trying (and failing) to hide your smile.

Suguru’s fingers laced a little tighter with yours beneath the coat, as if to remind you, or himself, that you were still right there beside him.

Satoru flopped back into his seat and started rambling again — this time about whether or not Suguru’s mom would let him try soju.

“We’re all exchanging gifts on Christmas, right?” Satoru asked suddenly, sitting up a little straighter. “’Cause I cannot wait to see what you guys got me. I just know it’s gonna be something amazing.”

You exchanged a look with Suguru. The plan had already been made. You’d decided to give each other your real gifts quietly, just the two of you, tomorrow, on the 24th.

And then something dumb in front of Satoru, so he wouldn’t catch on.

Suguru’s lips quirked, the smallest hint of amusement.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “You’re going to love it.”

You bit back a smile. “Yeah… it’s perfect for you.”

Satoru beamed. “Knew it. You guys are the best.”

The train finally began to slow, the station lights flickering past the windows in soft yellow blurs. The snowfall had thickened, big flakes swirling against the glass.

Suguru stood, tugging the coat from your laps and helping you up before grabbing both your bags with practiced ease. You pulled on your gloves, scarf tucked higher around your face as the chill crept in.

Satoru was still talking as the three of you stepped off the train, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“Man, this place is cute,” Satoru said, spinning in a slow circle, breath fogging in the air. “Way different than I pictured.”

You smiled faintly — small-town station, older buildings, a few flickering street lamps. Nothing fancy, but warm in a way the city never quite was.

Suguru huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry to disappoint, Satoru, but not everyone lives in a palace.”

“I didn’t say that!” Satoru grinned. “I like it. Kinda homey.”

You caught Suguru’s glance — the faintest tug of a smile on his lips as he shifted the bags in his hands.

“It’s not much,” he said, tone light. 

The walk from the station wasn’t long — maybe ten, fifteen minutes — the streets quieter here, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else. Snow had already blanketed the rooftops, the sound of your boots soft against the packed path.

Suguru led the way, bag slung over one shoulder, one hand tugging his scarf a little higher against the cold. You and Satoru followed close behind, breath misting in the air.

You tucked your hands deeper into your coat pockets, nerves starting to creep in again.

Suguru must’ve noticed — he glanced back once, eyes catching yours, giving you a small, reassuring smile.

By the time you reached his street — narrow, lined with older houses — the lights from his home were already glowing softly through the windows. A simple place, neat and warm-looking, not large, but lived-in.

Suguru stepped up to the door first, setting the bags down and giving the bell a quick ring before letting himself in.

You barely had time to take off your boots before you heard the soft rush of footsteps — and then someone calling out!

“Suguru!”

His mother appeared in the doorway, apron still on, hair pulled back, eyes lighting up the second she saw him.

And when her gaze slid to you and Satoru trailing behind, her smile only widened.

“Oh, you brought them!” she beamed. “Come in, come in, you must be freezing. I just put water on for tea.”

Satoru grinned, already kicking off his boots. “I’ve heard so much about your cooking, ma’am.”

Suguru groaned softly. “Don’t encourage him.”

You stepped inside quietly, warm air already starting to melt the chill from your skin. Suguru’s mom smiled at you again, softer this time.

“I’m so glad you could come,” she said warmly. “My Suguru’s told me so much about you.”

Your cheeks warmed.

You felt Suguru’s fingers brush lightly against your back — a small, grounding touch.

“Suguru,” his mom scolded gently, swatting at his arm. “Be a gentleman and take her coat.”

Satoru snorted from where he was tugging off his scarf. “Suguru, gentleman? That’s funny. I’d like to see him be nice to a girl.”

Suguru shot him a flat look, but dutifully helped you out of your coat anyway, carefully hanging it by the door.

You bit back a smile.

A few minutes later, once Satoru wandered off to inspect the living room — loudly admiring the holiday decorations — Suguru’s mom leaned in, hands cupping your face, her touch warm and soft.

“We need to catch up, you and me,” she whispered quickly, eyes sparkling. “I know Suguru told me this is a secret… but I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

Your cheeks flushed under her touch.

You gave her a small, breathless smile. “Me too.”

She beamed, giving your cheek a soft pat. “We’ll talk later.”

Across the room, Suguru caught your eye — a knowing look passing between you.

You followed him and his mom into the kitchen, the warm smell of simmering broth and fresh rice already filling the air. The table was small but cozy with a simple cloth laid out, steam rising from a big pot in the center.

Satoru had already made himself comfortable, sprawled in one of the chairs like he lived here his whole life.

“Smells amazing,” he declared. “I might never leave.”

Suguru rolled his eyes but didn’t bother arguing, just helped set the bowls and chopsticks, moving around the space with the easy familiarity of home.

You took a seat beside him, fingers curling loosely in your lap. Suguru glanced over once, the faintest smile playing at his mouth, like he could see the nerves still lingering in your shoulders.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low just for you.

You nodded, smiling back. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He looked like he wanted to say more — but before he could, his mom swooped in with a tray of tea, pouring each cup carefully.

“There,” she said, setting one in front of you with a wink. “That’ll warm you up.”

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Satoru grinned, reaching for his cup. “See, this is why I agreed to come. I knew you’d spoil us.”

“What do you mean?” Suguru asks. “You asked me to come.”

“And you’ll get nothing if you keep talking with your mouth full,” Suguru’s mom teased, ruffling his hair as she passed.

You laughed and so did Suguru, shoulders relaxing a little beside you.

By the time dinner was served — hot bowls of soup, grilled fish, little plates of pickles and rice — the room felt warmer.

And even with Satoru chattering away about some ridiculous New Year’s plan, Suguru still found small moments to lean close — refill your tea, brush your knee beneath the table — like little reminders that this was your moment too.

The food was too good to rush, the warmth of the kitchen kept the cold at bay. Satoru kept the conversation going with wild stories from school, dragging Suguru into them, much to his annoyance. His mom just smiled through it all, happy to have a full table.

You ate quietly, listening, the soft hum of it all wrapping around you in a way that felt… safe.

By the time the last plates were cleared, Satoru was leaning back in his chair, arms stretched over his head.

“Man,” he sighed. “You weren’t kidding, Suguru. Your mom’s cooking’s the real deal.”

“Told you,” Suguru said, gathering the empty bowls.

You stood to help, but Suguru’s mom waved you off gently. “Go relax,” she said with a wink. “You’re a guest.”

Satoru stretched again. “I’m gonna go call Shoko — see if she’s jealous yet.”

He wandered off down the hall with his phone, still talking as he went.

Suguru set the last bowl on the counter and glanced at you. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Before he comes back.”

You followed him quietly out of the kitchen, through a side door that led to the small back porch.

The cold hit sharp and your breath was visible in the air, but it was quiet here. The garden beyond the porch was covered in soft snow, undisturbed.

Suguru tugged you down onto the old wooden step beside him, shrugging off his sweater and draping it over your shoulders.

You looked over at him, heart warm despite the chill. “You’re cold.”

He gave a soft huff of a laugh. “I’m fine.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke and just sat side by side in the cold, the snow falling softly around you.

And then Suguru said, “Thanks for coming.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “Of course.”

He gave a small smile, gaze fixed on the snowy garden. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want to. With Satoru here. With… everything.”

You nudged his shoulder gently. “I’ll always want to be where you are.”

At that, he finally looked at you and there was something softer in his eyes. 

“You make it really hard not to kiss you right now,” he murmured.

Your cheeks burned. “...You could.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth, and then he kissed you. Soft, careful, lingering just long enough to leave your heart racing.

When he pulled back, the warmth of his breath ghosted against your skin.

“Worth the wait,” he whispered.

“Come on, I’ll show you the guest room,” he said, standing and offering you a hand up. You took it, still feeling the faint heat in your cheeks.

Suguru grabbed your small suitcase with his free hand, tugging the sweater tighter around your shoulders as he led you back inside.

The house was quiet now — lights low, the soft creak of the old floorboards underfoot as you followed him upstairs.

“Satoru and I will be in my room,” he said over his shoulder. “But yours is the only one with a TV, so… we’ll probably be in here a lot.”

You smiled. “You mean Satoru will probably be in here a lot.”

Suguru huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. He’s already been bugging me about watching those dumb variety shows.”

He pushed open a small door at the end of the hall — a cozy guest room, simple and clean, with a low bed, a worn armchair, and a little TV tucked in by the wall in the center.

Suguru set your suitcase down near the bed, then turned back to you.

“You can settle in,” he said, voice soft. “But… don’t fall asleep too fast.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I kinda wanted more time with you.”

You felt your pulse quicken, the warmth in your chest blooming all over again.

“...I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly. “If you stayed. For a little.”

Suguru’s smile deepened but he didn’t move right away. Just stood there, lingering near the door, one hand resting lightly on the frame.

For a second, he looked like he might step closer (might kiss you again) but then you both heard Satoru’s voice, echoing up the stairs.

“Suguru! Where are we sleeping? I wanna cuddle!”

Suguru sighed under his breath, lips twitching. “Saved by the idiot.”

You bit back a laugh.

He lingered one second longer, gaze soft on you. “I’ll be back later,” he murmured. “Promise.”

And then he slipped out, heading down the hall toward his room.

Satoru sprawled across the bed, arms folded behind his head, still rambling about some ridiculous old Gojo family party story.

Suguru sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed, only half-listening — gaze distant, fingers absently brushing over the edge of the photo strip tucked inside his bag.

Not that he’d admit it out loud… but he already couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

Satoru was mid-story, waving his hands like there was a crowd in front of him instead of just Suguru and the quiet hum of the heater.

“—and then my uncle fell straight into the koi pond. Like, full suit, shoes, everything. Ruined the catering.”

Suguru gave a soft grunt in response, still only half-listening.

Satoru tilted his head, squinting at him. “You’re unusually quiet.”

“Just tired,” Suguru murmured.

Satoru flopped onto his side dramatically. “Liar. You get like this when you’re thinking about something you don’t wanna say.”

Suguru didn’t respond, still absently toying with the strap of his bag.

He speaks up, asking if it’s about you. There was a beat of quiet, and then Satoru said, too casually, “You know, I was actually thinking about asking her out.”

That made Suguru look up, slowly.

Satoru didn’t meet his eyes. Just kept staring up at the ceiling, voice deceptively light. “I mean, she’s really pretty. Cool, too. Easy to talk to. And she actually laughs at my jokes.”

Suguru’s jaw tensed, just slightly. “You were going to ask her out?”

Satoru shrugged. “Yeah. Before this trip. But… I don’t know.”

He finally looked at Suguru, not teasing now, not smug. Just thoughtful.

“I’m pretty sure she has a thing for you.”

Suguru looked away.

“...Satoru.”

The name came out lower than he meant it to — heavier. The kind of tone that said drop it without having to explain why.

Satoru blinked at him for a second, then raised his eyebrows.

“Woah. Haven’t heard you say my actual name in a while.”

Suguru didn’t answer, still facing the window now. Snow was still falling, gently, brushing against the glass like it didn’t know how much tension sat in the room.

Satoru gave a small, knowing smile before Suguru spoke up, “Don’t be an idiot.”

He rolled onto his back again, sighing. “Her taste in people is questionable.”

Suguru scoffed quietly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Satoru let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jeez, alright. You’re no fun sometimes.”

Suguru didn’t reply right away, just flicked a glance his way, one brow barely raised.

“I’m sorry. You’re not that dumb,” Suguru said quietly.

Satoru grinned. “Yeah, well… maybe sometimes. But not about that.”

The room settled again.

Moments like this — the rare ones, without the noise of school or clan politics or cursed spirits — reminded Satoru why they worked, the two of them. Suguru never needed him to be “Gojo Satoru.” Just… himself.

And for Suguru… well. There weren’t many people who understood how heavy certain names could feel. Satoru did.

Satoru shifted again, voice lighter this time. “You think your mom’s gonna make those little sesame mochi things tomorrow?”

Suguru nodded. “She already did. They’re in the fridge.”

Satoru’s grin widened. “Perfect. I’m raiding it first thing.”

Suguru finally smiled. 

Satoru finally rolled off the bed, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, alright,” he said, grabbing a handful of clothes from his open suitcase. “I’ll be back. Gonna get ready to sleep.”

Suguru nodded absently, watching as Satoru padded off down the hall to begin his half an hour long skin care routine.

The second he heard the bathroom door click shut, Suguru stood, barefoot steps soft on the old floorboards as he crossed the hall to your room.

He knocked once before easing the door open.

You were already curled up on the bed, blanket tucked over your legs, flipping absently through your phone.

When you looked up, eyes meeting his, the nerves that had been sitting in your chest all night softened instantly.

Suguru slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Sorry, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low. “Were you sleeping?”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “No.”

Without another word, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, fingers brushing lightly over your blanket.

“Mind if I stay? Just for a bit.”

Your breath caught and you only nodded, voice caught somewhere in your throat.

Suguru shifted closer, slow, careful — the way he always was with you — settling beside you on the bed. His palm rested just over the blanket near your knee, fingers curling slightly into the fabric.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke and the only sound was the faint hum of the house settling and the soft brush of snow against the window.

You could feel the warmth of him through the layers, his presence steady beside you. The air between you felt thick.

Your heart beat faster, skin prickling in that way that only ever happened when it was just the two of you, late like this.

Suguru glanced down at your legs beneath the blanket, then back up to meet your eyes, gaze lingering.

“You looked nervous earlier,” he said softly. “When we got here.”

You swallowed, pulse quick. “A little.”

“Not anymore?” His voice stayed low, rougher now — eyes darker in the low light.

You shook your head, breath catching.

That earned the faintest smile from him but something deeper flickered behind it.

He shifted again, leaning in enough that you could feel the brush of his hair against your cheek, the slow warmth of his breath.

You sat up a little farther in the bed, the blanket slipping down slightly with the movement.

His eyes flicked down, catching the glimpse of your tank top beneath. This time, you didn’t feel embarrassed.

If anything, the way his gaze lingered, just for a second too long, only sent another flutter racing through your chest.

When his eyes met yours again, there was something heavier in them now, something that made the space between you feel impossibly small.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice low, rough at the edges. “Even Satoru thinks so.”

His face moved closer to yours, breath warm across your lips.

But before he could say more, you closed the distance, your hand slipping up, fingers weaving through his hair to pull him in.

When you finally pulled back, breath shallow, you kept your fingers tangled in his hair, gaze steady.

“Can we not talk about Satoru right now?” you whispered.

A small huff of a laugh left him, low in his throat.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “We really don’t need to.”

His mouth found yours again. It was soft at first, the way he always kissed you since that summer night when he first did. Gentle, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

But this time, something in your stomach burned hot, twisting, sending sparks up through your chest. And before you knew it, the kiss deepened — hungrier, needier — your hand tightening in his hair, his fingers sliding over your waist beneath the blanket.

The warmth between you built fast, the space between your bodies shrinking until there wasn’t any space at all.

Every brush of his mouth against yours left you wanting more — breath short, heart racing, heat blooming under your skin.

As his hand slid under your tank top, warm against bare skin, his mouth followed — slow, deliberate — trailing kisses down the side of your neck.

Every press of his lips sent another wave of heat through you, breath catching in your throat.

Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, pulling him a little closer as his hand smoothed over your waist, slow and sure. His touch was careful, but not hesitant — like he knew exactly how far you’d let him go.

“God,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough now. “You drive me crazy.”

You shivered beneath him, heart hammering.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice breaking on a breath. “Baby, please.”

The sound of it — the way you said baby — made something in him snap.

Suguru groaned low in his throat, mouth moving hungrily back to yours, his hand sliding higher beneath your tank top, fingers splaying against warm skin.

He kissed you deeper this time — no more careful, no more patient — like he couldn’t hold back anymore. Like he didn’t want to.

Your arms curled around him, pulling him closer, chest to chest now, every inch of you burning.

“Not gonna stop,” he murmured between kisses, breath hot against your mouth. “Not when you ask me like that.”

His hand slid higher. You gasped, breath catching.

Suguru kissed you harder in response, the heat between you spiking fast.

“Suguru! Where’d you go?” Satoru’s voice rang out, loud, echoing down the hallway.

You both froze.

Your pulse thundered in your ears — chest rising and falling fast. Suguru pressed his forehead to yours, breath rough, the moment still burning hot between you.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. He pulled his hand back, slow, regretful. “I’m sorry. I… got carried away.”

You shook your head quickly, voice soft. “Don’t be sorry.”

His fingers brushed your cheek, gentle now. “I should be. You deserve better than me rushing you.”

Footsteps creaked somewhere out in the hall.

Suguru leaned in one last time, brushing a soft kiss to your lips — slower, steadier this time. “Good night,” he said, voice low.

And with one last lingering glance, full of things neither of you could say yet, he slipped quietly out of your room, just as Satoru’s footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

“What happened to your hair?” Satoru asked the second he spotted Suguru in the hallway, eyebrows raised. “And why’s your face so red?”

Suguru cleared his throat, running a hand quickly through his hair — the strands definitely more mussed than they’d been a few minutes ago. He adjusted the waistband of his shorts, trying to look casual.

“Got hot,” he said flatly. “Opened a few windows.”

Satoru squinted at him. “Uh huh.”

Suguru didn’t offer anything more, just brushed past him down the hall.

“Man, it’s the middle of winter,” Satoru called after him. “You’re acting weird tonight.”

Suguru kept walking, pulse still unsteady, jaw tight. Yeah. He was acting weird.

And the worst part? All he could think about now was getting through tomorrow — and finding another moment alone with you.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of something warm and sweet drifting through the house.

You blinked sleepily against the soft morning light spilling through the curtains, the air in the room still cool from the night. For a second, everything from last night came rushing back — the weight of Suguru’s body pressed against yours, the heat of his mouth on your skin, the way he’d whispered against your lips.

Your cheeks flushed warm beneath the covers.

You sat up slowly, tugging the blanket around your shoulders.

Voices drifted faintly from downstairs — Satoru loud as always, Suguru’s quieter hum beneath his. And Suguru’s mom calling them both to help finish breakfast.

You got dressed, fingers lingering for a moment at your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks still looked a little flushed, but the butterflies in your stomach had settled into something quieter now. 

When you finally headed downstairs, the house was already full of life. Suguru’s mom was bustling around the kitchen, a small stack of wrapped gifts appearing by the low table, and the smell of sweet sesame mochi filling the air.

Satoru was already at the table, mid-story, waving his chopsticks around.

“…And then she actually kicked me out—oh hey!” His face lit up as you walked in. “Sleeping beauty’s awake.”

Suguru was at the counter, pouring tea. The second his eyes met yours, you bit your lip, trying to fight the smile tugging at your mouth. He looked away first, but not before you caught the faintest hint of color creeping up his neck.

“You hungry?” Suguru’s mom called cheerfully. “Sit, sit! I made a lot.”

You moved to sit at the table, heart still fluttering as you caught another glance from Suguru across the room.

You settled in at the table, the warmth of the kitchen seeping into your skin.

Satoru leaned over, grinning wide. “Man, you missed out — the mochi’s incredible. I’m already on my second plate.”

Suguru’s mom set a fresh plate in front of you, beaming. “Eat! You’ll need your energy for later, there’s still decorating to finish.”

You smiled, murmuring a soft thank you.

Suguru came over a moment later, setting a cup of tea beside your plate — his fingers brushing yours just barely. A tiny spark of warmth shot through you at the touch.

He didn’t say anything, but the glance he gave you said enough — the same quiet promise from the night before lingering in his eyes.

You picked up your chopsticks, trying to focus on the food instead of the butterflies still swirling low in your stomach.

Satoru, oblivious as ever, started chattering again. “Oh, by the way — we’re still doing the gift exchange tomorrow, right? I came prepared.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Hope you two got me something good.”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”

Satoru grinned. “Knew it. Best Christmas ever.”

“So, what’re you kids planning today?” Suguru’s mom asked, setting another dish on the table. “It’s Christmas Eve and gifts are tomorrow, but you should get out and enjoy the snow.”

Satoru perked up immediately. “I was thinking about sledding. Maybe sneak into town, grab some sweets.”

“You’re always thinking about food,” Suguru muttered, elbowing him while he was sipping his tea.

Satoru grinned. “Hey — holidays are for eating.”

Suguru’s mom laughed softly. “Well, as long as you’re back before dinner. And remember, we still need to finish the tree.”

Suguru looked toward you, eyes warm. “What do you think? Are you up for going out for a bit?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “I’d like that.”

“Perfect,” Satoru grinned, already shoveling the last of his mochi into his mouth. “You two get ready, I’ll grab the sleds. I saw some in the shed out back.”

Before either of you could answer, he was already up and thudding down the hall, as loud as ever.

Suguru huffed a small laugh under his breath, setting his cup down. “Some things never change.”

You glanced over at him, warmth settling low in your stomach again. His eyes met yours — quieter this time, softer — like there was more he wanted to say, but couldn’t here at the table.

“I’ll grab your coat,” he murmured instead, brushing past you on his way to the hall.

You turned back toward the kitchen for a moment, catching Suguru’s mom as she tidied up the last of the dishes.

“Thank you for breakfast,” you said warmly.

She glanced up, smile bright and soft. “Of course, sweetheart. I’m so glad you came.”

Her eyes twinkled a little, the unspoken understanding between you making your cheeks flush again.

“Go have fun,” she added, waving you toward the door. “And try to keep those two out of trouble.”

You laughed softly. “I’ll try.”

Suguru trailed behind you and Satoru the entire walk to the hill — hands in his coat pockets, steps unhurried.

Weirdly enough, you and Satoru didn’t actually know the way. Satoru was leading the charge with all the confidence in the world, sleds in hand, chatting about how he definitely remembered where it was from the walk over.

You glanced over your shoulder at Suguru, who only gave you a knowing look — amused, a little smug.

“Are you going to tell him we’re lost?” you asked quietly when Satoru had bounded too far ahead.

Suguru shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Let him figure it out.”

“Great,” you murmured, fighting back a laugh.

The three of you wandered down winding paths, through snow-covered streets and out toward the quieter edge of town. The snow was falling steadily now, the whole world wrapped in soft white.

Satoru finally stopped in front of an unfamiliar stretch of trees, turning around with a grin. “Okay… maybe I forgot which turn.”

Suguru huffed a laugh from behind you. “This way,” he said simply, stepping forward at last.

You caught his eye as he passed, warmth blooming in your chest again. You were starting to think maybe he liked watching you follow him.

Suguru led the way after that, steps sure — like he’d done this a hundred times before.

You and Satoru followed, a little quieter now, winding through a small wooded path where the branches hung low with snow. The light was soft here, everything muted except for the crunch of boots beneath fresh powder.

After a short climb, the trees opened up — revealing a long, open hill that sloped down toward the frozen edge of a wide field. The snow here was untouched, perfect for sledding.

Satoru grinned wide. “See? I totally would’ve found it.”

Suguru gave him a flat look. “Sure.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up.

Satoru tossed a sled toward you. “Alright! You and me, first run.”

You glanced back at Suguru, hesitating for a second — but he just smiled, nodding once. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

You settled onto the sled, Satoru dropping down beside you with an exaggerated flourish.

“One, two—” Satoru shouted, pushing off hard. “—GO!”

The sled shot down the hill, cold air rushing past your face, snow kicking up in flurries as you sped down. Satoru whooped the entire way, loud enough for the whole town to hear.

When you skidded to a stop at the bottom, Satoru flopped into the snow beside you, laughing.

“Best idea ever,” he said between breaths.

You laughed, cheeks still flushed from the ride. “You know… your hair matches the snow.”

Satoru grinned, flopping back into the snowbank. “Right? I was born for winter.”

You shook your head, amused, but before you could say more, Suguru reached the bottom of the hill, boots crunching softly as he approached.

His gaze flicked between the two of you — settling a little longer on you, mouth curving just faintly at the corners.

“You’re fast,” you teased lightly, still catching your breath. “But he’s louder.”

Suguru huffed a soft laugh, setting his sled down. “He always is.”

Satoru sat up suddenly, brushing snow from his sleeves. “Round two, let’s go! You two are up.”

Suguru glanced your way. “You up for it?” he asked softly, just for you.

You smiled, heart still fluttering a little from how he was looking at you. “Always.”

Satoru, already halfway dragging his sled back uphill, called over his shoulder: “Race you slowpokes!”

You and Suguru shared a look, both of you amused. Without a word, he offered you his hand, helping you up from the snow.

His fingers lingered a little longer than necessary — warm even through your gloves.

By the time you reached the top of the hill again, Satoru was already getting set up, grinning like a kid.

“You two can share a sled,” he called. “Since you clearly need more practice.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Suguru only smiled and sat down on the sled, patting the space in front of him.

You glanced at him, pulse picking up. “You sure it won’t break?”

“Come here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The words sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

You settled in between his legs, back pressed to his chest, his arms sliding easily around you to grip the sled’s edge.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath against your shoulders.

Satoru counted them down but your whole focus was Suguru, the way his chin dipped near your ear, voice low:

“Hold on tight.”

And with that you were flying down the hill, Suguru’s arms tight around you, laughter caught in your throat, heart racing for entirely different reasons now.

A few hours later, cheeks flushed from the cold and legs aching from climbing that hill more times than you could count, the three of you finally trudged back through the door — boots soaked, hair dusted with snow, laughter still lingering between you.

Suguru’s mom peeked out from the kitchen the second she heard the door.

“Ah! Finally,” she beamed. “I was starting to wonder if you’d frozen out there.”

“We almost did,” Satoru grinned, kicking off his boots. “But someone kept making us go for just one more run.” He shot a pointed look at you.

You just laughed, cheeks still warm. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

Suguru shook the snow from his coat, glancing your way with a soft, knowing smile that sent your heart fluttering all over again.

“You kids warm up,” his mom called. “Tea’s ready.”

Satoru bounded off toward the kitchen, already asking about snacks.

Suguru lingered in the entryway with you, fingers brushing yours as you pulled off your gloves.

“Later,” he said softly, low enough only you could hear. “Gifts.”

You swallowed, breath catching. “I know.”

After shaking off the cold and catching your breath, you slipped upstairs to take a quick shower, the heat of the water washing away the chill still clinging to your skin.

By the time you came back down, hair damp and skin warm, the house smelled of tea and something sweet baking in the oven. The tree had been fully done up — courtesy of the boys.

Suguru and Satoru were already at the low table, tea cups in hand, Satoru rambling about which movie to watch next.

“There she is,” Satoru grinned when he spotted you. “Hurry up and sit, it’s movie time.”

You settled in, hands wrapping around the warm tea cup.

After tea, the three of you migrated upstairs — arms full of blankets and pillows — piling into your room, since it was the only one with a TV.

Satoru flopped dramatically across the bed, taking up half the space. “Okay, okay,” he said. “The Night Before Christmas— that’s the one.”

Suguru just shook his head, amused, and settled in beside you on the floor cushions.

You tugged a blanket over your lap, heart already fluttering again when Suguru’s hand brushed lightly against yours beneath the fabric — casual to anyone watching, but deliberate enough to make your breath catch.

About halfway through the movie — when Satoru had gone quiet, eyes glued to the screen, halfway buried in blankets — Suguru caught your eye.

He tilted his head slightly toward the door. Now?

You gave the faintest nod.

Without a word, the two of you slipped quietly from the room — Suguru pausing just long enough to grab a small gift bag from his pack. You tugged your sweater tighter and followed him down the stairs, through the dim kitchen, and out the back door.

The porch was cold, but quiet with snow still drifting softly in the dark, the sky low and heavy.

Suguru pulled the door shut behind you, setting the little bag down on the wooden bench. His breath misted in the air as he turned to you, that soft, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth.

“Couldn’t wait,” he said quietly.

You grinned, reaching into your pocket to pull out the small, carefully wrapped box you’d tucked away earlier. “Me neither.”

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You both hesitated for a second, grinning like idiots now, before you exchanged gifts.

“You first,” you said, nudging him gently.

Suguru huffed a soft laugh, pulling the paper loose with careful fingers. When he lifted the gift — the small, thoughtful thing you’d picked just for him — his expression softened completely. Eyes warm, almost tender.

“You always know,” he said softly. “Exactly what I need.”

Your cheeks burned, breath clouding the air. “I’m glad you like it.”

Then he handed you the little gift bag — and inside, folded in tissue, was something simple, something personal — a tiny charm bracelet with the same kind of protective sigils as your matching keychains from the other day.

Your heart squeezed.

“You didn’t have to—” you started, but he shook his head.

“Wanted to,” he said, voice low. “So you think of me when I’m not around.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the bracelet.

“As if I needed the reminder,” you joke. “I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

You set the bracelet carefully back in its little bag, heart too full to speak for a second and then leaned in, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his shoulder. “I love it.”

And without thinking the words slipped out, soft and true, “I love you.”

The second they left your mouth, your heart nearly stopped. You hadn’t planned to say it. But you didn’t pull away.

Suguru froze for a beat, then tightened his hold.

He leaned back just enough to see your face, eyes dark and wide, lips parting like he couldn’t quite believe you’d said it.

But then he spoke, “I love you too.”

You swore you could feel the world tilt beneath you.

And this time, when he kissed you, it was different. Like something that had finally fallen into place.

You grabbed a few snacks from the kitchen on your way back upstairs figuring it might help keep any suspicion off Satoru’s radar.

But when you eased the door open, barely a few minutes later, you found him sprawled out across your bed, blanket tangled around his legs, mouth slightly open, but completely passed out.

Suguru paused behind you, stifling a quiet laugh against your shoulder.

You set the snacks down on the table, shaking your head. “Out cold.”

“Typical,” Suguru murmured, voice low. “He burns all his energy in one day.”

You bit back a smile, heart still fluttering — from the night air, from the cold, from everything that had just passed between you.

Suguru stepped closer, gaze soft as he watched you for a moment.

“Guess we’ve got the rest of the night to ourselves,” he said quietly, voice low near your ear. “We can go hang out in my room.”

You glanced once at Satoru, snoring softly, completely dead to the world, then back at Suguru, whose gaze was steady, warm, and full of everything unsaid between you.

You nodded once, quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He led you quietly down the hall, your hand still tucked in his, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles with each step.

When you reached his room, he pushed the door open softly, tugging you inside. The air was warmer here  like the space held a part of him you didn’t usually get to see.

Without letting go of your hand, he crossed to his desk and carefully set your gift down — it meant more than he’d said out loud.

Then he turned back to you and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“What do you wanna do?” he asked, voice light — almost nervous now. “I’ve got a couple board games, or we could just talk, or—”

“How about,” you interrupted, stepping a little closer, “we pick up where we left off last night?”

For a second, Suguru just blinked, his face turning red in an instant. He reached up, tugging his hair down, trying (and failing) to hide how flustered he was.

“Angel…” he said softly. “I don’t know… I don’t have any protection and—”

“We don’t need it,” you said, grabbing both his hands, tugging him gently down with you onto the bed. The motion caught him off guard, one knee hitting the mattress, your body pulling him close.

He looked down at you, torn between wanting to be careful and wanting to give in.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, hands tightening around yours.

You nodded, gaze steady on his. “I’m sure.”

For a second, Suguru just looked at you like he needed to memorize this moment. Like he couldn’t believe it was really happening.

Then, slow and careful, he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was nothing like the hungry rush of last night. This was slower. Like he wanted you to feel every part of him.

Your hands slipped up, fingers weaving into his hair, tugging him closer as his body settled over yours. His lips traced yours again and again until you were breathless beneath him.

When he finally pulled back, eyes dark with want, voice low against your cheek: “I love you,” he murmured, breath rough. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You pulled him in again, lips brushing his. “You won’t.”

That was all it took, the last of his restraint slipping away as he kissed you harder, hands sliding up beneath your sweater, skin to skin, touch reverent, worshipful.

There was a soft laugh between you — the kind that came with nerves and wanting — teeth bumping once as the kiss turned a little messy, a little too eager.

“Sorry,” he murmured, cheeks flushed. “Guess I’m... not as smooth as I thought.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “It’s okay... me either.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, taking his time, hands moving with gentle care.

When you helped him pull his shirt off, breath catching at the sight of him, there was nothing rushed. Just the two of you, hearts racing, skin warm, a little clumsy in all the best ways.

“I... don’t really know what I’m doing,” you admitted softly.

Suguru kissed your jaw, his voice low, full of warmth. “We’ll figure it out.”

And you did. Together.

What followed wasn’t perfect but none of that mattered. Because it was you and him, and it felt right.

It felt like something you'd both been waiting for.

And when it was over, breathless and tangled beneath the covers, Suguru lifted his head just enough to look at you — cheeks flushed deep, hair messy around his face.

“...Shit,” he whispered, voice soft. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to—”

You pulled him in again, arms wrapping tight around him. “Don’t be sorry,” you whispered back, breath catching. “I wanted that.”

He kissed you softly, lingering, breath still shaky against your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered. Then, with a small, sheepish laugh: “But... I have to change, so... you gotta get up.”

You giggled, cheeks still warm, heart fluttering at the I love you more than anything else. “Okay, okay.”

He rolled off you carefully, brushing your hair back from your face before sitting at the edge of the bed.

But before he stood, he reached back, cupping your cheek, gaze soft again. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Really good.”

He leaned in, pressing another slow, sweet kiss to your forehead. “Stay here. I’ll grab you some water too.”

You watched him tug on fresh pajamas, hair still messy, cheeks pink  and felt your heart ache in the best way.

A few minutes later, he was back with glass of water in hand, one of his hoodies draped over his arm.

“Here,” he said, easing back onto the bed, pulling the hoodie over your head himself with the gentlest touch. “Didn’t want you to get cold.”

You slipped your arms through the sleeves, sinking against him as he wrapped one arm around your shoulders, tugging you in close.

He let you sip water, fingers combing lazily through your hair, lips brushing the top of your head.

“Still love you,” he murmured, voice low with sleep and warmth.

You smiled into his chest, heart so full it almost hurt.

“I love you too.”

You finished the water, setting the glass on the little table by his bed, then curled back under the covers — Suguru’s arm wrapping around you immediately, pulling you close to his chest.

His body was warm, steady, his fingers stroking slow patterns along your back.

You could feel his breath slowing against your hair, heartbeat steady beneath your palm where it rested over his chest.

Just before sleep tugged you under, you heard him murmur softly, barely above a whisper:

“Best Christmas Eve.”

You smiled, eyes falling shut, safe and warm in his arms.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

And with that, the two of you drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, soft light peeked in through the curtains, the house still quiet beneath the weight of fresh snow outside.

You stirred slowly, warmth spreading across your skin before you even opened your eyes — Suguru’s arms still wrapped around you, body pressed close, breath soft and steady against your neck.

Neither of you had moved much through the night. You were still tangled up, the comfort of it too good to let go.

You barely had time to savor it when the door creaked open with a loud thunk.

“Heyyy!” Satoru’s voice rang through the room. “What the hell!?”

You blinked awake fully just in time to see him standing there in sweats, hair sticking up in every direction.

“You two are cuddling without me?” he huffed, marching right in. “Rude.”

Suguru groaned softly, not even lifting his head from your shoulder. “Satoru...”

But it was too late and Satoru flopped down on the other side of the bed dramatically, wriggling under the blankets with ice-cold feet.

“Unacceptable,” he muttered. “Best friends don’t leave best friends out of morning cuddles.”

You stifled a laugh, cheeks burning because he still had no idea.

Suguru finally cracked an eye open, voice rough with sleep, “You’re insufferable.”

Satoru just grinned, worming his way closer. “Love you too. Now scoot over.”

Suguru sighed again, burying his face in your hair for a second.

You peeked over your shoulder at him, fighting your own grin.

We really have to tell him soon, that look between you both said, clear as day.

Meanwhile, Satoru wiggled himself right up against your other side, throwing an arm across both of you with a satisfied sigh.

“There,” he mumbled, head sinking into the pillow. “Perfect. Now it feels like a holiday.”

Suguru gave you a look over your shoulder, eyes full of tired amusement — one brow arched, as if to say: See what I deal with?

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“Your feet are freezing,” Suguru muttered, voice muffled.

“So you can warm me up!” Satoru chirped, completely unbothered, already closing his eyes again. “Merry Christmas to me.”

___

A little later — after breakfast and after Satoru had finally been kicked out of Suguru’s bed so everyone could get dressed — the three of you gathered in the living room, the tree glowing softly in the corner.

Presents were stacked in a small, slightly lopsided pile beneath it — Suguru’s mom bustling in and out of the room with snacks and tea while the three of you settled in on the floor.

Satoru was practically vibrating with excitement. “Alright, alright, who’s first?”

“You,” you said, grinning. “Since you’ve been talking about it since yesterday.”

Satoru beamed, reaching for the wrapped box you slid toward him.

He ripped the paper off in two seconds flat — pulling out a neatly folded, soft black blindfold.

He blinked, holding it up. “...What?”

You fought back a laugh. “It’s for you. You’re always complaining your glasses let too much light in through the sides.”

Suguru smirked. “Now you’ll really look ridiculous.”

Satoru stared at it, then burst out laughing. “Okay, okay — that’s actually good. I’m gonna wear this to the next mission, just watch.”

“Please don’t,” Suguru deadpanned, but you could see the amusement in his eyes.

Satoru grinned wide. “Might be the best gift yet.”

After Satoru was done admiring his new blindfold (and already plotting how to show it off to everyone), Suguru casually passed him a second, smaller gift, wrapped with neat, precise folds.

Satoru tore into it eagerly  and let out an actual gasp when he saw what was inside/

A vintage Digimon keychain — the kind from the old digital pet line that he obsessed over back in middle school.

“No. No way!” Satoru grinned, eyes going wide as he pulled it out. “Where did you even find this?”

Suguru shrugged, fighting a smirk. “I know a guy.”

“You’re the best,” Satoru declared, already fiddling with the tiny buttons. “Oh man, you’re so dead when mine evolves first.”

“Keep dreaming,” Suguru said, dry — but his smile was fond, softer than usual.

You watched the two of them, heart warm — knowing they’d be like this for years. And knowing now that you were part of this, too.

After all the gifts were opened — with Satoru proudly wearing his new blindfold like a headband, Digimon keychain already clipped to his belt — Suguru’s mom called everyone to the table for brunch.

The spread was simple but perfect — warm rice, tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables, miso soup, fresh fruit, and a stack of fluffy pancakes “just for the kids,” as she put it with a wink.

You sat between Suguru and Satoru, the morning light soft through the windows, the snow still falling gently outside.

Satoru chattered the whole time — about his Digimon strategy, about the sledding from the day before, about how this was officially his favorite Christmas ever.

“You two are weirdly quiet today,” he said at one point, glancing between you and Suguru. “Something I should know?”

Suguru barely looked up from his plate. “We’re just tired.”

“Mmhm,” Satoru said, unconvinced. “No fair, you should’ve woken me up instead of hanging out without me.” “Eat your pancakes, Satoru.”

Satoru huffed, grinning, but let it drop, for now.

Brunch lingered long after the food was gone, plates pushed aside, the three of you stretched out around the table.

Satoru, predictably, had started retelling an old story — some half-true version of one of your earliest missions together — arms waving for dramatic effect.

“And then,” he said, voice rising, “he still tries to act cool, even though he was this close—” he held his fingers barely apart “—to falling on his ass!”

Suguru sighed, deadpan. “You pushed me.”

“I saved you!” Satoru grinned wide. “Ask her. She was there.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think you both fell.”

Satoru gasped, dramatically betrayed. “No loyalty. Unbelievable.”

Suguru smirked faintly, brushing his knuckles against yours under the table .

Before Satoru could launch into another story, Suguru’s mom stepped in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Alright, you two,” she said brightly, nodding toward the back door. “I need more firewood brought in — now, before it starts snowing harder.”

Satoru groaned, flopping over dramatically. “But I’m so full, I can hardly move.”

“You’re still going,” she said, smiling sweetly but firm. “You too, Suguru. You’ll work faster together.”

Suguru pushed to his feet, stretching lazily. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Satoru by the collar and hauling him up. “Before she really gets mad.”

As they headed out, Suguru’s mom sat down across from you with a knowing smile.

“There,” she said softly. “Now we can talk.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, hands curling around your tea cup as Suguru’s mom smiled across at you — not teasing this time, just warm. Kind.

“I know it’s not really a secret,” she said softly. “Not to me, anyway.”

You felt your cheeks heat, but you didn’t look away.

“I’m glad,” she continued. “He’s always been happier with you around.”

She reached across the table, setting her hand lightly over yours. “But what I want to know is does he treat you right? Are you happy with him?”

You smiled, fingers tightening gently around hers. “He does,” you said honestly. “I am.”

Her eyes softened, the lines in her face warming. “Good,” she said quietly. “That’s all I ever want for him… for both of you.”

She squeezed your hand once more before leaning back. “He tries so hard sometimes, my boy. Always has. He’s got a good heart — but I know he can be... a little serious.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I like that about him.”

She smiled wide at that. “Then I think you’ll do just fine.”

You and Suguru’s mom lingered a little longer at the table — the kind of quiet, easy conversation that made you feel like you’d belonged here for much longer than a couple of days.

At one point, she leaned in slightly, voice softer. “He won’t say it, but he’s nervous about this. About... the two of you.”

You blinked. “Nervous?”

She smiled knowingly. “It matters to him. A lot. You’re important to him — maybe more than he knows what to do with sometimes.”

Your chest warmed, heart fluttering again.

Before you could answer, the back door creaked open — cold air rushing in as Suguru and Satoru came stomping back through, arms full of firewood, both dusted in snow.

“See?” Satoru huffed, grinning. “Told you I’m stronger.”

“You dropped half of it twice,” Suguru said flatly, shaking snow from his hair.

His mom laughed, rising to her feet. “Put it by the hearth, both of you — and wipe your feet first, or you’ll track snow everywhere.”

The rest of the day moved quietly and quickly.

After brunch and gifts and a little more teasing from Satoru, the three of you spent the afternoon packing up your things, folding blankets, gathering stray mugs and forgotten wrappers from the movie marathon the night before.

Suguru’s mom moved around the house in a quiet rhythm — checking lists, wrapping leftovers, sneaking small treats into your bag when she thought you weren’t looking.

Satoru buzzed in and out of every room, chatting nonstop about what a great trip it was and how next year you should definitely stay for New Year’s too.

Somewhere between folding up your sweater and double-checking your charger, you heard Suguru’s mom call him softly from the kitchen.

He ducked in, and you caught the quiet moment from where you stood in the hall — not really eavesdropping, just... lingering.

She pulled him close, smoothing a stray piece of hair from his face the way only a mom could.

“You looked happy this weekend,” she said softly.

Suguru ducked his head, shoulders shifting. “Yeah.”

She smiled, cupping his cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” he said, voice low but sure. “I promise.”

She kissed his forehead and gave him a small, knowing smile. And for a second, you could see just how much of him came from her.

You left early the next morning, the sky still grey and the town quiet under fresh snow.

Suguru’s mom was already awake when you came downstairs, wrapped in a thick cardigan, hair tied back loosely.

She packed you each a small bento for the train, handing yours to you with a soft smile and one last squeeze of your hand. “Come back soon,” she said warmly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, heart full.

Satoru stumbled down last, yawning loudly. “Too early,” he complained — but brightened when he spotted the bento. “...Okay, maybe worth it.”

By the time you reached the station, the sun was just starting to rise, pale gold light catching on the snow. The platform was quiet, almost empty — just the three of you and a couple other travelers waiting for the first train back.

Satoru yawned again, flopping onto a bench, Digimon keychain in one hand, already poking at the buttons.

Suguru stood beside you, one hand warm against your back. You leaned into him, quiet, content.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice low so only you could hear.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Yeah. Just... don’t really want to leave.”

His gaze softened, thumb brushing lightly against your side. “Me neither.”

The train pulled into Tokyo mid-morning and the sun was already higher than any of you liked, given how little sleep you’d all gotten.

By the time you dragged yourselves off the platform and through the campus gates, all three of you were ready to collapse into your dorms and sleep the day away.

“First thing I’m doing,” Satoru yawned, stretching as he walked, “is faceplanting into my pillow. If anyone knocks on my door, I’m pretending to be dead.”

Suguru huffed softly beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Same.”

You barely managed a nod as you trudged up the front steps of the main building.

But the second you opened the door, Yaga was already there waiting in the hall, arms crossed.

“Good,” he said, voice sharp but tired. “You’re back.”

You froze. Suguru straightened instinctively. Satoru groaned aloud. “No.”

Yaga handed over a thin folder — mission orders — with a look that made it clear you weren’t getting out of this one.

“Curse sighting. West district. You’re the closest team — go grab what you need, but you’re leaving in an hour.”

Suguru took the folder, flipping it open. Satoru slumped dramatically against the wall.

“One hour,” Yaga repeated firmly, already turning to leave. “And stay sharp. This one’s active.”

And just like that, your quiet holiday was over.

Suguru glanced your way, tired. “Guess we’re not sleeping after all,” he murmured.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 04

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.7k) not proofread

CONTENT — fluff, mentions of vomit once, time jump

a/n: i actually got really upset writing this chapter heh. next chapter is rly long and what happens during christmas, also we get so see some more of satoru's friendship w reader and suguru so get ready!

series m. list | m. list

December, 2005

It was one of those rare days where your mission and Suguru’s wrapped up at the exact same time — a little stroke of luck that meant your schedules actually lined up for once. Even better, Satoru and Shoko were both busy.

Sure, you usually found ways to sneak in time together — late-night walks, stolen moments between training — but most of it involved tiptoeing around curfews, since neither of them knew about you and Suguru. Yet.

Not that it was anything serious or dramatic, you just liked having something that was yours. Something that didn’t come with teasing or smirks or endless questions.

And today — with the afternoon wide open, the air crisp and cool — it felt nice to think you had time.

The both of you had returned to campus around the same time, tired but relieved, and quickly agreed: freshen up first, meet outside in half an hour.

And right on time, when you step out onto the path behind the dorms — coat buttoned, scarf a little crooked — you spot him leaning casually against one of the old stone railings.

Suguru’s hair is still damp from the shower, tucked loosely behind his ears. He’s in a dark sweater and coat, hands in his pockets, looking up at the overcast sky like he’s thinking about something far away.

When he hears your steps, his gaze flicks down and softens the moment he sees you.

“You look warm,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

You grin. “And you look like you forgot your gloves again.”

He shrugs, pushing off the railing. “You’ll keep me warm.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s already doing that quiet little skip it always does when it’s just the two of you.

You come to a stop in front of him. He watches you for a beat longer, then dips his head and presses a soft kiss to your mouth.

But the second it hits, you stiffen — the taste of something pungent, bitter, metallic underneath the softness of his lips — the lingering residue of the curse he’d exorcised earlier.

Without thinking, you pull back. “Ugh—”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly. “Shit — sorry,” he says quickly, already fishing in his pocket. He pops a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing fast. “Didn’t even think.”

You’re still catching your breath, rubbing at the back of your hand. “It’s fine— it’s just— gods, what was that?”

He grimaces a little, leaning closer. “Dunno. What’s it taste like to you?”

You blink. “Like… burnt, wet hair. And something metallic."

He makes a face. “Yeah, thought so. Usually tastes like a vomit rag to me.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey, you kissed me back,” he says, teasing, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You shake your head, the taste fading.

“Ready?” you ask.

“Always,” he says, falling into step beside you.

His hand finds your gloved one as you walk, fingers threading easily through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” you say, glancing up at him, “where are you taking me?”

He gives you a small, knowing smile. “To buy you dango.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Since someone—” he tilts his head, a clear jab at Satoru, “ate your share last week.”

You groan. “I told him not to touch mine.”

“He never listens,” Suguru says with a faint laugh. “So. I figured you deserve a replacement.”

Your heart warms, simple and soft. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” he says, eyes flickering sideways at you. “But you can tell me again once you’ve got your dango.”

You tug your glove off with your teeth, pulling it free so you can reach up — fingers lightly toying with the ends of his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it was in the summer, the strands soft between your fingers. He’s taller too — an inch or two since the last time you really noticed.

“Sugu,” you say softly, brushing a damp strand behind his ear, “your hair’s wet. You’re going to get sick.”

He leans in slightly.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, voice low. “You worry too much.”

You let your fingers slip away, brushing down the side of his neck. “And you don’t worry enough.”

His smile widens just a little. “That’s why we work.”

The two of you made your way down to the station, hands still twined as you followed the quiet slope toward the subway entrance. The city above was crisp and cold, breath puffing faint clouds in the air — but down here, it was warm, the scent of metal and sweat hanging in the tunnels.

You slipped through the turnstiles side by side, Suguru thumbing your fare through before you could argue.

“It’s my treat,” he said simply, steering you toward the platform. “I’m taking you out, remember.”

The train rumbled in not long after — a soft clatter through the tunnel. You caught one of the middle cars, leaning together against the side rail as the car swayed into motion.

Outside the window, Tokyo blurred past in streaks of grey and light. The station names rolling by felt familiar.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“That little shopping district you like,” Suguru said. “The one with the stalls and the food carts.”

You smiled, heart warming at how easily he remembered.

“It’s not that far,” he added, fingers brushing against yours again, casual, easy.

The train swayed gently as it sped through the tunnels, a low hum filling the car. You stood close to Suguru, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him a welcome contrast to the cold air you’d left behind.

At one stop, the train jolted a little harder than usual, and you stumbled, hand catching his coat. He glanced down, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You alright?” he asked, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, cheeks a little warm. “Just clumsy.”

He huffed a soft laugh, not letting go. “It’s the train. Not you.”

You peeked up at him, still tucked close. “You’re just saying that because you like having an excuse to hold me.”

He leaned in, a small smile playing at his lips. “Maybe.”

You look away, face flushed, trying to calm your heart.

“So… are you going home for Christmas break?” you ask, trying for casual — though it comes out softer than you mean.

“Definitely,” he says, smiling. “I haven’t had my mom’s cooking in ages.”

“Jealous,” you admit. “I’ll probably be stuck here. My parents are out of the country again.”

Suguru hums, thoughtful. “Well… maybe I’ll bring you something.”

You glance up. “From your mom?”

He grins. “If you’re nice to me.”

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “I’m always nice to you.”

“That’s debatable,” he teases, eyes bright, then adds, a little quieter, “Or… you could come with me.”

Your breath catches. “Really?”

He shrugs, smile turning softer. “I mean… Satoru’s coming too. But my mom’s been dying to meet you.”

The train slows as it nears your stop. 

“You… never mentioned that before,” you say, voice quieter.

Suguru chuckles under his breath. “Guess I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You glance at him, pulse skipping. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flick toward you. “I’m asking now.”

Before you can answer, the train comes to a smooth stop, the chime for your station echoing through the car.

He tugs gently on your hand, fingers still twined through yours. “C’mon,” he says, soft. “We’ll talk about it after we’ve had you fed.”

The two of you step out of the station and into the heart of the shopping district — a narrow street lined with stalls and twinkling lights strung between the buildings, already glowing faintly in the late afternoon.

The air is cold, but not biting. It’s crisp enough to see your breath, the kind of chill that makes the steam from food carts rise in soft white clouds. The smells of grilled mochi, chestnuts, and sweet soy sauce drift through the crowd.

Suguru’s fingers slip back through yours as you walk, weaving easily through the bustling street. It’s busier than usual — families out shopping, students laughing over hot drinks, the hum of the city wrapping around you in a way that feels alive, familiar.

You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Lead the way,” you say softly.

He squeezes your hand, giving you that quiet smile of his. “You sure you trust me to pick the stall?”

“As long as it’s not the one Satoru always drags us to.”

He laughs — a soft, easy sound — and steers you down a smaller side street, where the line of dango carts stretches beneath colorful banners.

“There,” he says. “Your favorites.”

You walk up to the cart together — the familiar scent of toasted rice flour and sweet soy sauce filling the air. Suguru orders without asking, already knowing exactly which kind you like.

You smile as the vendor hands over the skewers, warm and fresh from the grill.

Suguru passes you one, keeping two for himself. “Fair, right?” he says, tilting his head innocently.

You eye him. “That depends. Are you planning to share?”

“Depends how nice you are to me.”

You huff a laugh, but as you take a bite, the smile pulls across your face before you can stop it.

He watches you, fond. “Good?”

“Mmh,” you hum, mouth full. “Worth the trip.”

He leans in a little, voice quieter now, eyes warm. “Told you.”

You reach over, and steal a bite from one of his skewers.

“Hey,” he laughs, mock scandalized.

“You said sharing depends on how nice I am,” you grin. “That was very nice.”

Suguru shakes his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

And before you can think twice, he dips his head, brushing a soft, quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Warm, simple. Enough to send your heart fluttering.

You blink, surprised — cheeks going pink — but he just grins wider, unbothered.

“Sticky,” he teases, thumb brushing lightly at the edge of your lip. “Messy eater.”

You look away, flushed, but you can’t stop smiling.

Suguru just watches you for a second, the faintest flicker of something warmer in his eyes.

You busy yourself with another bite of dango, hoping it’ll settle the way your heart’s racing.

Beside you, he shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing yours lightly as the crowd hums past.

For a while, you walk like that — side by side, quiet, comfortable — the soft winter light catching on the shop signs, the air thick with warmth and scent.

Suguru glances down at you again after a moment. “So…”

You look up. “Hm?”

“That question from earlier.” His voice stays easy, but there’s a hint of something softer beneath. “About Christmas.”

Your breath catches a little, but you cover it with a small smile. “You’re really serious about bringing me home?”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Mom keeps asking who this mystery girl is that’s got me sneaking out all the time.”

Your heart stumbles again — that quiet ache blooming warm in your chest.

You shake your head lightly, teasing. “Mystery girl, huh?”

He smiles — slower now, gaze steady. “Not much of a mystery to me.”

You shift on your feet, glancing down at the half-eaten skewer in your hand, and then back up at him.

“...Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He nudges your shoulder lightly with his. “Guess I’ll tell Mom to set an extra place.”

You laugh, heart light now, the earlier nerves fading into something sweeter.

The two of you wander through the stalls after that — past rows of trinkets, candles, little charms and scarves. The air smells of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts, chatter rising from the crowd as the sun starts to dip lower.

You stop at one stall, all tiny hand-made charms and keychains lined up neatly on velvet cloth. Suguru’s already moved ahead a few steps, distracted by a stall selling old books, but something here catches your eye.

A pair of simple matching keychains — small wooden ones, carved with little protective sigils and tiny painted flowers. Subtle, but sweet.

Without overthinking it, you buy them — slipping the pair into your coat pocket.

When you catch up to him, you tug on his sleeve.

“What’s that?” he asks, amused, as you hold one out to him.

“For your bag,” you say simply, cheeks warming again. “So you can’t lose it.”

He watches you for a beat — then smiles, soft and bright. “You’re dangerous when you’re cute, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart flutters as he crouches slightly to let you clip the keychain onto the strap of his bag.

“Now you have to keep it on there,” you say, teasing, stepping back.

He straightens, giving the little charm a glance — then you. “I will.” His voice is soft, but certain. “I’ll keep it.”

You keep wandering a while longer, Suguru’s hand finding yours again as the crowd starts to thin with the setting sun. The lights strung across the street glow a little brighter now, soft against the early dusk.

You catch sight of a little photobooth tucked between two larger shops — a narrow thing with faded pink curtains and a bright sign above.

You tug on Suguru’s sleeve. “We should do that.”

He follows your gaze. “The booth?”

You grin. “Yeah. Come on — you owe me for letting you steal my dango.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You stole mine, remember?”

“Details,” you say, already pulling him toward it.

He doesn’t resist — just lets you lead him inside, the two of you ducking beneath the curtain. The space is small, the bench barely fitting both of you, but you slide in close without thinking.

Suguru leans in, shoulder pressed to yours. “You know these always come out ridiculous, right?”

“That’s the point.”

The machine beeps and you barely have time to grab his arm before the first flash goes off.

The next few seconds are a blur of laughing and leaning into each other, you sticking your tongue out on one shot, him grinning too wide on another. The last one — right before the final beep — you turn on impulse and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

The flash catches the exact moment his eyes go wide, surprised, the faintest blush creeping up his neck.

You’re still giggling when you step back out into the cool air, waiting for the little strip of photos to print.

When it does, Suguru takes it first — holding it up with a soft smile.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says, fingers brushing over the image of you kissing his cheek.

You grin, cheeks warm. “Fair. But I want a copy.”

The two of you linger a little longer — enough to wander past the last few stalls, the air now cooler against your skin.

Suguru glances up at the sky, “We should head back,” he says gently. “Before curfew.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He adjusts the strap on his bag, giving the new keychain a quick glance, and then falls into step beside you, fingers brushing yours again. You tuck your hands in your coat pockets, but stay close, shoulders almost touching as you walk.

The train ride back is quieter this time. You lean lightly against him as the car sways, the soft rumble of the tracks almost lulling you to sleep. Suguru says nothing, just lets you rest there.

By the time you reach campus, the air’s colder. The lights in the dorm windows glow soft against the dark.

At the path where your buildings split — his dorm to the left, yours to the right — you both stop.

Suguru turns to face you, hands deep in his coat pockets. “Thanks for today.”

You smile, heart still warm. “I should be thanking you.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer, the air between you soft and a little heavier than before.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

For a second, it almost feels like he might lean in — but instead, he lifts one hand, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek.

“Goodnight, pretty,” he says, voice low.

“Goodnight,” you echo, cheeks warm again.

And then, he turns, heading down the path toward his dorm.

You watch him go for a moment, heart still fluttering. Then turn toward your own, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

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[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 03

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (5.6k)

CONTENT — post-Suguru defection, guest appearance, grief, unresolved trauma, discussion of loss/abandonment, complicated feelings, emotional tension, references to past relationship, mild language, soft comfort, angst, mentions of smoking/drinking

a/n: big fat chapter! the next one goes back in time so be prepared. if anyone gets confused with all the time jumps just let me know and i'd be hsppy to make a post explaining!

series m. list | m. list | << prev | next >>

May, 2013

The mattress is cool against your bare back as you lie unclothed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you a reason to move. The last graduation you went to was your own, and even then, the day felt hollow, shadowed by the absence of someone who was supposed to be there.

You never thought you’d go through anything without Suguru after you met him. Back then, your future felt like a shared thing, one long stretch of time you assumed you’d walk together.

But now, you’ve lived more years without him than with him. And somehow, that realization hurts worse than the silence he left behind. 

You’ve hardly thought of that day since it happened. It’s the kind of memory you packed away quietly, like an old photo slipped into a drawer.

But now that Shoko’s finished med school, you can’t stop thinking about it. About your graduation. About the day you stood in front of a crowd with a forced smile and an empty seat in the row you refused to acknowledge.

You thought it would feel like a beginning. Instead, it felt like a breaking point.

Your dress is laid out beside you, half-ironed and untouched. You glance at it, willing yourself to get up.

You glance at the clock on your bedside table — the same one from all those years ago in your childhood home, its glow dim but familiar. It ticks steadily on, indifferent to the ache in your chest.

Your ride will be here in less than half an hour.

The realization settles over you like a second skin, heavy and unwelcome. You haven’t even put on your dress. Haven’t done your hair. Haven’t decided which version of yourself to show today — the composed adult who pretends she’s long since moved on, or the girl who still feels seventeen sometimes, still scanning every crowd for a face she knows won’t be there.

The half-ironed dress stares back at you like it knows.

You exhale, slow and shaky, and finally sit up.

The dress feels as cold as the mattress did, the heat from the iron long gone. You drape it over your skin anyway.

It zips up easily. That part hasn’t changed.

You catch your reflection in the mirror as you pass it, a half-glimpse of someone you’re still not sure how to be. Your hair’s a mess, your face bare. There’s a softness to your eyes you haven’t seen in a while — not vulnerability, exactly. Just… fatigue. Worn in the way grief tends to settle in the skin, not as bruises, but as memory.

You run a comb through your hair, quick, just to feel like you're doing something. The clock ticks on. Less than twenty minutes now.

It’s Shoko’s day. You remind yourself of that. You owe her this.

And even if you can’t promise joy, you can promise presence.

You slip on your shoes, reach for your coat, and step out the door and into the light.

Satoru’s car is already parked out front, unmistakable even from a distance — sleek, obnoxiously clean, windows down like it’s a summer afternoon instead of a foggy May morning. He’s leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose in place of his usual bandages.

You’re not even sure why he drives when he can just teleport everywhere.

As you approach, he straightens a little, eyes skimming over you like he’s taking inventory.

“You look awful,” he says casually.

You huff, brushing past him to the passenger side. “Good morning to you too.”

He grins, rounding the hood of the car. “I mean it affectionately.”

“You say that like there’s any other way to mean it.”

“I’m just saying,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “if we’re showing up late, we should at least look hot doing it. And right now, you’re giving… haunted tax auditor.”

“Very funny,” you say, deadpan, adjusting your coat as you settle into the seat.

“Look,” he says, glancing over as he shifts into gear, “I know how hard graduations are for you. I’m just saying, if you look good, you might feel good.”

You glance at him, brows lifting slightly. “That sounds dangerously close to empathy.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, flicking on the turn signal even though there’s no one else on the road. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

The tires hum against the pavement as the car rolls forward, city buildings slowly peeling past. 

“But seriously… I’m proud of you for coming.”

You look out the window, jaw tight, blinking hard at nothing in particular.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again.

“Look,” he says, “if you want — and only if you want — I have a makeup bag in the back for you.”

You turn your head slowly, squinting at him. “We’re not even the same shade, Satoru. Your makeup wouldn’t work on me.”

He smirks. “No, I mean it’s for you.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s yours,” he says, tapping a knuckle on the steering wheel. “Like, your stuff. Your brands. Your shades.”

Your brows lift. “How do you even know what I use?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Remember that time last year? That mission in Osaka — the one with the acid curse that exploded all over your face?”

You wince. “Unfortunately.”

“Yeah. You were pissed because all your makeup got wrecked and the shops were closed when we got back.”

“I was pissed because I had girls’ night.”

“Same thing,” he says with a grin. “Anyway. Next time I came over, I raided your bathroom and took pictures of everything you had. Restocked it all.”

You stare at him.

“You’re welcome,” he adds, like he didn’t just casually admit to one of the most thoughtful things anyone’s ever done for you.

“God, you’re such a weirdo.”

“A hot weirdo.”

You huff a laugh, leaning back into the seat. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll use the damn makeup.”

“Atta girl.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the hum of the tires and the occasional click of Satoru flipping the turn signal out of habit. You apply your makeup quickly in the passenger-side mirror, steady hands betraying the nerves stirring underneath.

When you pull up to the venue, there’s already a crowd. Laughter. Flashing cameras. The sound of names being called over a tiny speaker.

Satoru pulls into a spot that probably isn’t legal and throws the car in park.

You sit there for a second longer than necessary, staring out at the groups of people huddled together in celebration — parents, friends, siblings. All of them accounted for. All of them smiling.

Satoru turns the engine off and leans back in his seat. “Want me to go in first?”

You let out a dry laugh. “What, and let you take all the attention?”

He lifts both hands. “I live to serve.”

You finally open the door. The air outside is warmer than expected, sunlight cutting through the clouds just enough to make the pavement glow.

You both start walking toward the entrance, shoulder to shoulder. His sunglasses are back on, but his voice is softer when he says, “You doing okay?”

You nod.

Inside, the crowd parts instinctively for Satoru (as they always do), and he makes a game of acting like a celebrity on a red carpet. You roll your eyes, but let him have his moment.

You spot Shoko near the front, her white coat pristine, her smile lazy and warm as ever. When she sees you, her expression shifts, just slightly. A flicker of relief. 

You raise your hand in a small wave. She nods back, like she’s been waiting all day for that.

“We should find a seat,” you say, scanning the rows of folding chairs already half-filled with families and faculty.

Satoru nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Somewhere in the back, right? So we can sneak out if the speeches are bad.”

You give him a look. “We’re here for Shoko.”

“Exactly,” he grins. “She’d be the first one to leave if she wasn’t graduating.”

You roll your eyes but let him lead the way. You follow him down an aisle toward a quieter row near the back, the chatter of the crowd a dull roar around you. He holds the chair beside him for you like he’s done it a hundred times before, like it’s habit.

You sit.

The ceremony is long and boring, and you spend most of it dozing off on Satoru’s shoulder. He doesn’t complain, just shifts a little so your head can settle more comfortably, one arm draped loosely across the back of your chair like he’s trying to pretend he’s not holding space for you.

You stir occasionally — when the crowd claps too loud, or when the dean makes a painfully awkward joke — but mostly you stay half-asleep, drifting in and out of memories.

Except when Shoko’s name is called. That jolts you fully upright.

“Dr. Shoko Ieiri,” the speaker announces, and your hands are already clapping before your brain catches up. Satoru stands halfway out of his seat, two fingers in his mouth as he whistles — loud, proud, and utterly shameless.

You laugh, clapping harder. You’re pretty sure the two of you are the loudest in the room.

Shoko walks across the stage with that same lazy, unimpressed expression she’s worn since you met her. But you swear there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth when she hears you.

You lean toward Satoru, still clapping. “We raised her well.”

He grins. “Proud parents of a doctor-slash-professional chain smoker.”

You nod, cheeks aching from how wide you're smiling. “She turned out alright.” 

When you and Satoru finally make your way through the crowd after the ceremony, you find Shoko off to the side of the reception area, white coat slung casually over one arm, cigarette already tucked behind her ear like she’s counting down the seconds till she can light it.

She’s talking to someone — a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a pressed button-down and slacks — someone who looks so polished, so put-together you almost don’t recognize him.

And then you do.

“Is that... Nanami?” you murmur, blinking.

Satoru hums. “Huh. Didn’t know he had a neck under all that hair.”

It is Kento. Or at least some grown-up version of him. Gone is the black hoodie, the perpetual slouch, the mess of hair that half-covered his face back in high school. The last time you saw him — what, three years ago? — he was still deep in whatever post-Haibara spiral he’d been in, all sharp edges and shadowed eyes.

Now he looks… good. Better. Still serious as hell, but like he’s figured out how to breathe again.

You elbow Satoru lightly. “Be nice.”

“I am nice.”

You roll your eyes and call out before Satoru can cause trouble. “Shoko!”

She turns, spots you both, and smirks. “Took you long enough.”

Nanami glances over, polite as ever. “It’s been a while.”

Satoru grins wide. “Nanamin! You clean up well. Didn’t know you were capable of looking like a grown up.”

Nanami sighs. “Gojo.”

Even with everything hanging in the air, it feels like old friends, almost whole again.

“It’s good to see you,” you say, and you mean it.

Nanami nods, a little softer now. “Likewise.”

Shoko’s already fishing for her lighter when Satoru plucks the cigarette from behind her ear and tucks it into his pocket with a smug grin. “Not today, Doc. You’re supposed to be the picture of health and success.”

She sighs. “It’s graduation, Gojo.”

“You can have two tomorrow.”

Nanami watches the exchange with faint amusement. “Some things never change.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah… some do, though.”

Nanami’s gaze flicks to you — sharp, but not unkind. He’s always been good at reading a room, at hearing what wasn’t being said. You can tell he knows there’s something heavier sitting underneath today’s smiles, but he doesn’t press.

Instead, Satoru stretches, clapping Nanami on the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “So. Big-time salaryman now, huh?”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “Have been. For a while.”

“That’s good,” Shoko says, her voice a little warmer.

“Actually…” You glance at Satoru, then back at Nanami. “We were going to swing by Jujutsu High after this. Could use your input on a few things. If you’re free.”

Nanami considers for half a second. “Of course.”

Satoru grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist the allure of cursed paperwork.”

Nanami sighs, dry. “It’s the company I tolerate.”

Shoko smirks. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Nanami adjusts his glasses. “And yet, here I am.”

You can’t help it — a small laugh escapes before you can stop it.

Half an hour later, you find yourself in the backseat of Satoru’s car beside Nanami, the city sliding past in a blur of late afternoon light. Shoko had begged off at the last minute, muttering something about post-grad drinking obligations — which Satoru, of course, had encouraged.

You glance sideways at Nanami, taking in the crisp button-down, the tailored slacks — and the distinct shape of muscle under the fabric.

“Since when have you been working out?” you ask, eyebrow raised, poking lightly at his arm.

He barely glances at you. “Since I started sitting at a desk ten hours a day.”

You grin. “Gotta offset all those corporate lunches, huh?”

He exhales a short breath, which is his version of a laugh. “Something like that.”

Truthfully, he looks a lot different than the skinny, sharp-edged kid you knew in high school.

Satoru glances at you both in the rearview mirror. “Told you, didn’t I? Nanamin’s got a whole double life going. Salaryman by day, gym rat by night.”

Nanami sighs. “Hardly.”

You lean back in your seat, smiling faintly. “Well. Suits you.”

When you arrive at the school, you let Satoru lead the way — past the familiar old corridors, through doors that still creak in the same spots — until you’re standing in front of what used to be a classroom, now repurposed into something closer to a detective’s office.

The sign on the door is new, but the space behind it isn’t.

Inside, the desks have been pushed aside and replaced with battered filing cabinets, stacks of mission reports, and corkboards littered with photos of curses and various sorcerers. The windows are cracked open just enough to let in the late spring air, stirring the corners of loose papers.

Satoru kicks the door open with the side of his foot. “Home sweet home,” he says wryly.

Nanami steps inside after him, gaze sweeping the room with that practiced efficiency of his. “Looks about as organized as I expected.”

“Hey,” Satoru says. “I cleaned last month.”

You follow them in, fingertips brushing along the edge of an old chalkboard — faded, the ghost of old lessons still barely visible beneath layers of dust.

It feels strange, being back here.

Stranger still with everything hanging unspoken between the three of you.

You exhale slowly. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

You slide one of the chalkboards aside — the old kind, stacked so one rolls over the other on metal tracks — revealing what’s been hidden behind it.

A wall of connected threads.

Photos, mission reports, sightings. Old newspaper clippings. Surveillance stills. Faded personal snapshots from before everything fractured. And between it all — lengths of thin red string criss-crossing from one pinned corner to another, tying the pieces together in a web of almost-connections.

At the center of it all: Suguru.

A grainy photo from a year ago — the most recent lead that didn’t dead-end — pinned dead center beneath the tangled mess of red.

Nanami stops beside you, gaze sharpening. You see the flicker of recognition in his expression, quickly masked behind that steady professionalism of his.

Satoru drops lazily into the nearest chair, spinning it half around so he can lean his arms across the back. “Welcome to the obsession,” he says.

You cross your arms, eyes still on the board. “It’s not an obsession.”

“It’s definitely an obsession,” Nanami says, voice low but even.

“It’s my job,” you correct, though it sounds thin even to your own ears.

Nanami doesn’t comment. He just studies the board, taking it all in — the threads, the gaps, the unanswered questions.

Satoru lets the chair rock back a little, arms folded over the top rail. “Yeah. Well. Sometimes the job eats you alive.”

You don’t respond to that. You just step closer to the board, fingertips brushing over the nearest pinned photo — an old surveillance shot, Suguru half-turned, features obscured by shadow. He looks different. And exactly the same.

Nanami��s voice cuts through the quiet. “What do you want from me?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Input. Perspective.”

“And honesty,” Satoru adds lazily. “She’s too close to this. I am too. Yaga thinks fresh eyes might help.”

Nanami exhales slowly, crossing his arms. “Fine. Show me everything.”

You nod once, reaching for the stack of folders beside the board. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

Nanami steps in beside you, hands sliding into his pockets as you open the first file, old mission reports from the first confirmed sightings after Suguru disappeared. Places, dates, vague descriptions.

You speak as you work, laying out the chain of what’s known — the near-misses, the shadows left behind, the cursed energy signatures just faint enough to stay out of range. You don’t look up to check if Nanami’s listening. You know he is.

Satoru stays quiet now, no jokes. Just watches from his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers.

You reach the middle of the stack — the first real photograph. Suguru, half-turned in a train station, hood pulled low but not low enough to fool you. The cursed energy in the air around him thick enough to make the camera lens stutter.

You pause, fingertips pressed lightly to the edge of the photo. “That was Sendai. March.”

Nanami leans in. “The sighting Gojo mentioned.”

You nod once.

He studies the threads, the photos, the marked points on the board. “He’s moving in patterns.”

“That’s what we think,” Satoru says. “But they don’t track like normal movements. No logic we can follow.”

“Not random either,” you add. “There’s intent.”

Nanami tilts his head, considering. “Then what’s he waiting for?”

You don’t answer right away. The question coils in your chest, cold and heavy — because you’ve turned it over in your mind more times than you can count.

“We don’t really know,” you say finally, voice even. “His last killing was that small village at the end of last year. And since then—nothing. No cursed outbreaks linked to him. Every time he wipes out an area, he scrubs it clean — no cursed energy left behind, no tracks. He’s always been precise like that.”

You glance at the board, at the pin marked Sendai.

“So why start now,” you murmur, half to yourself, “especially since there wasn’t any criminal activity that day. No disappearances. No attacks. No known sorcerer targets.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Only thing going on was the curse I was dealing with.”

Nanami follows your gaze. “So either it’s coincidence… or it’s message.”

“Yeah.” You exhale slowly. “That’s what we can’t figure out.”

And what you won’t say — not yet — is the thought gnawing at you since that day:

Maybe it wasn’t a message for the Jujutsu Society. Maybe it was a message for you.

“Can I ask you something?” Nanami says.

You nod, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the folder in front of you.

He watches you for a moment, steady. “That day, back when you all spoke to him. What happened between you two?”

You go still.

“I mean,” Nanami continues, voice even, “Shoko and Satoru told us how their conversations went. But you… you’ve never said anything. Even now.”

The quiet stretches. Satoru shifts slightly in his chair, but says nothing.

You keep your gaze on the files, refusing to meet either of their eyes. The words are there — sharp, tangled — but you don’t let them out.

Instead, you draw in a slow breath. Let it out just as slow.

“I didn’t get anything useful,” you say, voice flat. “It doesn’t matter.”

Nanami studies you a second longer, but he doesn’t press. He’s not the type. He just nods once. “Alright.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks toward you, unreadable behind his sunglasses.

You lower yourself onto the floor, back against the base of the board. The files are spread around you now — pieces of a puzzle that refuses to fit.

Satoru rolls his chair lazily toward you, knees bracketing your shoulders as you settle between his legs. One of his hands rests loosely on the back of your head, fingers brushing through your hair in slow, absent motions — thoughtless comfort. Familiar.

You lean your head back slightly, closing your eyes for a breath.

“What if,” Nanami says, voice cutting through the quiet, “and just hear me out on this—”

You open your eyes again. His gaze is steady on you, the weight of it making your chest feel tight.

“We all know Suguru wouldn’t get Shoko involved in any of this,” he continues. “He knows she’s not here right now. And Satoru—” a glance toward him, “—he burned those bridges long ago.”

Satoru doesn’t argue.

“So,” Nanami says, slow, deliberate, “what if he’s trying to get your attention.”

The words hit harder than they should. You feel it — the way Satoru’s fingers still for half a beat before moving again.

You swallow. Your mouth is dry.

“I don’t—” you start, but the words falter.

Nanami’s expression doesn’t shift. He’s not accusing, just stating the obvious.

“Why would he do that?” you ask, forcing your voice steady. “We haven’t spoken in six years. He’s probably moved on.”

It sounds reasonable. It sounds logical. It also sounds like a lie — and from the glance Nanami gives you, he knows it too.

Satoru says nothing, but his hand keeps moving through your hair, slower now. You can feel the shift in him — the tension creeping in beneath the easy facade.

Nanami holds your gaze for a long moment. “You don’t believe that.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s right, you don’t.

“Look,” Nanami says, tone even. “I’ve given you something to think about.”

He hesitates for half a second, then adds: “And… I might know something. But I’m not sure if it’s connected to Geto.”

Your head lifts. “What is it?”

“One of my coworkers,” he clarifies, “has a daughter. A few weeks ago, she started showing classic symptoms of a curse. Strong one. But obviously, they didn’t know that, no one in that world would.”

You nod, following.

Nanami continues: “Apparently, a few days after the symptoms appeared, she suddenly got better. Out of nowhere. Now the family’s saying some ‘god’ removed it. And the girl’s been going to this new… temple. Except it’s not affiliated with any known sect or shrine.”

You frown. “A god that knows how to exorcise curses.”

“Exactly,” Nanami says. “And from the way my coworker described it… it sounded off. Too specific. Like someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”

Your stomach turns.

Because there aren’t many people who’d know how to do something like that.

And only one who might do it under the guise of something else.

“Don’t follow up on that yet,” Nanami says firmly. “It could mean nothing.”

You glance at him. “You really think that?”

He exhales, gaze steady. “I think… if it is connected to Geto, it won’t be the only lead. And if it’s not, stirring it up could make things worse.”

You nod slowly, fingers curling slightly against your leg. “Alright. I’ll hold.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, arms folded. “For now.”

Nanami gives him a look, but doesn’t argue.

“I’ll see what I can find out for you,” Nanami says, straightening a bit. “But it could take a while.”

You nod. “That’s fine. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“Of course.”

He glances at the board one last time, taking it in — the photos, the strings, the weight of all of it — before stepping back.

He grabs his coat from the back of a chair, shrugging it on with practiced ease.

“Look,” he says, voice level but firm. “I’m always glad to help out a friend. But I left this all behind for a reason. And I’d appreciate it if you left me out of this mess in the future.”

You open your mouth — to apologize, maybe, or to argue — but he’s already turning toward the door.

“It’s not personal,” Nanami adds, glancing back at you. “I just… know how this ends.”

You nod, the words sticking in your throat. You reach back, grabbing onto Satoru’s thighs to help yourself up. He lets you, hands steadying your shoulders as you stand.

Without thinking, you cross the room after Nanami — catching him just before he reaches the door.

He blinks as you step in, arms going around him in a quick, tight hug. You feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he exhales softly after a beat.

He doesn’t return it fully, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says. Then, with a small tilt of his head, eyes flicking between you and Satoru across the room, he adds, “Also… you better be careful.”

You blink up at him.

“When you do find Geto,” Nanami says, tone even but edged, “he won’t be too happy about that.” He motions — a small, pointed gesture — to you and Satoru.

Your breath catches, but you say nothing.

Nanami nods once, as if to himself. “Good luck.”

Speechless and red in the face, you manage to mutter a quick, “Don’t be a stranger,” before shooing him out of the room, hand on his shoulder as you push him toward the hallway.

Nanami only gives the faintest sigh, but he lets you. “I never am,” he says simply, before striding off down the corridor to find his own way out.

You stand there for a second, cheeks still burning, the door swinging softly closed behind him.

Behind you, you hear the slow creak of Satoru’s chair.

“Well…” he drawls, voice light but amused. “That was interesting.”

You don’t turn around. Just cross your arms, still facing the door. “Don’t.”

He hums, wheels of the chair squeaking faintly as he rolls closer. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

There’s a pause. You can feel him right behind you now, warmth at your back.

“Okay,” he says softly. “But for the record… he’s not wrong.”

You exhale, finally turning to face him — cheeks still warm, heart still a little too high in your chest. “Satoru.”

He holds up both hands, surrendering, though there’s that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, alright. No more teasing. For now.”

He leans back in the chair, watching you with that lazy, knowing look of his.

“…You okay?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. No teasing this time. Just him.

“Yeah,” you say, letting out a slow breath. “I’m just… confused by what he meant.”

Satoru tilts his head, watching you. “You’re not that confused.”

You frown. “I mean—he’s assuming things.”

“Is he?” There’s no teasing in his voice now — just that maddening, calm certainty he gets when he’s seeing straight through you.

You look away, arms crossing a little tighter. “I don’t know.”

He’s quiet for a second, then his chair rolls a little closer, knees bumping yours as he leans forward.

“Look,” he says, voice soft, “Nanami says what everyone else is thinking, yeah. But what matters is what you want. Not him. Not anyone else.”

Your heart skips. You meet his eyes — and for a second, you can’t look away.

The air between you shifts.. Like a line you’ve both been careful not to cross for a long time is suddenly a little too close.

Satoru doesn’t move. Just watches you, eyes unreadable behind the slight tilt of his sunglasses. The light catches them, making it impossible to tell what, exactly, he’s thinking.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, lower this time, almost careful. “Because if you’re confused… about this—”

He gestures vaguely between the two of you — a small, loose movement, but you feel it like a spark along your skin.

Your mouth goes dry and you shift your weight, crossing your arms tighter. “We’re just friends.”

A beat.

“You keep saying that,” he says quietly. “I’m starting to wonder if you actually believe it.”

That lands harder than you expect — your breath catching, the back of your neck prickling hot.

You look away, pulse high in your throat.

“I mean,” you say, words tumbling a little faster than you mean them to, “it makes sense that we’re so close. Haibara died, Suguru…” you swallow, “…turned evil. Shoko went to med school. Nanami left. I mean—it’s just been us two. So we’re just… close friends.”

You hear how thin it sounds. How rehearsed.

Because the truth is — you’ve never really thought of it. Not seriously. Not until now, not until Nanami’s offhand comment cracked something open you’d spent years keeping shut.

You’d only ever seen Suguru that way. Thought of him that way. The only person who could be your person — your soulmate.

There hadn’t been room to imagine anyone else.

Not even Satoru. Especially not Satoru. And now that the thought is in your head — it won’t leave.

You can feel him watching you.

He shifts in the chair again, the soft creak of the wheels loud in the quiet room. One of his knees bumps yours — not by accident.

“You keep saying it like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he says, voice low.

You swallow hard, still staring at some distant point on the floor. “I’m not.”

“Mm.” You can hear the doubt in the sound he makes — soft, almost amused, but there’s something beneath it too. Something heavier.

You finally risk a glance down at him.

And that’s a mistake.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows. Like he’s always known. And now you’re the only one pretending not to see it.

Your chest tightens.

Satoru’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You really never thought about it?”

Until an hour ago, you hadn’t. Not really.

Your mouth opens and stays there, useless.

Because until now, you hadn’t thought about it. Not the way Nanami said. Not the way Satoru’s looking at you now. Not the way your pulse won’t settle.

And every reason you might give — we’ve been through too much, it’s not like that, Suguru was— None of it feels solid anymore.

You force out a breath, voice quieter this time. “I didn’t… used to.”

That lands heavier than you expect. In the space between you, something shifts.

Satoru’s gaze flickers. “But now?”

You press your lips together. Shoulders tense. “Nanami shouldn’t have said anything.”

“That’s not an answer,” Satoru murmurs.

You shake your head, a weak laugh slipping out — humorless. “I can’t—” You stop yourself. 

Suguru’s face still lives behind your eyes. He still owns too much of your heart.

You feel the warmth of his hand before you see it — fingers curling light around your wrist, grounding.

“I’m not asking for an answer,” he says, voice low, steady. “Not now.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“But don’t lie to me,” he adds, softer now. “You don’t have to protect me. I’m the strongest for a reason.”

Your heart stumbles. Because it was never about protecting him.

You finally look, your eyes meeting his.

Satoru watches you for a long moment, gaze open, unflinching. His thumb brushes slowly over the inside of your wrist.

“I’m here,” he says simply. “Whatever you decide.”

And somehow, that’s worse than if he’d pushed.

“I can’t, Satoru,” you whisper, voice cracking at the edges. “We never even broke up. He just… left. And I don’t have any closure. It’s not fair.”

You swallow hard, pulse thudding painfully high in your chest. The words keep coming before you can stop them.

“You’re my only friend. The only one who didn’t leave me. And I’m not ready to ruin that.”

For a long second, he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything. His grip on your wrist is light, but steady.

“You can’t ruin what’s already yours,” Satoru says softly.

The words land deep, a raw ache twisting under your ribs.

You turn your face away, eyes burning, voice thin. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” he says. “But I meant it anyway.”

He finally stands, towering over you — just half a foot between you now — before his arms wrap around your shoulders and pull you into him.

The breath catches in your chest, but you don’t fight it. You just sink in, forehead resting against the soft press of his shirt.

“You’re my only friend too,” he says quietly, voice low against your ear. “And I’d rather have that than nothing.”

You close your eyes, the ache in your chest easing — not gone, but quieter.

Then you feel it — the light press of his lips against your forehead. 

“C’mon,” Satoru murmurs, voice a little lighter now. “Let’s get out of here. It’s our day off anyway.”

You let out a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. The smile he gives you is easy — real.

You nod. “Okay.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens.

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