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Iori Utahime's left arm itches and she can't focus on the conversation that her colleagues are having. She sighs, pulling the sleeves of her sweater back up before deciding at the last second to fold it up twice, right under the tattooed stalks on her forearm lest she wants to start a conversation with Mei that she would rather not have.

Her curious manager, of course, notices anyway. She says nothing, but her eyes always have something to say.

"I'm getting it removed," she mutters to her manager's unspoken question, the first time she's ever spoken about her tattoos out loud. There wasn't a policy in the company that said their employees couldn't get tattoos, but the ink on her right forearm was too much of a statement that Utahime never wanted to make.

The other woman raises her eyebrows and sips from her coffee, looking like the cat who ate the canary, her eyes more smug than sympathetic. "Pity."

Utahime does not deign to give her a response, rolling her sleeve entirely back down and letting her mug burn into her hands instead as she patters out of the breakroom and back to her cubicle.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prays to Microsoft gods to crash her computer so she has a good enough excuse to not be productive and have a few moments alone.

It doesn't crash and her emails keep coming in, each one with a new fire to put out. At least her name had stopped circulating the chat channels and overhead whispers, allowing her to catch her breath.

For the first time since working under the limitless fluorescent lights of this black hole of an advertising company, Utahime both dreads and looks forward to six o'clock. It's only been three weeks since her ears burned at the sound of her coworkers' incessant gossip and she can't stand being around people anymore.

But by six o'clock today, it'll be the start of the end.

Utahime turns off her computer and promptly gathers her things, ready to be the first to clock out and get away. She's about to make it to the elevator when coughing draws her attention.

It's Ijichi, because of course it is, and Utahime's shoulders drop when she meets his gaze. "Yes?"

As head of HR, Ijichi is the only person in this office whose opinion matters to her. He's a good man, if not a bit too timid and soft-spoken. Utahime is well-aware of how much he has had to put up with the bullshit that comes from the people he is in charge of.

"Your complaint was taken seriously, Utahime," he tells her in a low voice, his eyes shifting towards the flashing numbers before landing on her again. "But I wanted to let you know that the higher-ups have decided that we're not going to have an internal investigation."

"What? Why not?" Utahime asks, her voice rising an octave.

He looks apologetic. "Something about not wanting to tarnish the firm's reputation and that they'll rather make him go elsewhere."

Utahime scoffs inwardly, bowing tightly before walking out of the office without a second glance.

As expected, nothing ever gets done.

She makes it back to her car in record time, shoving the door open with a little more force than necessary and slamming it shut. It takes two tries for her keys to fit into the ignition, but once they do, the engine roars and the car jerks to life. Her drive is uneventful. Her thoughts, however, are a mess.

Of course her report was dismissed. Utahime shouldn't have expected anything less.

She's not even sure why she filed the report in the first place. It was an instinctual decision, an attempt at protecting her pride, her integrity, her dignity.

Now, all it's doing is ruining her reputation in the process.

Utahime's fingers curl around the steering wheel, knuckles white as she tries to push her anger down, down, down, until the tightness in her chest turns to ashes and it feels like she can breathe again, heaving.

And by the time she arrives at the familiar tattoo parlor, she takes the few extra seconds of waiting for the mini cooper get out of the parking lot to try and calm her breathing, her racing heart.

The burning sage that greeted her as soon as the door swung open didn't help, though, and neither did the sudden smell of ink and alcohol. A familiar atmosphere that she had missed. The sticker on the window still looked as crooked as it was a year ago, no matter how Gojo had argued otherwise. Geto had taken her side, but the damage was already done.

The room still feels like home, even with the changes that she knows had been made since her last visit. The walls were now a soft cream, and the black-and-white photos and art on the walls were new additions.

Utahime looks around the room and takes in the rectangular mosaic of sketches and pictures hanging on the wall, spotting a photo of Shoko's graduation from med school right next to one of Gojo and Geto in front of the shop. Their first day. She had been the one the other side of the camera for both events.

There are a few more pictures that Utahime doesn't recognize, and she wonders what other milestones the boys have reached.

Her eyes settle on a particular sketch, beautiful, bold rendition of a white dragon with piercing yellow eyes, its snout twisting and curling, mouth open in a snarl.

It must be Geto's design. He has a style, a flair, that's undeniable.

But before her eyes finish tracing the dragon's body, its tail, and the tip of its claws, Utahime flinches at the sharp sensation on her arm.

She grits her teeth and removes her own fingertips from where they were digging into the skin of her forearm. Long, red groves etched into her skin, angry and inflamed.

She has to remind herself to breathe.

"Oi, tough girl."

Utahime sighs, equal parts relief and frustration as she drops her sleeve.

Gojo looks at her with a grin, his hip pressing against the counter in a loose tank top and a pair of worn-out jeans. Near identical to the last time she saw him, and yet, something's different.

Perhaps it's the way his grin is a touch softer, his eyes crinkling with a fondness she had never seen before. His head is cocked to the side with his pale arms crossed—more defined than she remembers them being—and she wonders how many things could have changed in six months.

She blinks, then realizes her mistake. "Hey."

"I've been expecting you," he says with a laugh, the sound making her heart twist at the memory of her practically begging him to pencil her in after closing hours. The smirk on his face was as familiar as it was maddening.

There's an unspoken about damn time behind his pursed lips, but Utahime hears it loud and clear. She stops herself from biting a hole in the inside of her cheek. "I know."

The last thing she needs right now is for his ego to swell even bigger.

"Well then, if we're all on the same page, we can get started." He claps his hands and rubs them together, the latex rubbing with an annoying snap. "Follow me."

Gojo's station is neater too now, the equipments replaced and upgraded. There's no need for her to be nervous, but her heartbeat quickens all the same.

He pulls out his small rolling chair. "Have a seat."

The last time Utahime was here, her heart was pounding out of her chest. She was so sure of her decision and so certain of her goal.

"Let's get this over with," she grits her teeth, the anticipation and pain gnawing at her insides.

Gojo makes a gesture of rolling her sleeve and the bright light of his work lamp stuns her momentarily, realizing that it'll be the first time in weeks that she'll be paying close attention to her damned ink.

Her heart sinks.

They're even uglier than before, and it's not just because her mood has been sour lately. She'd thought that, maybe, the flowers would look prettier under the light of day, but they're even worse now that they're not covered in shadow.

Five stalks of buttercups across her forearm, yellow and red petals drooping, all lined up against her skin and mocking her, taunting her, reminding her of what happens when you dive in head first without thinking.

I don't want you to regret this.

Utahime almost wished that Gojo hadn't told her that. Left her in blissful ignorance so she wouldn't have had any reason to think that maybe this was a terrible mistake, that it was going to bite her in the ass.

Even her absentminded scratches, her attempts at getting rid of them, were not enough. The red groves disrupted the pattern of the flowers, and while her skin was pink and inflamed, the stalks remained stubborn, unmoved and unaffected.

A stupid, naive person, she was.

Forcing herself out of her thoughts, the tattoo comes back into focus, taunting her with straight, beautiful lines and perfect shading, courtesy of the man who now has to undo his own work.

She tears her eyes away from the ink and looks at the mirror instead, watching Gojo's hands as they wrap around her forearm. She tries not to shiver before the alcohol wipe is even done.

"You know I can't do anything until these heal," he tells her, his fingers tracing perpendicular lines to the ink he drew, following the red marks that she left on herself, the evidence of her irritation and regret. She tries not to squirm at the way his gentle touch sets her nerve endings on fire.

"How long?" she asks.

A shrug. "A week, two tops. Depends on how fast your skin will heal. You did a number on it," his fingers hover over her reddened skin, his thumb grazing the underside of her wrist.

"Yeah," she bites out. "Sorry."

She doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker up to meet hers, his gaze unwavering. He looks like he wants to say something, his lips twitching as though holding himself back, but his fingers pull away from her wrist, leaving her skin cold.

"I'll give you some cream for that," Gojo says, leaning back. "And then we can get out of here."

As much as Utahime is anxious to be free of this cursed thing, the feeling of dread is even heavier than her anticipation. She's not sure why, but the feeling settles in her gut and churns the acid inside her, and she knows that her stomach won't settle until after this is done.

Her eyes are trained on her forearm as he applies a translucent cream onto her angry scars, soothing the itch that had plagued her for weeks, before wrapping her skin with gauze.

She can't breathe, and not just because his cologne is giving her a headache. It's more that she has to deal with the ugly ink and her own ugly feelings for another week.

She has to breathe through the discomfort and the tightness in her throat makes her head spin. Her stomach feels like lead.

"You okay?"

"Yes." She lies through her teeth.

His eyes don't leave hers. "That's a shame. You're a terrible liar." A weight rests on the top of her head—his palm and long fingers ruffling her hair. The corners of her lips turn up and she looks down, blinking rapidly.

"I'm fine," she tells him.

Gojo doesn't press, and for that she's grateful.

She watches as he wipes down the counter with a clean cloth and puts his supplies away, taking note of the new machines and the organized station.

"If there's something bothering you, I'm a great listener. And my shoulder's always free," his eyebrows wiggle suggestively.

Her eyes narrow and her mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn't move. The warmth from his palm is a welcomed sensation. "There's nothing wrong."

"Nothing's ever just nothing with you," Gojo's voice is soft, almost as comforting as his touch.

She looks away and takes a deep breath, the stale air filling her lungs, and the weight of Gojo's palm disappears. She doesn't know if she's relieved or disappointed.

"You're still a shit liar, doll."

Gojo lets her go for Utahime to fix her ribbon, tucking her hair behind her ears and pulling her sleeves down into her palm.

"Let's go."

***

It's an odd thing, slotting yourself into a moving car, a moving life, a moving world.

Especially when you're a stationary object that was just standing still, stuck in the same spot and frozen, for too long.

Utahime wonders how she was ever able to fit in the vinyl booth and the sticky table, her knees knocking against Shoko's, as they discussed a name she was unfamiliar with. But they seemed to agree that this Kimi girl was a bitch, so Utahime had shrugged and kept her mouth shut, filling in the blanks herself.

At least this was much better than the speakeasies and wine bars Atsuya used to take her to. Her skirt always felt too tight, her blouse too restrictive. Her heels, no matter how short or how low they were, were uncomfortable, her feet sore from standing for hours at a time.

At least, here, she could show up in her sweater, her hair half-up in a bow and the other half framing her face and no one could care less.

"Well? How'd it go?" Shoko asks in a nearly similar tone she had used a year ago, when she had asked the same question. Only then, the answer was more hopeful with cheers around the table and plans to double date.

Now, she sighs, and sympathy ripples through the table.

"Next week. I accidentally scratched them," Utahime mumbles, swirling her pint of beer and watching the amber liquid move around, a tiny whirlpool of her own making. It settles into a foamy layer and Utahime downs the rest of her drink before she can think twice.

Shoko and Geto nod in understanding, and Utahime feels the warmth of their acceptance settle in her chest.

"What happened to Atsuya, anyway?" Gojo asks so easily.

Out of all the things she's missed in the past few months, his bluntness is the one she could live without.

She had missed Shoko's presence, her friendship. She missed Geto's quiet reassurance and his ability to keep the peace. And, although she won't admit it, she missed the way Gojo would get under her skin and make her laugh at the stupidest shit.

But his directness, his inability to read the room, has not changed a bit.

It's a question that's been on everyone's mind, but no one's dared to ask even as they huddled around her, an awkard shield of three against the rest of the world just a week ago.

And, somehow, Gojo does not feel the need to tiptoe around her.

Geto, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. "You don't have to, if you're not ready."

"Nah," Gojo shakes his head, ignoring him and keeping his eyes on her, and Utahime hates how he has her pinned down with his gaze alone, like a specimen under a microscope. " We've been waiting long enough, haven't we?"

"Satoru," Shoko warns.

"He's getting transferred."

Everyone stops, their world coming to a halt.

"What?"

Utahime swallows the lump in her throat and meets her friends' gazes as they turn to look at her, each expression a different emotion.

"After his suspension ends, he's getting transferred," she repeats, and the words are ash in her mouth.

"And the little bitch?" Shoko pipes up, her kind empathy replaced with an endearing annoyance in solidarity that made a laugh bubble in Utahime's throat.

Utahime is reminded of the times her best friend would let her lean on her shoulder and leave identical tear stains on her favorite black jacket one night and drunkenly cuss out a faceless bastard for stepping on her bow the next.

Either way, Utahime knows Shoko is still the one person she won't hesitate to call should she need an extra hand to bury a body, and she wonders if it's even possible to ever truly fall out of touch with someone.

"Mia? I don't know," Utahime replies bitterly, "she's just a kid and I'm the dumbass who didn't see it coming."

"Well, at least you don't have to see the bastard again," Geto remarks, his voice soft and sympathetic, and Utahime is grateful for his attempts at cheering her up.

"Yeah," she sighs, not feeling particularly reassured, and Gojo's eyes on her are heavy.

"Why do you still work there, anyway?" Gojo speaks up, his tone casual. He's sipping his cocktail, looking at the stage where the band is packing up their equipment. "You've been there for half a decade and you're still treated like a temp. I don't understand why you can't just quit."

Utahime rolls her eyes, already tired of answering that question. "You know why."

"Do I?"

She glares at him. "You have a lot of nerve asking me that."

"What is it, then?" Gojo presses, and Geto causes the table to shake, either missing Gojo's shin or deliberately hitting it.

"Some of us actually have bills to pay, Gojo," she bristles, "not everyone can afford to play starving artist even though they've got a fucking generational hedge fund to their name."

Geto chokes and smoke puffs out of Shoko's lips with every laughter, her shoulders shaking with a coughing fit.

Gojo's jaw clenches, his eyes hard as it slowly moves to look down at hers. Icy blue orbs and the sharpness in his gaze could freeze hell over.

But just as quickly as it came, a lazy grin replaces his scowl and his shoulders shake with a low chuckle. Their knees knocked against each other underneath the table.

"There she is. There's that spitfire I know," he quips, and Utahime's anger is snuffed out, the tension gone from the air, blood returning to her whitened knuckles.

Gojo may not have the emotional capacity, or even the maturity, to understand, but Utahime had been through this with him enough times to know that his curiosity is his way of showing concern, his lack of tact his own way of reaching out.

It's a language all of its own.

Just like the way his thumb swipes at her pulse, a gentle pressure on the underside of her wrist that keeps the ghosting sensation at bay.

He's always had a knack for covering up her mistakes.

"Fuck Atsuya," Shoko declares, her fist shaking the wobbly table and pulling her back. "Fuck him. And fuck the rest of them."

Geto and Gojo hum, and Utahime raises her glass, "Fuck corporate Tokyo!" Her chest loosening at the sight of her friends' smiles, and the feeling stays with her as she leans back into the booth.

"And fuck Gojo's dad!"

"Hey-!"

For the first time since that night, Utahime finally feels like herself again. There is no dead weight of Atsuya's shoulder against hers, no suffocating perfume or lingering taste of expensive alcohol on her tongue.

There is no pressure to be someone she isn't, no need to put up a front, no pretending. This is familiar and comfortable, and Utahime's glad she could have this back.

It's only a matter of time before Gojo and Geto find the mics and starts a sing-along, gathering the Thursday night crowd.

"I missed you, Hime," Shoko's cheeks are flushed, a shade darker than her eyes in contrast to her glittering teeth.

Utahime smiles back, the nickname bringing her a comfort she hasn't felt in a long time. "I missed you, too."

She really, really did. Watching her friends from behind the screen was painful, and the past six months were a punishment, an eternity spent alone, a loneliness she'd never wish upon anyone.

She takes another shot, swallowing the guilt of being manipulated, of being made a fool, of being too blind to see the forest for the trees.

Her heart aches and the liquor burns in her throat, but she pushes her shame down with a shaky breath.

Utahime doesn't know how long it'll take for her to move on, or if she can. She doesn't know what else is waiting for her, and there's a sinking feeling in her gut that makes her want to curl up and sleep for days.

Maybe the answer lies in the bottom of the glass, or the empty shot glasses scattered on the table, or in the arms of her friends .

But, right now, as Gojo and Geto croon an 80s pop hit , the sound of Shoko's laughter brings her a little bit of comfort.

That, in and of itself, is a start.

"You're getting laid tonight, baby," Shoko hoots, pointing at Getou who is currently belting his lungs out to some rock song. Utahime wonders when did her calmest friend found the confidence to get up on stage and scream the lyrics to a band he's not even a fan of.

Utahime could've had more nights like these, if she hadn't pushed them away. Pinpoint the exact date Shoko and Geto stopped dancing around each other. Or when Gojo had decided to stop talking to her altogether.

"Sho," she hiccups, and her best friend looks at her, her eyebrow raised. "I wanna get laid tonight."

Shoko's face splits into a grin, all signs of a weary nurse gone from her features. "Attagirl."

And right on cue, Gojo chooses that exact moment to make a dramatic entrance with a mic in his hand . "And now, for the main attraction..."

He scans the crowd, his eyes hidden behind his dark shades, and Utahime's stomach drops as his head tilts her way.

"The lovely, the talented, the beautiful... Utahime -chan !"Gojo shouts, the microphone amplifying his voice, and Utahime is tempted to throw the nearest drink at his face.

Geto and the rest of the bar cheers, the clapping ringing in her ears preventing her brain from assessing the situation.

"Get up, darling!" Shoko laughs, pulling her by the elbow and practically shoving her up the steps. "Sing your heart out!"

"What- I don't-"

Gojo waves his hand at the DJ, and soon enough, a familiar beat and piano intro are playing that makes her groan, "Oh, fuck you-" Utahime is drunk, but not nearly enough as she'd like.

But his grin is wide and smug, as he mouths, "Sing for me," and she wants to punch it right off his face.

It's a strange thing, belting out to Rihanna on a tiny stage and getting her voice heard, and Utahime realizes that she hasn't felt this good in a long, long time.

It's a familiar thing, stumbling through the adrenaline rush and into the arms of her friends, the alcohol buzz making the night feel lighter than the clouds.

Gojo is grinning at her, his lips shiny with alcohol, and her mind conjures a fantasy of those lips on her skin, kissing a path down her jaw and neck.

Just like lightning, Utahime shuts down the echo of a feeling long forgotten resounding in her hollow cavity of a chest.

She shouldn't have had that last shot that tricked her into believing Gojo's hand was on her thigh when she's certain it's tucked behind his head. So she turns her attention to Shoko whose lips are moving about some guy across the room that's been looking their way.

"C'mon, he's cute," Shoko giggles, pulling her across the room and pushing her into the crowd. "You should talk to him."

"I can't."

"What? Why not?"

Utahime's not entirely sure why, searching the bar for a reason like searching for a snowflake in a burning room. And then finding said snowflake caught between someone's palms, their fingers curled into him, and he's melting into them by the bar.

Gojo's jaw unhinges as he practically devours the pretty blonde, his hands on her hips as he pulls her closer. Utahime's eyes narrow.

"Too drunk."

Shoko scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Who cares? That's the best part! You're gonna wake up tomorrow and remember nothing!"

Was he drunk, too? Could he see her across the room with his lidded eyes, or was the alcohol clouding his vision, just as much as it was clouding hers?

Did it matter if he saw her, anyway?

Utahime doesn't have the answer and shakes her head.

Shoko's right. She shouldn't care.

It's a new chapter. She's turning a new leaf.

No more hiding behind a veil of pretension and a false sense of security. She wants to be more like Shoko and Geto. Hell, like Gojo.

Confident and free. Reckless, for once, instead of reprising her role as the good girl lying in wait. Settling for a mediocre, comfortable existence, for the sake of her reputation.

So Utahime lets herself get dragged through the crowd, downing someone's shot, before falling onto the lap of a cute stranger. He tells her she has a lovely voice, and that was their last sober conversation through the night. All she knows is that his cologne smells expensive and his hair is soft and he's a biter, his teeth sinking into the column of her throat.

She doesn't remember his name, doesn't need to scream it to make her voice raw. It feels good to not give a shit when she's being pounded from behind.

He's eager, and she likes it. She wants to be wanted, to be craved, to be devoured.

So she doesn't stop him when he flips her onto her back and spills onto her stomach.

***

In the morning, shame catches up to her, but the regret is not as sharp as she'd though. It's enough to ease her conscience even as the stranger next to her shifts and grumbles.

Utahime grabs her bag and slips on her sweater, catching her reflection in the mirror; bare face and kiss-swollen lips. She hopes it was dark enough that the stranger didn't ask about the scar across her cheek.

A part of her feels guilty. She shouldn't have let the alcohol make her decisions. But she pushes the thought out of her mind.

A night of fun wasn't a crime, after all.

Utahime keeps her head down as she steps out of the lobby of the cheap motel, sighing at the muted blue sky. Good. Couldn't be past 6 AM, and she was still in time to grab a shower and make it to the office.

But then, a voice calls out.

"Good morning, sunshine."

And her plans are dashed when she finds Gojo sitting on a bench in front of the dingy motel, wearing the same clothes as last night. His hair is a mess, his sunglasses doing nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes.

Utahime frowns. "How the hell did you find me?"

"You called," he says simply.

"Bullshit."

He shrugs. "Check your phone."

Pulling out her phone, Utahime  curses at herself for string of outgoing calls from the previous night stares at her. To Gojo, a few to Shoko and Geto. None to her mother or employers, fortunately. She frowns, trying not to blush at the thought of how pathetic she must have sounded drunk-dialling him, and she hopes she didn't say anything too stupid.

"So, where's your boytoy?"

Utahime shoots him a glare. "I'll take the train."

"Too late. C'mon, I'm already here."

Utahime bites her tongue, staring at the unfamiliar buildings around her. The sky is a lighter shade of blue, and the streets are slowly coming to life. She sighs.

She can't afford to miss work.

"You don't really want to take the long walk of shame , do you?"

She bristles at his tone, crossing her arms as she swallowed the most bitter pill—her pride—and get in the passenger's seat.

"Atta girl."

The drive back to her place is uneventful, thankfully. It's only 6:30 AM and the radio is playing some cheesy love song, and Utahime watches as the streets fill with children and men in suits already on their phones.

It's almost comforting, watching the world pass her by while she sits in the passenger seat. And even as she grumbled and groaned at him for taking a detour through a fast food joint, she's grateful for the coffee in her hands.

"Thanks," she says begrudgingly, the caffeine helping her wake up.

She hasn't said it to him in a minute.

Gojo chuckles. "What a rare occasion."

"Shut up."

Her building comes into view and Utahime is reminded that he'd always taken her home no matter what time it was, no matter how late she stayed out.

"You gonna be okay?"

Utahime scoffs. "Yes."

"I'm serious."

She meets his gaze, the sunlight hitting his eyes just right and making them appear even bluer under his shades.

"Here." Her ribbon is handed to her, and Utahime takes it wordlessly, tying her hair in a quick bow and letting it fall to her shoulders. "You left it at the bar," he explains, shrugging as he turns his head back to face the front. There's a hickey on his jaw, a deep purple. She wonders if it's from the blonde or someone else. "You were a hot mess last night."

"And yet you brought me home."

"Yeah," his lip pulls up in a half-smile that somehow doesn't make him look like a douche. Handsome. Reliable, even. "I guess I'm just a sucker for damsels in distress."

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