Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her birthday falls on a Sunday that year.

Yuji has insisted on buying her cake even though she told him not to. It’s not extravagant, not really, just a little dorm party in her room with her two other friends, Yuji and Megumi. She doesn’t think she can actually call it a party, since they have only cake and candles and no other decorations. But hey, her birthday is an excuse enough to call it that, at least.

She stares at the cake before her as Yuji fumbles while putting the number candles on top. Great, she’s turning eighteen and instead of going out or celebrating it grandly, she’s stuck with two teenage boys - one is too loud, and the other one needs to be louder.

“Let me do it,” Megumi says, taking over the lighter before Yuji can protest. He’s tired of watching him trying to light the candles and failing.

When the candles are lit, the number one and eight glare at Nobara with some kind of maddening intensity. Suddenly turning eighteen seems far too serious for her.

Yuji turns to Megumi, watching him with a bewildered look.

“How can you do that, and I can’t?!” he asks, seemingly frustrated with himself.

She only huffs fondly watching the interaction. Right, maybe it’s better like this. Two teenage boys instead of one older man. Like Fumi’s dad, for example…

Nobara shakes her head. No time to think about that now. And this gnawing feeling on her chest needs to go away, too. It’s not like her relationship with Fumi’s dad is anything serious. She has wanted it, incited it, even. The sitting on his lap while they play Smash Bros because she knows he’ll get hard and lose his focus so she could win. It was all deliberate.

“Nobara!”

She blinks. “Yeah?”

“We told you to make a wish!” Yuji pouts, followed by Megumi’s nod.

A wish, hmm. Nobara can’t think of anything. Maybe for her mother to come back? She doesn’t know, really. All she has ever wanted was to be a good, strong sorcerer, and she’s halfway there, and she knows she’ll get there eventually even without wishing for that.

She loves shopping. She can wish for more money so she can shop more. Higher salary, perhaps. Yes, she can do that. Maybe this time God will hear her.

Dear God, she mumbles, closing her eyes in front of the candles, tangling her fingers together as if praying, I know I don’t see you much, and I know I’m a bitch sometimes, but please give me much more money so I can use it to buy pretty things that make me happy. Thank you, God.

She blows the candle with a determined hush.

“Whaddya wish for?” Yuji asks, ever curious.

Nobara squints her eyes really hard. “That’s a secret, isn’t it?”

“Not fun!” Yuji leans back on his arms with a sigh. “Why can’t we go out, anyway? I wanna watch movies!”

Megumi speaks up now, “They say it’s a security issue or something. I don’t know. You should probably ask Gojo-sensei.”

“Gojo-sensei, huh? I wonder what he’s up to now,” Yuji replies, seemingly wandering off in his mind.

“I don’t. Why think about such useless things?” Nobara says, plunging her fork directly into the cake and scoop it to her mouth. No pretty slice whatsoever. 

Ah, this is so good, she thinks. I don’t usually like chocolate but holy shit.

“Yuji, where do you get this?”

“I didn’t buy it, Megumi did.” 

“Ah,” Megumi says. “Yeah. I think it’s the shop in Shibuya. I forgot the name.”

Nobara rolls her eyes. Of course.

Yuji joins in on the fun and takes a big spoonful of cake also directly, again no pretty slice. He shoves it into his mouth. Megumi grimaces at the sight.

“Hey,” Yuji says suddenly, “Isn’t it funny? Gojo-sensei’s birthday is on the seventh, too. December seventh. You guys kinda match.”

That stupid grin. Nobara wants to smack it off his face. She groans. “Why do you even remember that?”

“‘Cause it’s funny!” Yuji shoots back, waving his spoon. “Same number. Different month. That’s like, cosmic or something.”

Megumi scoffs. “Yeah. Totally cosmic.” Seeing as his friends don’t bother with cutting a slice, he also takes a bite using his fork. The cake already looks like a mess.

“Totally,” Nobara sarcastically says. “Me and that idiot, bound by destiny through calendar math.” She licks the frosting off her thumb, rolling her eyes so hard it makes Yuji laugh. 

“You look disgusting.” She points at him with her fork.

He sticks out his tongue for her. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I eat with passion,” he says, garbling through the cake.

“Passion,” Megumi repeats flatly, like it’s the dumbest word he’s ever heard.

The three of them fall into an easy rhythm of bickering - Yuji being annoying, Megumi being annoyed, and Nobara being both, depending on the situation. It’s nothing fancy, not really a birthday worth bragging about. Still, it’s loud enough, warm enough, to make her room feel a little less like a dorm and more a home. 

She doesn’t think much about what Yuji said. It’s Yuji, after all. Can’t help but agree that it’s a silly coincidence, though. And it does linger at the edges of her mind, hovering like static in the background. The seventh. Hers in August, his in December.

It makes her want to laugh, almost. As if some ridiculous cosmic joke decided to throw her in the same line as him.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.

So she digs into the cake again, and Yuji starts complaining that she’s hogging all the frosting. Megumi sighs like he’s about to leave the room, but in truth, she knows he’s enjoying their little banter as much as she does.

A few days later, Nobara finds herself wandering through Shibuya with a shopping bag in one hand and her phone in the other. She’s not looking for anything in particular - window shopping is good enough, and payday is still far away.

She stops outside a boutique, eye catching on a display of shoes she knows she can’t afford, when the bold red sign above the glass makes her pause. Lucky 7 Sale! Everything up to seventy percent off.

Seven.

She exhales through her nose, quick and sharp, annoyed with herself more than anything. Of all the things Yuji had said, it had to be that dumb comment sticking in her head. Cosmic or something. What a joke.

Still, her gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the curve of the number like it’s supposed to mean something. August seventh. December seventh.

Ridiculous.

She scoffs, adjusts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, and walks on. Shoes, sales, numbers - they don’t matter. She’s not about to let herself get caught up in silly coincidences.

She’s not that kind of person.

Their next class with Gojo is as unremarkable as ever. He shows up late, of course, and drags the three of them outside under the excuse of “field practice,” which, in his language, means running them ragged while he lounges on a bench with an ice pop.

“Seven laps around the courtyard,” he says cheerfully, waving them off. “Lucky number!”

Nobara feels her stomach give the smallest, most traitorous flip. Seven.

Yuji groans immediately. “Seven?! Why not five?”

“Because seven builds character,” Gojo answers without missing a beat, his blindfold tilted just enough to hint at the grin underneath.

Megumi mutters something under his breath, already breaking into a jog. Yuji scrambles after him, complaining the whole way.

Nobara lingers for half a second longer, staring at Gojo like the word has burned itself into the air around him. Seven. Hers, his. Matching, but not. She hates that her mind jumps there instantly.

Ridiculous, she tells herself, pulling her hair into a tighter ponytail. He doesn’t know. Why would he? He’s just talking, just throwing numbers around like he always does.

Still, the sound of it echoes as she takes her first lap, and by the third she’s scowling at the pavement, furious at herself for letting something so stupid get under her skin.

The line curls around the corner, teenagers and office workers both buzzing with the same anxious impatience. Seven O’clock Café, the newest mochi place in Shibuya, has been trending for weeks. Nobara wouldn’t normally care - except everyone else her age has already posted pictures of the pastel boxes, the glossy rice cakes filled with cream and fruit. She isn’t about to be the only one without proof she’s been here.

So here she is. In line, bored out of her mind, shifting from one foot to the other while scrolling through her phone.

She looks up absently when the doors swing open, and for a second she thinks her eyes are tricking her. But no - tall, white-haired, blindfold in place, there’s no mistaking him. Gojo Satoru, sauntering out of the café with a paper bag in hand, as if he has any business being in the middle of a teenage feeding frenzy.

Nobara stares, wide-eyed, before instinctively ducking her face toward her phone screen. The absurdity hits her like a slap. Seven O’clock Café. Him. Here. Now.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

He doesn’t notice her - at least, she doesn’t think he does. He’s chatting casually with the barista who followed him to the door, the kind of effortless, lazy charm he throws around like loose change. The bag in his hand crinkles as he shifts it, and Nobara swears she sees the bright “7:00” logo printed in cheerful blue.

Her pulse kicks up for no good reason. Seven. Again.

It feels like a joke only she’s in on, except she’s the punchline. Yuji’s stupid grin flashes in her mind, his voice saying, Same number. Different month. Cosmic or something.

Cosmic, her ass.

She huffs under her breath and forces herself to scroll, even though she isn’t actually reading anything on her phone. The coincidence is just that - a coincidence. The world is full of sevens. Stores, sales, cafés, dates. It means nothing. It has to mean nothing.

Although, when Gojo finally turns to leave, his head tips slightly in her direction. Not quite enough to count as looking, but enough to make her stomach tighten. A flicker of awareness, or maybe just her paranoia stretching to fill the silence.

By the time he disappears into the street crowd, Nobara’s cheeks are hot. She scoffs, loud enough for the girl in front of her to give her a weird look. She ignores it, gripping her phone tighter.

Ridiculous. Utterly, laughably ridiculous.

The bag is the first thing she notices. White paper, crinkling loudly in Gojo’s hand, like he wants attention for carrying something as stupid as takeout. Which, knowing him, yeah - probably.

Yuji pounces first, obviously. “Sensei, what’s that?” His whole face lights up like he’s just seen a tray of desserts at a buffet.

Nobara doesn’t even care enough to look. She’s halfway through scrolling on her phone, perfectly comfortable ignoring whatever nonsense this is.

“Mochi,” Gojo says, voice lazy, smug. Of course it’s smug. “Picked it up for you guys.”

That makes Yuji gasp like he’s been given front-row concert tickets. Nobara rolls her eyes. It’s just mochi.

Megumi, predictably, cuts through the noise. “You didn’t buy that for us. You bought it for yourself.”

Gojo laughs like that’s funny instead of accurate.

Nobara glances up then, only because Yuji’s bouncing in place like a toddler, chanting, “Where’s it from? Where’s it from?”

Gojo pulls out one of the boxes with a flourish, flashing the pastel-colored lid like it’s something rare. Her eyes land on the logo before she can stop herself: Seven O’clock Café, and it hits her chest like a punch.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Tries not to react. Tries not to feel the stupid, hot rush climbing her face.

But Megumi, with the timing of someone trying to ruin her life, says flatly, “Isn’t that the place you went yesterday, Nobara?”

For one split second, she thinks she might actually kill him. Right here, in broad daylight, in front of witnesses. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, just staring at the box like it’s nothing. Meanwhile, her entire existence is collapsing in on itself.

You absolute idiot, oh my god.

She manages a shrug. Hears her own voice come out steadier than she feels. “Yeah.” That’s it. Just that.

And of course, of course that’s enough to make Gojo snap his head toward her, like a cat who just heard the treat bag shake. His grin widens.

“You were there?” His tone is almost too sharp with interest. “We could’ve had a nice chat together!”

Nobara nearly chokes on air. A chat? With him? In public? The very thought makes her stomach lurch. She forces herself to snort, waving him off like he’s nothing more than background noise. “Like I’d waste three hours in line just to listen to you talk. I value my time.”

Yuji explodes with laughter, delighted, clapping her on the back. Her phone nearly slips from her hand.

“You two, I swear,” he wheezes. Then, because God must actually hate her, he adds, “But seriously, isn’t it funny? Seven really is, like, Nobara’s number or something.”

Her blood runs cold.

Yuji beams, oblivious. “Her birthday’s on the seventh, she went to Seven O’clock yesterday, now Sensei brings us mochi from there - it’s like, fate or whatever. Seven’s just, like, important in her life!”

She wants to slap him. Hard. Wants to physically silence him before he can open his big mouth any further.

Instead, she mutters, “You talk too much.”

Too late. Gojo’s already tilting his head, expression shifting like he’s pocketing that little detail for later. She doesn’t like the way it looks on him. Doesn’t like the way it feels on her.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” he says. Smooth. Like it means nothing. “Seven is my lucky number.”

Her brain short-circuits.

She stares down at the pastel box in her hands, jaw tight, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. Lucky number. His. Lucky. Number. The word echoes, relentless, bouncing inside her skull.

She pops the lid open too quickly, cardboard squeaking in protest, as if distraction might save her from the way her cheeks are burning. Inside are neat little rows of mochi, powdered and perfect, like they’re mocking her.

She takes a bite, mostly to shut her own head up. Too sweet. Too sticky. Her stomach flips anyway.

Yuji makes a noise like he’s ascending into heaven. “This is so good! Thank you, Sensei!” He’s covered in powdered sugar already. Gross.

Megumi eats slower, quiet as usual, but Nobara catches his gaze flick toward her for half a second. Her spine stiffens. She scowls until he looks away.

Gojo doesn’t say another word about it. He just lounges there, all long legs and casual posture.

She wants to throw the mochi box at him.

It’s not supposed to be her problem. That’s the thing.

Yuji had begged for more sparring time, whining at Megumi until the idiot caved. Gojo had volunteered to “supervise” like he always did, arms waving, voice carrying, pretending he’s the most responsible adult in the room. And Nobara, by sheer rotten luck, ended up on the sidelines too, because apparently “team solidarity” means sticking around instead of sneaking off to do literally anything else.

So now here she is, sitting cross-legged on the grass, scrolling half-heartedly on her phone while Megumi and Yuji tries to knock each other’s teeth in.

Beside her, Gojo lounges like a cat in the sun. Long legs stretched out, one arm folded behind his head. He whistles once or twice, giving out the occasional “Nice try!” or “Ooooh, that’s gonna leave a bruise!” like he’s commentating a sports game. Nobara ignores him. Or trying to.

The silence between his quips is worse. Thick. It feels deliberate, like he’s waiting for her to fill it. She refused.

A kick lands, Yuji stumbles, Megumi presses forward. Nobara yawns, pretending she cared enough to watch.

Gojo shifts beside her. She catches the movement out of the corner of her eye - his head tilting, sunglasses catching the light.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice. Low, almost thoughtful. “Did you know,” he says, “seven’s supposed to be the most popular number in the world?”

Nobara’s heart stutters.

She forces herself to scoff. “That’s the dumbest opener I’ve ever heard.”

He laughs softly, like he expected her to say that. The sound makes her scalp prickle.

“Think about it,” he goes on, undeterred. “Lucky number seven. Seven days in a week. Seven colors in the rainbow. Even curses like to group themselves in sevens. Weird, right?”

She can’t help it; she finally glances at him. He’s leaned back on his hands, sunglasses tilted just enough that she can see the sharp line of his grin. He’s not even looking at her - he’s watching Yuji and Megumi tear into each other, like this conversation is just an afterthought.

Her throat feels dry. She swallows.

“Congratulations,” she says, aiming for flat and sharp. “You know how to count.”

He chuckles again, low and easy, and it makes her want to throw something at his head.

But he doesn’t stop. “What’s your take, Kugisaki? Got a lucky number?”

She hates the way the question hits her. Hates the way her chest tightens instantly, like the answer is already sitting there, waiting to slip out.

She grinds her teeth. “Not telling you.”

That earns her another hum, thoughtful this time. “So it’s seven, then.”

Her nails dig deeper into her palm. Heat flares up the back of her neck.

She wants to deny it - loudly, brutally, the way she always does - but the words stick. Because she knows if she says no too quickly, he’ll hear the lie. And somehow, she just knows he’d like that. That’s the kind of person be is.

So she snorts instead, tearing her gaze back to Yuji and Megumi. “You’re obsessed with numbers. Go buy a math book if you’re bored.”

“Maybe I will,” he murmurs, amusement curling every word.

Nobara focuses hard on Yuji tripping over his own feet, on Megumi pinning him down, on literally anything that isn’t the man sitting way too close beside her.

This is ridiculous. She knows better than to waste her time thinking about something stupid like this. And yet, against her will, she keeps thinking about it.

Nobara doesn’t even like clubs.

Too loud, too sweaty, too many people pretending they’re cooler than they are. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Noise. Distraction. She wants all of it, enough to drown out the way her brain has been looping back to Gojo of all people. The memory of him lounging in the grass like he owned the sun, the way his voice dipped when he said “seven.” It’s been gnawing at her since.

So here she is, heels clicking against sticky floors, lights slicing across her face. She elbowed her way to the bar, leaned over the counter, and ordered a drink she only half remembers from a movie. Some cranberry with vodka.

First sip goes down like fire. She coughs, then glares at the glass like it insulted her mother (because only she is allowed to do that). Second sip is easier. Third, easier still. By the time she finishes, her head buzzes pleasantly, the music thudding against her ribs.

She orders another.

By the end of round two, Nobara’s grin feels too wide, her thoughts too loose. This is good. This is exactly what she came for. If she just keeps pouring drinks down her throat, eventually she won’t think about stupid sunglasses or lucky numbers or the way her chest felt tight sitting next to him.

She signals for a third. The bartender nods, reaches for the bottle -

“That’ll be her last.”

Nobara freezes.

The bartender does too, glancing up, then nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The half-filled glass is whisked away before it even touches her hand.

Slowly, she turns.

Gojo is leaned against the bar like he owns it, sunglasses somehow not out of place even in a dark, strobing club. He looks maddeningly calm, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his mouth.

“You,” she says flatly.

“Me,” he agrees, like they’re just meeting on the street. Not in a place where she’s absolutely not supposed to be. Not in the middle of her plan to forget him.

For a second, she almost laughs. Of course. Of course he’s here.

“You stalking me now?” she asks, tossing her hair back, trying to sound sharper than she feels.

Gojo tilts his head. “Pretty bold of you to say, considering you’re the underage one sneaking around with a fake ID.”

She scowls to cover it. “Like you’ve never broken a law before.”

His grin widens. “Oh, I’ve broken plenty. But I don’t black out from two vodka cranberries.”

Her ears go hot. She hates how accurate that is. The buzz in her head, the flush in her cheeks - it’s all proof. She’s a lightweight and he knows it.

“Shut up,” she mutters, and reaches for the glass of water the bartender quietly sets in front of her instead.

Gojo doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tease further, either. He just stays there, a tall wall of calm in the chaos, and for some reason that makes it worse.

Nobara gulps down water, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and risks a glance at him. He’s not even looking at her. He’s scanning the crowd, sunglasses catching light like mirrors. He doesn’t look surprised to see her here. Doesn’t look concerned, either.

It’s almost insulting.

“You’re not even shocked,” she blurts.

His head tilts, just slightly. “Should I be?”

She narrows her eyes. “Most people would be.”

“Most people,” he says, “don’t know you.”

The words land heavier than they should. She blinks at him, caught between bristling and - something else. Something she doesn’t want to name.

She shakes it off. “Whatever. You don’t know me either.”

“Maybe,” he says. Then adds, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear it: “But I pay attention to you.”

Her breath catches. Just for a second.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she mutters, more to herself than him.

“You either,” he shoots back, voice warm with amusement.

She glares, but it’s hard to hold it. The club feels too hot now, the bass too heavy in her chest. Her buzz has shifted into something prickly, all nerves and awareness.

Gojo leans closer, not much, but enough that she can smell the faint clean note of his cologne under the sweat and alcohol of the crowd. His voice drops just enough to thread through the music.

“Lightweight like you? Two drinks in and your face is already giving you away.”

Nobara slams the empty water glass down harder than necessary. “Why are you even here?”

Gojo raises a brow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

He smirks. “Maybe I just like the atmosphere.”

She snorts. “Yeah right. You don’t look like the club type.”

His grin sharpens. “And you do?”

Her mouth opens, ready to fire back, but nothing comes out. Because she doesn’t. Because he’s right again, damn him.

She turns back toward the crowd, toward the mass of dancing bodies, the lights flashing across sweaty faces, strangers pressed too close together. For a moment, she almost wishes she could disappear into it, lose herself the way she planned. But she can feel him at her shoulder, heavy and solid, tethering her here.

The thought makes her want another drink. The thought makes her want to scream.

Instead, she leans on the bar, chin in hand, trying to look bored. “So what now? You babysit me all night?”

Gojo’s sunglasses tilt just enough for her to catch a glint of his eyes. Bright. Sharp. Too much.

“Maybe,” he says lightly. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from digging yourself a hole.”

Her chest tightens. Not with guilt, not exactly, but something thorny and uncomfortable. Because she can’t tell if he’s mocking her, or if he’s serious, or if it’s both.

She forces a laugh, brittle. “Good luck with that.”

Nobara wakes up with her face pressed into fabric that isn’t hers.

Her first thought: her bed has never smelled this clean. Her second: her head is pounding like someone took a hammer to it. Her third - when she cracks one eye open and realizes the ceiling above her isn’t familiar - is something closer to panic.

She jerks upright too fast. Bad move. The room spins, her stomach lurches, and she collapses back down with a groan. Her hand fumbles for her phone, but it’s not on the nightstand. She doesn’t even recognize the nightstand.

Oh, shit.

Last thing she remembers - bar, flashing lights, Gojo leaning way too close with that stupid grin. She’d meant to leave him at the counter. She’d meant to prove she didn’t need him hovering. But then - ugh. She can’t remember.

Her eyes flick to the blanket tangled around her legs. Clothes. She’s still in them. Thank god. Shoes gone, jacket gone, but her dress clings to her wrinkled and miserable, the zipper half-undone like someone helped her out of it before she suffocated.

A door clicks open.

“Good morning, princess.”

The voice makes her jolt.

She whips her head around and finds him leaning in the doorway, sunglasses already on, hair damp like he just showered, radiating irritating calm. Gojo. Gojo fucking Satoru.

Her brain short-circuits. All the alcohol fuzz, all the heat from last night - it crashes together in one horrifying possibility.

“You - we - ?” she blurts.

He doesn’t even let her finish. His grin widens.

The nearest pillow is in her hands before she can think about it. She throws it as hard as she can. He catches it, obviously, like it weighs nothing, then tucks it casually under his arm like it belongs there.

Her face burns. “Don’t call me that!”

“Princess?” His tone is fake-innocent, which somehow makes it worse. “What, too on the nose?”

Her blood is boiling, her thoughts spiraling. God, did we actually -  No, my clothes are still on. But that doesn’t mean - what the hell even happened?

Heat crawls up her neck. Her mind scrambles, trying to stitch together what the hell might’ve happened. She swallows hard, testing her voice again. “Did we -“

“Mm-mm.” He cuts her off, smile infuriatingly serene. “Nothing scandalous, don’t worry. I was a perfect gentleman.”

She wants to scream. Or die. Or both. Because the relief in her chest is matched by something sour, bitter, crawling. He robbed her of even imagining it, of filling the blanks with whatever wild scenario her brain wants. He just - shut it down.

He turns like he’s about to leave, tossing the pillow onto a chair on his way out, and says it under his breath, soft, almost careless:

“You’re still a kid anyway.”

The words land like a slap.

Her jaw drops. Her ears burn. She pushes herself upright again, ignoring the way the room tilts, anger propping her spine.

“I’m not a kid,” she spits, harsher than she means to.

Gojo glances back, eyebrows raised behind those ridiculous shades. Amused. Always amused. Like he expected her to bite.

Something tight coils in her chest. She wants to wipe that look off his face, wants to set something on fire, wants - god, she doesn’t even know. The words tumble out before she can stop them:

“You wouldn’t even be my first if we did anything.”

The silence after is thick.

Then, slowly, his grin sharpens.

“Oh?” he drawls, tilting his head like a cat toying with a bird. “Interesting.”

She hates the way her pulse kicks. Hates the way the heat spreads down her arms, her legs, curling into her stomach.

“Wanna tell me more about it?”

Her stomach flips. She hates the way he says it - not teasing exactly, but not serious either. Just that infuriating middle ground where he sounds like he already knows the answer.

She grabs the blanket tighter around herself, glaring like it’ll scorch him to dust. “In your dreams.”

Gojo only lets the silence hang for a beat longer, then breaks it with a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s magnanimously letting her off the hook.

“Kidding, kidding. Don’t look at me like that, you’ll turn me to stone.” His grin softens into something mock-charming as he jerks his chin toward the door. “C’mon, breakfast. You’ll survive.”

Her suspicion spikes instantly. The way he says it, like he’s leading her into a trap, makes her clutch the blanket tighter around her shoulders before she kicks her way out of it. Her legs feel like jelly, her head still pounding, but damned if she’ll let him see her stumble.

Breakfast. Fine. She can do breakfast.

When she drags herself to the kitchen, she half-expects something - anything - to justify the way he said it. Maybe pancakes. Eggs, even. He’d brag about being a genius chef, wouldn’t he?

Instead: a toaster on the counter, still warm. A half-empty jar of strawberry jam. One lonely plate with two slices of toast already cooling on it.

Her face twists.

Her eyebrow twitches. “Seriously?”

Gojo’s perched on the counter like he owns the place (which, yeah, he does, but still). He’s got his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a mug balanced loosely in his hand. He looks obnoxiously at ease. “What? Gourmet dining experience. Five stars. Michelin should be calling me any minute.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I tried plugging in the toaster,” he shoots back, deadpan. “And look - ” he gestures at the jam, “I even went the extra mile. Imported strawberries. Very classy.”

Nobara slumps into the chair opposite the plate, sighing. Her throat’s dry, her head still throbbing, and of course, of course the only thing on her side of the table is the sad glass of water. She takes a sip anyway, grimacing at how cold and metallic it tastes.

Meanwhile, Gojo takes a slow, obnoxiously loud sip from his mug, sighing like it’s nectar from the gods.

Her eyes narrow.

“What?” he says, perfectly innocent.

“You get coffee, and I get… this?” She lifts the glass, sloshing it pointedly. “Unfair.”

“Life’s unfair,” he answers smoothly, leaning back on his hands. “Get used to it.”

She hates how smug he looks. Her glare sharpens. “You could’ve at least made two cups.”

“Aw, you want my coffee that bad?”

“Obviously,” she snaps, because it’s true, and because her head feels like someone stuffed it with cotton. Caffeine would save her life right now.

For a second, she expects him to drag it out, to tease her more, maybe hold the cup just out of reach until she loses her temper. That’s what he does - he provokes, he pokes, he drags things until she snaps.

But instead, Gojo just tilts his head, grins, and says, “Okay.”

And then, without any ceremony, he slides the mug across the table toward her.

Just like that.

She stares down at it, momentarily stunned. The mug is still warm where his hands were. The smell is sharp, bitter, curling into her chest. It feels… unfair in a different way now.

“…Seriously?” she mutters.

“Seriously.” He leans back, smirk tugging at his mouth. “All yours.”

Her throat works. She doesn’t thank him - she won’t give him that satisfaction - but she wraps her hands around the mug anyway, pulling it close like it’s a victory.

And of course, he notices the way she hides her mouth behind the rim when she takes the first sip, like he can’t see the way her lips twitch.

“Cute,” he says.

The coffee is bitter, almost too strong. But she doesn’t spit it out. Doesn’t give him the reaction he’s looking for. She just drinks again, slower this time, glaring at him over the rim of the cup like she can stab him with her eyes.

The toast is… fine. Dry at the edges, a little too cold now, but fine. Nobara chews like it’s a job, trying to ignore the fact that Gojo hasn’t touched a single bite.

He’s still perched on the counter, legs dangling, elbows loose on his knees. Coffee mug gone - given to her, like it was nothing - and now it’s just his empty hands and his sunglasses and his eyes. On her. Always on her.

It’s unbearable. She cuts the toast a little too hard with the edge of the knife, spreading jam like she’s trying to flatten it into submission.

“You’re not eating,” she mutters finally, not looking up.

He hums, low and easy. “Already had something.”

The way he says it, she knows it’s a lie. He just wants to watch.

The jam sticks to the roof of her mouth. She swallows hard, scowling down at the toast like it insulted her. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” His grin widens, infuriatingly lazy.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating,” he corrects, like that makes it better. His elbows rest on his knees, chin tipped into his palms. He looks like he’s enjoying himself far too much, like she’s the punchline to a joke only he gets.

Her stomach knots. She takes another bite just to spite him, even though the sweetness makes her teeth ache. “Creep.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just hums, slow and smug, like the accusation was another compliment.

The silence that follows grates on her nerves. She taps her nails against the glass of water, eyes darting around the kitchen for something- anything - to latch onto. And then she remembers.

“My phone.”

Gojo blinks, slow, like he’s letting the words settle.

“What about it?”

“Do you know where it is?” She leans forward slightly, tone sharp, biting. Her phone is her lifeline - her contacts, her escape, her proof that the world outside this bizarre bubble of his apartment still exists.

“Yeah,” he says.

Flat. Easy.

Her jaw tightens. “…And?”

“And what?”

Her fists clench under the table. “Where is it?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Safe.”

That one word makes heat prickle down her neck. Safe. Like she’s some kid who needs her belongings locked away for her own good.

“Seriously?” she bites out.

“Seriously,” he echoes, leaning back against the counter, arms folding across his chest. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Her blood boils. “That’s not an answer.”

He tilts his head, the motion unbearably slow, like he’s savoring her rising temper. “It’s the only one you’re getting right now.”

Her fingers drum against the table, sharp little beats. “You know, normal people, when asked about a phone, just say ‘yeah, it’s charging over there’ or ‘yeah, I left it on the couch.’ That’s what normal people do.”

“Good thing I’m not normal.”

Her jaw clenches. She glares at him across the table, and the longer the silence stretches, the more that uncomfortable heat crawls up her throat. Not embarrassment, not exactly - something uglier, sharper, like being cornered.

“Stop being cryptic,” she snaps. “Where’s my phone?”

He shrugs, easy, lazy. “Safe.”

The word hits again, heavy. She digs her nails into her palm under the table. He’s doing this on purpose. He has to be.

Her mind scrambles for a foothold, something sharp to throw back, but the silence stretches, thick and smug, and the way he’s looking at her - calm, like she’s exactly where he wants her - it needles under her skin.

She takes a breath, forces her voice to steady. “Whatever. You’re not holding anything over me. I stayed here because I wanted to. Don’t get it twisted.”

It’s almost convincing. Almost.

Gojo’s lips twitch, like he’s about to laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he moves, and she doesn’t expect it.

One second he’s leaning against the counter, the next his hand is on the table, close to hers. Just his fingertips brushing wood, not even touching her, but the sudden nearness makes her pulse jump.

Her chair scrapes half an inch back before she can stop it.

His grin widens like he’s caught something. “Oh,” he says, voice soft, amused. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she fires back instantly, too sharp, too fast.

The air between them goes taut.

He leans in a little more, not enough to crowd her, but enough to make her acutely aware of the height difference, the breadth of him, the easy way he takes up space. “You flinched.”

Her blood roars in her ears. She can’t stand the way he says it, like a fact, like an equation. Like he’s already solved her.

Her nails dig crescents into her palms under the table. “I didn’t flinch.”

“You jumped.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re jumpy now.”

Her throat burns. “I’m not fucking scared,” she grits out, each word punched from her chest like a hammer strike.

“Then why are you holding your breath?”

The words knock straight into her heart. She exhales sharp, too fast, too loud, and it sounds like a confession. Of what, she’s not ready to name it yet. It’s just there, hanging and buzzing from the back of her mind.

Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever feel calm.

Even for just one fleeting moment. She wishes she doesn’t have to deal with the burden of being alive. Maybe that’s why Yuji’s words stuck with her all these past few weeks. She’s never had something to look forward to, to have expectations for. That makes her desperate.

That makes her weak.

And she’s not that kind of person. She’s not someone who spends their time thinking about useless things. She’s not strong enough to let her guard down around anyone. Her impeccable facade must go on.

And yet.

His laugh is quiet, almost soft. It vibrates down her spine like a taunt. “There it is.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps, voice breaking around it, thin and high, betraying her.

“You’d like that,” he says, too casual. Like they’re already in on the same joke.

She hates this. She wants to go home. She should slap him. She wants to kiss him. She doesn’t know if it’s her brain or heart speaking.

“Yeah?” One of her eyebrows rises up, challenging him. “What if I do?”

Now it’s his turn to be silent. She hates his damn stupid sunglasses. She wants to tear it apart and crushes it underneath her feet so he’ll look at her and only her.

After a long minute where she’s sure he won’t answer, she scoffs, finishing her last bite. She’s just downing her coffee - his, that she snatched - when he says, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

She chokes on her drink. “Excuse me?”

Nobara isn’t sure if his tone implies that she’s a woman who would want to fuck anyone - like a slut, or she’s overthinking things and digging something that isn’t there. Her paranoia has gotten worse nowadays.

“I’m saying, I wouldn’t be surprised. I mean, I’m gorgeous, the strongest, and - “

Before he finishes his sentence, she throws the remaining of her coffee to him - which was ultimately blocked by his infinity, anyway. Poor, poor coffee.

“Stop spewing nonsense.” She glares at him. “Where’s my phone? I’m going home.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen anytime soon, princess,” he says, all smug and smirk and good fucking God, she’s annoyed and turned on at the same time. “Come spend the day with me instead. Don’t you want to know what I’m up to when I’m not babysitting the three of you?”

She squints her eyes. He’s being really suspicious.

“What do I get out of this?”

“Hmm, the fortunate opportunity to spend time with the strongest - “

“Be fucking for real.”

He laughs again. “My, my, Nobara. Aren’t you just a little shit?” She’s still being wary about it. “I’m saying this because I care about you, alright? You’ve been so quiet these past couple weeks. I want to cheer you up.”

As if.

She rolls her eyes so fucking hard it almost hurts. “I don’t wanna go anywhere.”

“Fine. We can stay here.”

He’s so persistent.

Did Yuji say something to him? That could explain this weird situation. She mulls over it, weighing her options. It's the weekend and she wants to stay in, but staying in at her teacher’s apartment wasn’t on her bucket list. She had thought about movie and popcorn night in her little dorm, just mundane things. Whatever this thing with him is - it’s not mundane. It’s out of her comfort zone.

“Why don’t you get comfy on the couch? I’ll cook something for us.”

She purses her lips, wants to disagree, she just wants her phone back and goes home. But he’s already turning his back on her and opening the fridge, taking out his ingredients one by one, completely ignoring her.

Nobara sighs and does as he says. She grabs a pillow from the bedroom - it smells like him - and settles down into the soft, fluffy couch. She also snatches the thrown blanket and wraps it around her shoulder. The curtains are opened, so she goes and closes them leaving a small gap in between. With the lights off, she can pretend it’s night time and not nine in the morning.

She goes through his movie lists - finding absolutely nothing worth watching. Basic blockbuster movies. Does he like those kinds of things? 

When she finds some stupid movie about searching for your soulmate, the smell of the kitchen sobers up her already sleepy state. It smells really good. So he can cook, after all.

She’s twenty minutes into the movie when Gojo comes into the room and turns on the light, blinding her for a split second, carrying a tray of food and drinks.

“I made dumplings,” he says, casual.

She frowns. “You just heated them up and fried them.”

“Do you think that little of me?” He chuckles. “I did make this, from scratch. Even the dumpling wrapper.”

Nobara hums, still unbelieving. He lets the matter go, she suppose, turning back off the lights and sits down at the carpet below - not on the couch. 

“What are you doing? Get up here.”

He tilts his head at her. “It’s more comfortable here.”

She bites the inside of her cheeks. “Yeah, whatever.”

They stay silent for a good thirty minutes before he speaks up.

“Hey, Nobara.”

She waits ten seconds. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I’m a good man?”

That surprises her. She doesn’t show it, though. Trying to act nonchalant about it. “Do you ask everyone this?”

“…No,” he hesitates. “Just you, I guess.”

She hums, thoughtful. “It depends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.” She nods, even though he can’t see her. Two pairs of eyes glued to a glowing screen displaying something that only serves as a distraction. “If you ask Yuji or Megumi, maybe Yuji won’t be too unsure about it. But Megumi… I bet he’ll answer like me.”

“Why do you think so?”

She pulls up her feet from the carpet and hugs her legs, head resting atop her knees. “It’s just… you can’t save everyone. And we all know that. And yeah, that doesn’t inherently make you a bad man, I think.” She pauses for a second. “But… the guilt of not saving those who can be saved if fate doesn’t say so. It’s eating away at you.”

He doesn’t answer. She so desperately needs to know the thoughts behind those blue eyes.

“What I’m saying is, people who lost their loved ones because we can’t save them will ultimately come to resent us. That’s indisputable. We’re bad guys to those people.” She chews on her lips. This conversation reminds her of Saori. “But, you know… to those we saved their loved ones from, we’re their hero. We’re the saviour. The good guy.”

He hums noncommittally. “You have a good answer.”

“Does that mean I’ll pass the finals just fine because of this?”

“No-pe.” He suddenly turns to her, lifting his shades. “You’ll have to stay alive until then if you want to pass the finals.”

“I’m staying alive just fine.” She rolls her eyes.

“You never know.”

She squints. “Is that a threat?”

He chuckles. “I guess you can call it that.”

Another moment of silence befall them. The dumplings are a bit colder now, and she’s not quite in the mood to eat anything. She chews carefully, trying to focus on the movie. If she keeps her eyes forward, she can pretend this is normal. That her teacher is directly under her, his shoulder nearly touching his feet, body heat surging in waves from him. 

Her skin prickles.

Why is he doing this?

The dumpling in her mouth tastes like paste. She swallows hard, nails digging half-moons into the pillow she’s hugging.

You’re fine, she thinks. You’re not a child. You’re eighteen. You’re not scared.

This isn’t Fumi’s dad. This is Gojo Satoru. And he won’t do anything to you.

“Do you believe in cosmic connection?”

She stops chewing, dead in her tracks. This cosmic bullshit needs to go. “No, why?”

“I just think it’s one hell of a term.” He shrugs, acting all nonchalant about it. “You know, the fact that you can be connected with someone so much, to even call them your soulmate.”

She’s thinking about it over and over again. “Are you doing this with Yuji and Megumi, too? Take them to your apartment and converse about meaningless things?”

“Nobara, you’re so mean.” He pouts. A grown ass man. “How about I’ll let you guess?”

She shakes her head. “Not interested.”

He doesn’t answer after that.

“Yuji said something about that,” she says, already regretting her decision. “Cosmic connection. My lucky number being seven because all the good things that are happening to my life have been related to that number.”

“Hmm, is that so?” he says. “Do you think we’re soulmates, then? Because my lucky number is also seven.”

She brushes him off. “You’re ridiculous. There are millions of people in this world with their lucky number being seven and you’re telling me that we’re soulmates because we happen to coincidentally know each other?”

His laugh catches her off guard. “You are one intrepid thing, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m one sane thing. You’re saying real crazy shit. Are you okay in the head?”

He laughs again. “That’s what I like about you,” he says. “You are so direct and blunt with your words.”

She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t answer him. He leans back, head resting on the couch between her thighs, and she can’t help but want - to ruffle her fingers into his hair. Her feet are down long ago, her legs on either side of him.

He’s like a dog. A very, annoying dog.

“I had a best friend, you know,” he starts.

She lets him finish. Because he looks so sad saying it. And because she doesn’t want him to be.

“Maybe you’ve heard of him. Suguru Getou.”

Ah, right. She vaguely remembers that name. One of the special grade sorcerers who rebelled against the Jujutsu Society.

“What about him?”

The tension in the air marinates.

“He was…”

It does not seem like he will finish his sentence. So she takes over for him.

“Do you miss him?”

“Very much.” That answer was quick. “I guess it comes with being the strongest. Watching all of your loved ones die and being the last one standing.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” she interrupts - thinking of Yuji, of something he’d say if she was him. “You’re not alone, Gojo-sensei. As much as an asshole you are, there are people who love you and will stand by your side forever. You’ll be satisfied, then.”

“Satisfied?” he asks, seemingly to himself. “If he were among those patting my back, then I might’ve been satisfied.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

He turns around, forehead resting on her knee. She gulps, they can’t do this, wanting to deny, wanting to - 

“Will you just hold me for a moment?”

She breaks. 

Nods and lets him. Give in to the urge, running through his hair with her fingers, calmly, soothingly. His hair is softer than she imagined. Too fucking soft. She hates that she notices.

“Gojo-sensei,” she says, trying to summon the sharpness that usually comes so easily. But his weight is warm against her, breath fanning faintly over her knee, and he feels more human than he ever has before.

Which is wrong. Because he’s not supposed to be human to her. He’s supposed to exist as a teacher and only that in her little bubble. He’s supposed to be invincible, untouchable.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his head. “Just a moment,” he murmurs, and the steadiness in his tone crack at the edges. “I’ll leave you alone after.”

But she doesn’t, she doesn’t want him to.

She should tell him to stop. Push him away. Her fingers shouldn’t still be in his hair, carding through it like she’s afraid of what will happen if she pulls back.

But she can’t. God, she can’t. Not when he sounds like that. Not when he looks like that.

A pathetic, grief-stricken dog.

“Nobara,” he mumbles against her skin.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a best friend?”

She smiles faintly at that. “Yeah.” A beat. Fingers still in his hair. “Her name was - is, Saori. We met when I was seven. She was… fourteen, I think.”

“And?”

“And, what?” She chuckles. “Do you expect anything after that? We just became very good friends, that’s all. For a while, at least, before she moved away.”

He hums.

“Oh, and Fumi, too. We’re childhood friends. Still keeping in touch with each other.”

“Is that why her dad has been texting you all night?”

She stills for a second. “You went through my phone?”

“How can I? It’s locked.” He shrugs. “It just appeared on the lock screen. I happened to accidentally read them.”

She sighs. “Our relationship is… complicated.”

“I figured.”

Silence.

“Was he the first time you mentioned?”

“Hah,” she scoffs. “No, not him. Does it count if I make out with a girl instead of a guy?”

He laughs. “I’m all inclusivity here.” Looking up at her now, cheek resting on the surface of the couch, between her thighs. “So not your first time, then. You still a virgin?”

It chokes her, that question. “Excuse me, old man. I just turned eighteen. Give me some time, will you?”

Another silence. She refuses to meet his eyes, watching the long-forgotten movie instead.

“Nobara.”

She hums.

“Can I kiss you?”

She laughs. It’s not funny anymore.

Everything in her wants to say no - of course she wants to say no - because of rules and lines and the fact that he’s her teacher and she’s supposed to be keeping herself together instead of on the verge of breaking down because she can’t beat to refuse this man.

He looks so incredibly, unabashedly sad.

“Nobara.” He doesn’t push. He’s asking. Quiet, like he’s worried about breaking glass.

She looks down at him and, absurdly, at the space where his forehead rested only minutes ago. The imprint of heat is still there in her skin, a ghost. Her chest hurts, raw and ridiculous. She feels absolute sorrow for this man. It doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t even know him that much to begin with. 

She tells herself sensible things: you can leave. You can stand up. You can go home and pretend this never happened. You will walk out and never speak to him again.

She tries to say one of those sentences out loud and it becomes crooked.

“I think… I think you’re not thinking clearly, Gojo-sensei.”

His breath fans the inside of her thigh. “I know,” he says, voice so small it could be swallowed by the movie’s soundtrack. “I know. I’m asking anyway.”

It’s obscene how easily his hair gives under her palm, the way warmth blooms where her thumb rests.

“No,” she whispers, ridiculous, because it sounds like an order. It’s not for him. It’s for herself.

He answers by closing the distance: a tilt of his head, the way he pushes himself up to his knees that carries all the weight of intention. His hand curls around the back of her neck and she’s forced to lean down a little, bringing her lips closer to his. When they kiss, it’s almost casual, like he’s folding one paper over another. The first contact is softer than she expected, tentative on his part, as if he’s testing the rules he’s about to break.

Her whole body hums with alarm and something worse - a guilty, electric thrill that tastes like cheap coffee at dawn. For a second nothing exists but the press of his mouth, the warm, slightly stale breath, the faint tang of mint or whatever he chews, and the steady, human thump of his heart under her palm.

The kiss deepens, very gentle, very deliberate, like he’s cataloguing whatever there. His other hand sneaks to her waist, anchoring, and that small, measured pressure does something to the last of her resistances.

She wants to yell. She wants to laugh. She wants to yank him up and kiss him back like she owns the damn world. Instead she closes her eyes and lets it happen, which is probably the worst surrender because it feels like choosing to stay.

When his mouth leaves hers it’s only for a breath. He rests his forehead back against her knee, eyes closed, and she can hear him inhale as if he’s been holding it for days.

There’s a tiny tremor in his shoulders.

“Gojo-sensei…”

“Hush,” he shoos, and she shuts up immediately. 

Fuck, she thinks. Where’s the brave, courageous Nobara everyone knows? Not here, not now, evidently. Why is she unmoved when he’s starting to drop kisses all over the skin of her thighs, her shins, her knees? It isn’t right. It has to stop.

And yet.

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice hollowed out.

“Living,” he says simply. “For a minute.”

 She nods, doesn’t say anything. Lets him nuzzle into her hand, because this is the least she can do for him.

He doesn’t stop. His lips wander lower, then higher, then lower again, not in a pattern, just a restless orbit around her legs like breaking contact would kill him. His hands are worse. One has slipped from her waist to hook loosely around the back of her calf, thumb moving absent circles, like he’s grounding himself there, marking her. The other stays on top of her thighs, crossing horizontally, pressing her to stay in place, as if letting go would make her vanish. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough. She doesn’t know which.

“Sensei,” she tries again, a bit louder this time, but the warning sounds thin even to her own ears. She’s not even sure if it can be called a warning. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice muffled against her skin, almost pleading, “Just - don’t, okay?”

Her throat closes. He’s never sounded like that before. On the verge of begging. Not him, not the strongest, not the one who jokes too much around his students and not the one she’s annoyed with all the time. This isn’t her teacher. This is Satoru.

Her hand twitches where it still rests in his hair. She should pull back. Stop, she tries to command her hand, pull it back. It’s useless. She doesn’t. She continues to stroke instead, like she’s soothing a child.

He exhales - hard. “Feels good,” he murmurs, “You feel good.”

She hates herself for liking the way he praises her. Her chest knots. She’s not supposed to be this kind of person. Everyone knows her as a confident, strong person. Her cynicism is just a mask she puts on because she doesn’t want anyone seeing the real her. For anyone to be able to do that, she has to be vulnerable. And she doesn’t like vulnerability. It makes her weak. It’ll make her so easily defeated. And she doesn’t need that kind of distraction.

And yet she’s letting him curl closer, letting him press his face against her knee again, against the inside of her thigh like he belongs there.

And maybe he does. Maybe she just doesn’t know it yet.

He clings. Not in a dramatic, desperate sobbing, collapsing way, but in something calmer, scarier. The way his fingers hold her like a lifeline. The way his voice turns low, half asleep, half cracked open.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” His words scrape at her. “Just… for today.”

Her first instinct is no. She wants her phone, her dorm, her own space. But the way his grief leaks through, raw and unguarded, the way he looks at her… makes the no shrivel in her throat. She can’t. She can’t say it.

So she swallows hard, tells herself it’s temporary, tells herself it’s nothing, it’s harmless. “…Yeah,” she says, soft, practically a lie.

He smiles at her, faint, fleeting. He closes his eyes again. 

And she sits there, pulse uneven. Wondering how the hell she’s supposed to hold the strongest man alive when he’s folding himself into her like this.

When she wakes up - she can’t remember how she’s fallen asleep - the room is dark and the bed she’s sleeping in is still not hers.

It’s still his apartment. She’s still here.

She’s changed clothes. A too big shirt with shorts that’s too long, underwear still on, thankfully, but she’s furious. 

She sits up so fast the blanket slips from her lap. Rage lights in her stomach, white-hot, the kind that makes her throat tight. It doesn’t matter that nothing bad happened. It doesn’t matter that he probably just changed her to make her comfortable. The fact is - he touched her. While she was unconscious. Changed her clothes without asking.

Her fists clenched the hem of his shirt. The fabric smells faintly of his detergent. The thought makes her skin crawl.

She throws her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor. The curtain is lifted and she can see the world below, night and buzzing and uncaring. His apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Too silent. Her pulse is loud in her ears.

She needs to find him. Needs to scream, to demand, to claw the smug look she knows will be on his face.

She storms out of the room. The hallway is dim, shadows stretched thin across the walls, until she hears it: his voice. Low, easy, muffled. 

From the kitchen.

Her steps quicken. She rounds the corner, and there he is. Leaving against the counter, phone pressed to his ear, shades gone, blindfold nowhere to be seen, one hand in his pocket. Stark blue eyes looking at nothing.

His shirt is unbuttoned. Hair even more a mess. But what spiked her fury more, is that his tone is casual, conversational. Like she didn’t just wake up in his fucking clothes.

She storms closer. Before she can reach him, though, he glances at her - and raises a finger. Silent. Wait.

The audacity nearly kills her.

She freezes anyway, teeth grinding. She knows if she opens her mouth now, she’ll scream loud enough for whoever’s on the other end to hear. And she doesn’t want that, as much as she wants to rip him apart. So she stands there, unmoving, trembling with restrained anger, watching him nod along. His voice dips low, unamused, tone getting stern, a little warning here and there. She’s not sure who’s talking with him, but she’s convinced they’re making him angry.

Every second drags, her rage stretching thin, threatening to snap.

Underneath it all - something tugs at her.

The calmness of him. The way he can act so unaffected, like nothing happened. Like her fury is nothing more than a tantrum, a child stamping her feet because her wish wasn’t granted. She’s burning, but he’s steady, sipping from the edge of a glass of water as he talks - like she isn’t standing right here ready to tear him apart.

It infuriates her even more.

Finally, he ends the call.

Sets the phone down. It’s just another Tuesday for him. Then, he looks at her, only just noticed the way she’s shaking.

“Look who’s awake,” he says lightly. “You sleep alright?”

She could kill him.

“Did you change me?” she bites out, voice sharp.

She’s ready to be looked down upon - but instead of that smug, cocky look, she got his apologetic one. It rewires her brain almost instantly.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, pocketing his phone. “You looked really uncomfortable, like you were suffocating.”

She doesn’t know what to say - she thought she’d curse him and he’d be all confident and blaming her… but she didn’t expect this.

“You don’t get to…” she stammers, trying to find the right words. “Even if I did, you should still be asking me first.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Yes, I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.” He turns away from her, already moving on with another topic. “You hungry? I can make us some dinner. Or do you want to eat out?”

What… the fuck is this?

Why is he acting like that? Like this is normal? Like it’s just another day of their life for him? She’s sure she misses a chapter in some way because no way in hell would this have happened.

“Nevermind that. I’m not staying. Where’s my phone?”

He blinks, tilts his head. “You’re not staying?”

Fuck… fuck.

That pathetic dog looks again. It stirs something in her chest. Empathy. The want to take that dog and comfort it with all her might.

But she’s surely not that weak.

“I wanna go home.”

“But this is home.”

Her choke is strained in her throat.

She chooses not to acknowledge that. “I wanna go back to my dorm. I haven’t showered since the morning and I feel dirty.” Before he suggests something maddening, she says quickly, “And I want my clothes. Not yours.”

He’s silent for a minute. Looking away from her. Good. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to bear it if those blue eyes are directed at her.

“I thought we were having a good time.”

Her heart skips a beat. “We were. But I want my dorm.”

He looks like he’s mulling it over and over again in his head. When he comes to an answer, he sighs, a very long, pained sigh. Like her leaving him would be the end of the world.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll get your phone. Dress up, I’m getting you back to the dorm.”

She nods, immediately scattering to his bedroom and searches for some clothes that can cover her skin. She settles for a sweater of his, and jeans that’s a few sizes too big.

She should be happy. Grateful, even, that he didn’t do anything to her. But instead of gratitude - why is it that sorrow is all that she can feel?

The drive back to her dorm is - unexpectedly, very anticlimactic.

She has half expected him to whine, to be loud about it, even, but he doesn’t say anything. Just silence the whole ride.

It’s unsettling sometimes, how quiet he can be when he doesn’t speak.

The dorm is dark and serene, Megumi and Yuji nowhere to be seen. Gojo’s blindfold is on, meaning she can’t read the thought behind those eyes because they’re hidden. She tries not to be too disappointed over it.

As they reach the door of her room, she scrambles for her key.

The lock is turning when he says, “Nobara.”

She doesn’t dare look at him.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her stomach ties awful knots. She’s saying no, she’s sure of it. Proud of herself for actually voicing them out loud. 

“No.”

He turns her back to face him and bends down to kiss her anyway.

She doesn’t pull away. Lets him give her a chaste, quick kiss. It’s not as intense as what they did before. But it’s still a kiss, and he’s still her teacher.

Chapter Text

Yuji mentions it in passing, something about presents, about how teachers never actually get anything fun, about maybe pooling money together to buy Gojo something stupid - and she realises it, then, that his birthday is near.

Seventh of December.

The number seven. What started all of this thing with them.

Her teacher’s birthday is near, and he’s not really her teacher, but not her lover either.

Something in between.

Between her birthday and his, a lot has happened.

Too much, maybe. Enough that Nobara wonders if Yuji or Megumi would notice the tightening of her throat every time Gojo’s name comes up, the way her hands fidget, the way her brain leaps to images that don’t belong in the mind of a student - or in her case, in the mind of Nobara Kugisaki as a whole.

She has thought a lot about what kind of person she’ll become, and none of that includes this.

She and Gojo have become closer. That word doesn’t fit, not really, but she can’t find another one. They haven’t done anything too serious - anything too irreversible, not in the way people would think. No stolen hours in hotel rooms, no secret rendezvous behind closed classroom doors. None of that - nothing like that. If anything, it’s boring, the way it always happens.

Sometimes at night, when she finds herself laying awake, unable to sleep, her mind spins in circles. And somehow, she doesn’t know how, he always knows. Always. As if he’s turned into her pulse, as if her insomnia transmits straight to him. Then comes the soft knock, muffled through the dorm door, never insistent - never too loud. Just one or two raps, because he knows she’ll open anyway, anytime.

And she does. Every damn time.

He never barges in, the gentleman he is. He waits for her to let him in, and she hates herself that she does, but she does. Then it’s the same thing, the same small ritual: she sits on the bed with her legs folded under herself, spine pressed to the wall, and he lays his head on her lap like some stupid, overgrown dog.

Her fingers curl through his hair without her telling them to. That’s what bothers her most. It’s automatic now, like breathing, like scratching an itch. She doesn’t want to comfort him, but she does. And when he sighs into her thigh, when his whole body slackens, when he lets himself be lol heavy against her - she feels comforted, too.

And that’s the worst part.

Every time, he asks. The same question, always in that too-soft voice that sounds like the crack of glass under pressure.

“Can I kiss you?”

And every time she says no.

Firm, flat, no. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t have it in her. She has a spine, she can draw lines, she’s not weak. But then he ignores her anyway, tilts his head up, presses his mouth against hers like it’s already been decided. Not deep, not messy, but kisses all the same. Quick, deliberate crossing lines she thought mattered.

She tells herself it doesn’t count. Not really.

And still she lets him.

They’ve never been caught. Not even a hint of suspicion from Yuji or Megumi. No teasing, no questions, no raised brows. They’re careful, excruciatingly so. Around others - they act like they used to. Teacher and student, insufferable and sharp-tongued irritation and banter. Nothing more, nothing less.

But when it’s just them, the mask slips. When it’s just them, he’s her dog.

Always seeking her comfort, curling against her, he belongs there, needing touch the way others need air. And she is his master, unwilling, reluctant, but firm enough to hold him in place, to run her fingers through his hair when he whines about his day, to stroke circles at his temples when he presses too close.

She doesn’t understand why it soothes her, too. She doesn’t understand why she feels steadier with him folded at her knees, why her chest aches in a way that feels almost good when he sighs into her lap. She doesn’t understand the science of it - why comforting someone else can erase her own loneliness, why his grief and her cynicism knit together into something bearable.

Maybe there’s no science. Maybe it’s just wrong. 

But she keeps letting him in at night. Keeps letting his head rest on her thighs, her fingers memorize the texture of his hair. Keeps saying no when he asks and then not fighting when he ignores her anyway. 

And all the while, Yuji’s words echo in her head.

Gojo’s birthday is near.

She doesn’t know what to get him.

And that night, when he comes again, she decides to ask.

“What do you want for your birthday?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer. He’s sprawled across her lap again, blindfold pushed up to his hairline, the weight of his head grounding her thighs into the mattress. His eyes are closed, lashes brushing the hollow of her stomach when he shifts. He looks so peaceful like that.

“What do I want?” he repeats, slow, like the question is strange, peculiar. 

Her fingers pause in his hair. “Yeah. For your birthday.”

He hums. Curling closer until his nose is pressed against the hem of her shirt. His arm hooks around her waist without warning, pinning her. His grip isn’t rough - he never really is with her, but it’s firm enough that she feels it, the quiet strength behind his looseness.

He’s not called the strongest for no reason, after all.

“I already have it,” he murmurs.

Her throat tightens. She hates the way her pulse betrays her, the way her stomach flips, hates that she even has to ask - “What?”

He tips his head just lightly, glancing up at her, and even in the dimness of her room she can feel the intensity of his gaze. “You. This. Right here.”

Her hand twitches. She wants to shove him off, tell him to stop joking, tell him it’s not funny anymore. Instead, her thumb strokes against his temple, soft, automatic, traitorous.

“That’s not an answer,” she says, voice straining.

“It’s the only one I got.” His words brush warm against her stomach, muffled by fabric. Then, quieter, “Don’t take it away from me.”

Her breath stutters.

Don’t take what away from you? Me? Myself?

She wants to say it so bad. She stays quiet.

His hair is messy under her hand, breathing uneven where it ghosts against her skin. It feels like he’s clinging for his life, and maybe he is. And she - she can’t bring herself to deny him. Not tonight.

“Alright,” she settles in, giving up. “Alright, I won’t take it away from you.”

He hums, pleased. Buries his face deeper into her, arms tightening, body curling around her like she’s the only thing anchoring him. And she, hating herself for it, strokes his hair in slow circles, steady and soothing, until her own heartbeat finally evens out.

“Can I kiss you?”

He asks, and she knows what to expect.

She shakes her head. “No,” she answers, firm, flat no. She doesn’t hesitate. It’s not her trait.

And he, ignoring her, sits up and kisses her anyway, because that’s his trait. That’s who he is to her.

Megumi notices it first.

The three of them - Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi, are sitting in a ridiculously overpriced Cafe. She insisted. It’s because they haven’t gone out together in so long, each of them busy with different missions to clear up.

Nobara’s hands wrap around the ceramic mug in front of her, the latte’s warmth bleeding faintly into her palms, but she doesn’t drink. She stares out the wide glass window instead, at nothing in particular, just the blur of the street. Her reflection hovers faintly on the glass, eyes dulled, lips set. She’s watching herself from far away.

There’s a fog in her head. It isn’t heavy, exactly, but it’s thick enough to blur the outlines of things, thoughts slipping out of her grasp before she can hold them. She hears Yuji’s voice, bright and eager, bouncing against the table as he asks over and over again what to get for their beloved teacher’s birthday. She hears Megumi’s low reply, steady, skeptical. The words run through her ears like water. None of them stick.

“You okay?” Megumi asks, because he cares, because she’s his best friend.

She blinks. Pull your shit together. “Yeah. Fine.” Forces her lips to twitch upward.

The fog doesn’t lift.

Yuji leans forward, squinting at her, trying to read the truth straight from her face. “You sure? You’ve barely said anything since we got here.”

She scoffs lightly, waving her hand as if to dismiss the worry. “Please. I’m just tired. Missions, remember?”

She’s not lying. It’s just not the whole truth.

They don’t look convinced. Megumi especially, the way his brows knit. He’s not easy to fool. She’s not good at masking. She never has been. Her emotions sit too close to the surface, bright and raw, too obvious. It’s a curse sometimes, to be seen so easily.

Yuji tries to break the tension, turning the topic back to where it started. “Anyway, I was saying, Gojo-sensei’s birthday is soon. Do you guys think we should get him something? Like, actually get him something, not just let him buy his own cake and brag about it for the next month.”

“Cake’s too boring,” Megumi mutters.

“Exactly!” Yuji points, triumphant. “We need something fun. Something he wouldn’t buy for himself.”

Nobara finds herself chiming in before she even realises it. “What do you get for a man who owns everything?”

The look on their faces tells her more than she knows. They didn’t expect her to have an answer like that. Sure, it feels like something she’d say, but she’d say it in that snarky, spiteful tone of hers. Not like that. That was sorrow. That was grief.

And she’s not sure what she’s grieving about. The fact that he, too, also owns her?

“Did something happen?” Yuji asks, serious this time, not playing around. “Talk to us, Kugisaki.”

She hates that. Hates being transparent, hates being cared for. Hates how the fog makes her slow enough for them to see.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

She knows what to get him for his birthday.

SG: What are you doing?

It comes later than expected, his text. She waits five minutes before she replies.

NK: getting u a gift for ur bday

NK: dont say some stupid shit like u only want me or something 

She’s rummaging through the men’s clothes section, fingers brushing every fabric to find one to her liking. 

SG: But it’s true. You don’t have to get me anything.

She rolls her eyes.

NK: just shut up and wait. i’m using your card anw

She drags her feet down another aisle, the slick hum of the department store air-conditioning prickling against her skin. The bags on her arm are heavier than they should be, glossy paper handles cutting faint grooves into her palms. Half the things in them aren’t even for him - skirts she grabbed on impulse, a blouse she doesn’t need, a jacket she’ll probably never wear. She wants him to notice. Wants him to flare up, to tell her she’s reckless, ungrateful, spoiled. Anything. Something to snap this tight coil in her chest.

Her phone buzzes again.

SG: What else are you buying?

She glares at the screen as if his calmness could somehow fracture under her stare. It doesn’t.

NK: none of ur business old man

She slides the phone back into her pocket and keeps walking, fingernails skimming over button-ups and suits lined in perfect, color-coded rows. Everything here looks too crisp, too polished, too him. She wonders if that’s what she’s doing - trying to dress him, tame him, make him hers in a way no one else will notice. It makes her stomach twist.

Another buzz.

SG: At least tell me what colors.

Her lips curl. “Colors?” she mutters under her breath, incredulous. He should be angry. He should be furious that she’s bleeding his card like this, wasting his money just to prove a point she hasn’t figured out herself. Instead, he’s asking about colors.

She types fast, sharp.

NK: black. white. boring shit like u

His reply is instant.

SG: That’s fine then. I like when you pick.

She almost throws the phone into the nearest rack of ties. The pit in her stomach flares hot, sour, unbearable. He’s supposed to push back, damn it. Supposed to give her something solid, something ugly to cling to so she can name what’s clawing under her ribs. Hate. Anger. Something she understands.

But he’s soft. Pliant. Lets her run circles around him, too understanding, too disgusting. It makes her want to throw up.

Twenty thousand yen later, she’s standing at the register, card in hand, daring herself to glance at the total. The clerk chirps something polite, oblivious, bagging everything neatly. She almost wants to announce it into her phone, throw the number in his face. Look what I did. Look how much I took from you. Aren’t you mad?

The phone buzzes one last time before she can.

SG: Don’t forget to get something for yourself too. Makes me happy when you do.

Her throat goes tight. She swallows hard, blinking at the bags like they might morph into something else if she stares long enough. She’s already done it - already bought more for herself than for him. And he’s not angry. He’s not upset. He’s just - pleased.

He’s so fucking pleased.

It makes her want to scream.

She leaves the store with the bags swinging at her sides, phone burning in her pocket like it’s laughing at her. She wants to hate him. God, she wants to hate him. But all she feels is that same uncomfortable knot, heavy and sharp, sitting right where her ribs meet her stomach.

And she doesn’t have a name for it.

His birthday falls on a weekend.

That means, she’ll be spending the day in his apartment.

She doesn’t come to his place often, just occasionally when it’s convenient for her. And most of the time, it’s not convenient, because it’s too much work. For Gojo on the other hand, he can teleport practically anywhere and everywhere, so he’s the one showing up to her place - the dorm, instead.

She likes her own space, her dorm room with its familiar corners and clutters. It feels safer there. She feels in control. His place, though - his place is too him. Bright windows, wide floors, an open kitchen that’s rarely been used. Intimidating in a way she can’t explain.

Today, she’s here. It’s his birthday, so she’s here.

Bags hooked into the crook of her elbow, arms sore from carrying groceries, she kicks off her shoes and heads straight to the kitchen without permission. He trails after her like a dog.

“You didn’t have to get groceries,” he says, voice light, almost teasing. He doesn’t try to stop her.

“Yeah, well,” she mutters, nudging the cabinet door open with her hip, “You don’t really keep a stocked pantry.” It creaks. Empty shelves blink back at her. She knew it.

“Pantry’s for normal people,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not normal.”

“You’re not.” She starts unloading. “You’re pathetic.”

Cartons, instant noodles, bags of chips, the little things she knows she’ll want later when she gets hungry. She lines them up neatly, efficient, her mind already halfway through the task. She bought fruits and vegetables, too. She’s not sure yet what she’s going to make of them, but with his kitchen, anything is possible.

She feels it then - his presence crowding closer.

At first, it’s subtle. The faint shift of air behind her, the brush of his sleeve near her shoulder. When she doesn’t move, doesn’t tell him to stop, he takes more. A step forward, then another, and another, until his chest presses lightly against her back. His chin hooks over her shoulder, his arms slide around her waist.

“Sensei,” she warns, voice clipped.

“Hm?” His hum vibrates against her skin, unbothered, lazy. But his hands are firm where they rest on her stomach. Not loose, but not casual. He’s holding her in place.

She exhales sharply, plucking another item from the bag. “You’re in the way.”

“So move me,” he says simply. She can hear the grin in his voice.

Her hands falter for just a second. She refuses to give him the satisfaction. She sets the jar of miso in the cabinet with more force than necessary. The sound is too loud in the quiet kitchen.

He nuzzles against the side of her neck, his hair brushing her cheek. “Smells like strawberries,” he murmurs. “Your shampoo?”

“Stop sniffing me,” she snaps, but the words come out thinner than she wants. She hates that he notices, hates that he always knows where her weak edges are. Hates that he knows how to read her so well.

“I like it,” he says, and his arms tighten just slightly, imperceptible. Almost.

Her stomach knots. She needs to shove him off, needs to tell him to back away, needs to do something to break the heat crawling up her throat. Instead, she keeps unpacking, hands moving faster now, jars and boxes clinking together. If she doesn’t stop, if she doesn’t think, maybe it won’t matter. Maybe it’ll mean nothing.

But it won’t. It will mean something.

Every brush of his breath against her skin, every shift of his body pressing into hers, every second of his weight leaning so casually, so greedily - it makes her chest ache in that way she hates. That way she can’t name.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, fingers trembling as she sets down the last bag of rice.

“Mhm,” he agrees, and she can feel his smile against her jaw. “But you keep letting me in.”

The words land heavy, heavier than they should. And before she can answer, his lips graze the sharp edge of her shoulder, soft, fleeting, gone before she can flinch away.

Her pulse spikes. Her hands grip the countertop.

This isn’t normal. None of it is normal. But when he buries his face into the curve of her neck, sighing like she’s the only thing anchoring him to the world, she doesn’t move him. She doesn’t move at all. She keeps her silence, and somehow, that’s worse.

“Can I kiss you?”

There it is, that stupid question again. She waits, waits just enough to get a reaction from him. When she’s not reacting, he lifts his head from her neck and turns her to face him, meeting her eyes.

Those stark blue eyes never fail to make her heart skip a beat.

She knows what to get for his birthday.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. No. No. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He looks more surprised than anything else. Then, in a flash, that expression is replaced by a pleased, childish smile.

He doesn’t dive in right away. He lingers, heat radiating off his mouth. His thumb ghosts over her chin, he’s steadying her, another excuse to touch.

When his lips finally press against hers, it’s not gentle. It’s sure, greedy in that Gojo way - he’s taking something he thinks already belongs to him. Her breath hitches, her fingers curl hard into the countertop edge.

It’s warm. Too warm. His mouth moves slow, heavy, deliberate, coaxing her into giving back what she swore she wouldn’t. She can taste mint, faint sugar, the ghost of his gum. Her chest is tight, her throat hot.

And god she hates it. Hates the way her body betrays her. Because she doesn’t push him away. Because her pulse is rabbiting, her knees unsteady, every drag of his lips makes something coil low in her stomach.

He tilts his head, deepening it, and she sways forward without meaning to. His hand cups the back of her neck, holding her there, and she feels pinned, anchored and trapped all at once.

It’s overwhelming. She wants to slap him, bite him, pull him closer. Her hands hover in the air, caught between shoving him off and grabbing fistfuls of his stupid shirt.

When he pulls back a fraction, their lips still brushing, she almost chases after him. The thought horrifies her. But then his forehead rests against hers, his breath uneven, his voice quiet - “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. She doesn’t dare to. 

Something awful blooms in her stomach.

What do you even get for a man who has everything?

The thought returns, sharper. Her earlier words at the cafe. His apartment proves it - shelves lined with expensive junk, a kitchen with the best equipment money can buy, clothes he never even wears. Anything she could offer him, he already owns ten of. Anything she could choose, he’d laugh and buy for himself just to see her pout.

Except for this.

Her.

All of her.

It’s pathetic, maybe, to think of herself as a gift, but she can’t shake it. He’s been circling her for months, creeping closer every night, asking the same question, stealing what she told him not to. She’s said no a hundred times, and he’s never listened. Maybe this is all it was ever going to come to.

Maybe it’s easier if she calls it her choice.

She tilts her chin up, meets his eyes, and for a second, she thinks she sees him falter. Just a second. Then he’s steady again, that childishly pleased expression turning serious. He knows what she’s about to say. He’s been waiting.

“I know what to give you,” she says, voice strained. “For your birthday.”

His head cocks, playful, curious. “Yeah? What’s that?”

He’s been waiting for this. The thought makes her sick to her stomach.

She swallows hard. She doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t have to. He reads it; he reads her, the tremble of her hands against the countertop, the stutter of her breath when he leans closer.

And of course, of course he smiles as if unwrapping a present.

She tells herself she hates it - the smugness, the entitlement, the way he makes everything about him. She tells herself she wants to see him angry, to break his composure, give her a reason to hate him properly. But the truth lodges deeper, where she doesn’t want to look: he’s trained her for this.

Every ignored no, every casual touch, every night he came knocking and curled up on her lap like she was the only safe place left for him - all of it pointing here.

She’s not stupid, for God’s sake.

She lets all of that happen. She has a part in it. She’s equally guilty.

So, with that guilt, she whispers with all her might, “Me.”

The word feels foreign in her mouth. Too small for what it means.

His grin splits wider. The hand on her waist tightens. Every nerve in her body shivers. “Best gift ever,” he murmurs, childish, dog-like, and she wants to scream, wants to claw the satisfaction off his face.

When he kisses her again, deeper, slower, she doesn’t pull away. Her body betrays her, answering where her voice can’t.

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to tell the difference anymore. Between what she wants and what he’s made her want. Between choice and inevitability.

Between right and wrong.

The scariest part is - she’s not sure she cares.

If she does, would she have let him carry her to his bedroom and lay her on his bed? The first time she’s ever been here, she was drunk, she had no recollection of how she got there. But she’s sober this time. She’s aware. She’s letting it happen.

And she can’t turn back time.

He’s delicate with her, positioning her in his bed in a manner he likes. She’s spread out before him, clothes still on, hair sprawling on his pillow, legs open and hands compliant.

The way he looks at her, as if she’s the prettiest woman alive.

And that might be true, for him.

“Good God,” he says, low, breathy, “You’re so beautiful.”

She smiles. That’s all she can do. 

He starts from her ankles, kissing them one by one and giving them gentle bites. He does the same thing to her shins, a lot of kisses on her knees, a lot more saliva on her thighs. He tugs at her shorts and her hand unexpectedly stops him, surprising both of them.

“Are you scared?” he asks, and she doesn’t know if he’s being mean or genuine.

She doesn’t want to say a word. She just nods.

He comes up to her and gives her forehead a kiss. “Don’t worry,” he assures her. “I’ll be gentle,” he says, and if their past interactions teach her anything, it’s that he lies.

He’ll lie about that, too.

She moves her hand away, instead carding them through his hair as if on instinct. He melts at that, leaning down to nuzzle in her neck and sniffing her like a dog. His hands, though, speak an entirely different matter. They’re enormous, more than her, and they start to slip underneath her T-shirt, touching the bare skin below.

“I love you,” he says, muffled, and she pretends not to hear.

He pulls back and she turns her gaze away. She can’t look at him. Not while she’s like this. But her chin is in his grip and she’s in his control. In that haze, she looks at him, teary-eyed, begging, pleading - and he ignores them.

He licks a tear that falls down her cheek and begins pulling down her shorts. She’s come to this conclusion long ago before she dressed to go to his place, and the evidence of that is her matching underwear - the inevitability of their situation coming to a close. Her panties are light red, and by the looks of him, he’s so, so incredibly pleased.

“You’ve planned this, haven’t you?” he asks of her, and she doesn’t have it in herself to scream at him, you started this, you idiot.

She smiles again, because that is all that she can do.

“Are you happy?” she asks. It feels genuine. She doesn’t know if it was genuine.

He hums, eyes not focusing on her. They’re admiring her skin. “More than happy.”

So you won’t be sad anymore? She thinks, and doesn’t say it out loud.

Her top is still on, but her panties are coming off. She’s never been insecure with her body before, she knows she’s amazing. But it’s different with him - everything is different with him. Suddenly she’s acutely aware of the small patch of hair she’s yet to shave or the way her cunt looks: is it enough for him? Am I pretty enough for him?

Her question is answered almost immediately.

“So pretty,” he whispers, under his breath. His finger carefully touches her mound, going gradually lower to her folds, and to her hole. He wastes no time finding her clit. “So fucking pretty.”

He’s still clothed and her lower half of clothing is gone, and he dives straight into her cunt.

She jerks away instantly, overwhelmed with the sensation. He holds her down in place, arms curling around her thighs.

“Nobara.” His voice is low, warning, expectant. She forces her eyes open, meets his gaze, and the blue in them pins her harder than his grip ever could. “Don’t be mean.”

The words sound childish, like a sulk, a dog not getting his daily walk. 

She stills. Just for a moment. Nods, then, because she doesn’t have a choice. Clenches her fists and pray for it to end soon.

No such luck.

The first sweep of his tongue on her clit almost undoes her. It sparks something deep inside, raw and immediate, and she stiffens as though the mattress itself has vanished and she’s free-falling.

Her instinct is to recoil, to push him away - she doesn’t want this, she wants to go home, dorm, she wants her dorm, Yuji, Megumi, the apology is tart on her tongue, the guilt eating away at her, home, home. But his arms lock around her thighs, anchoring her in place, making the resistance - her resistance feel useless. She tries anyway, a half-hearted twitch of her hips, but he only tightens his hold, not really hurting, but to remind her that his strength dwarfs her, that she’s pinned, that this is happening.

Her chest rises and falls too fast. She can’t bring herself to look at him, so she stares at the ceiling instead, fists curling in sheets until her knuckles ache. She tells herself to not make a sound, to not give him the satisfaction. She’d rather fucking die.

But then the rhythm starts. Measured, maddening - the kind of patience she’s never known in boys and girls her age. It’s unbearable, the way he seems to know her already, like he’s studied her body long before she ever lay here, like he’s known her body long before she even knew hers. Each steady drag of his tongue tugs something loose inside her, and when he changes pace, just slightly, she gasps. A sound slips free before she can stop it.

He looks up at her. “Ah, there it is,” he says, with that smug grin of his. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a sound, Nobara-chan. I’m so glad you are as equally pleased as I am.”

Shame floods her. She bites her lip until she tastes iron, furious at her own body for betraying her. This isn’t fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s had fumbling hands before, hurried touches in dark corners, kisses that felt like claims instead of gifts. Those were messy, thoughtless, forgettable. But this - this feels orchestrated. Practiced. He’s rehearsed this moment for years, and she’s only now catching up to the script.

Saori wouldn’t do this, she thinks, reminiscing, she’d kiss me but she’d never do this.

He murmurs something against her skin, too muffled to catch, and the vibration of it sends her spine arching. She hates him for knowing what he’s doing. She hates herself for responding. 

He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.

He pushes a finger, mouth sucking her little button. The heat begins to tie complicated knots on her stomach, legs trembling uncontrollably, lips swollen from the biting and she doesn’t care, she wants to come. The intrusion is foreign and weird inside of her, but what he’s doing is nice and he feels nice and it’s unfair.

He adds another finger, knuckles deep, and she can’t help the ah that comes out of her lips, and he’s ecstatic. His fingers curl inside, reaching a spot only he is capable of, dragging skin to skin, in and out, tongue a mean thing on her clit. Her breath is ragged and shaky and she’s crying, she doesn’t realise it until she sniffs. Can feel his smile even though she’s not looking, head thrown back on his pillow, back arched, desperate for a release.

It comes weak, cunt still aching for more. He pulls out his fingers and licks her again, scoops some of her come and brings it to her lips, demanding to open her mouth, to taste her own shame. She feels her lips parting, letting him in, just like she always does.

I want to go home, she thinks, I want to go home.

She watches as he pauses to take his blindfold from the desk, and in her haze she meets his gaze, the little sorry that comes out of his mouth before he obscures her line of view by securing the blindfold on her eyes, her world now pitch black and dark and stark.

The world vanishes.

A single knot of fabric, and she’s gone from his room into nothingness. Black presses against her eyes, suffocating, like ink flooding water until every shape dissolves. She tests the darkness with a blink, but there’s no difference. Her own body is invisible to her now, stolen from her sight.

She starts panicking.

“Sensei,” she breathes, hands scrambling to search for him. He finds each of hers and tangles them with his own fingers, pinning her to the bed.

“Hush, Nobara,” he shoos, gentle, “You’ll be alright. It feels better like this.” One of his hands slips down until he reaches her center, and he strokes. She gasps. “See?”

Without vision, every sound sharpens to a blade: the rustle of cloth - he still hasn’t taken his clothes off yet, while she’s practically naked, the drag of his finger against her clit, the way his breath patters against her cheek. It’s a terrifying sensation for her.

And still she doesn’t resist.

Her chest heaves. She doesn’t know if she’s breathing too fast or not at all. He keeps stroking her little nub, and it feels like he’s done this before - of course, he knows he’s hot and he probably utilises that too, of course he’d be experienced at this kind of thing. It only makes sense.

When his fingers enter her again, she feels like she’s being choked. One, she thinks, and then two, and then three fingers - him testing if he can stretch her out before the real thing, and isn’t he so kind to do that? To prepare her first? She’s so grateful, isn’t she? She should be grateful that he chooses to be kind.

He drives his fingers in and out of her, his thumb on her clit, and she sobs. His hand is a cruel, cruel thing, stroking vehemently fast, a torture she inevitably suffers. She knows she’s trembling badly, knows her clenched fists on his bedsheets will leave crescent marks on her palm, but she doesn’t care. It hurts, it aches, it feels good, she wants more, she wants him to stop, she doesn’t know which one she actually wants -

She comes with a loud whimper, she can hear his giggle, his happiness, and the way he retracts his fingers just to replace them with his mouth, swallowing every bit of her come. She jerks back, too sensitive, too much - but he’s quick in holding her in place, and she cries, she whines.

“Too much - ” she thinks she heard herself say, her hands shooting up to try shove him away, “‘S too much, please, please - ”

Please what? Please go on? Please don’t stop?

His tongue sweeps and sweeps, circling her button, sometimes flat, sometimes up and down, and her whole body jitters, not used with so much pleasure at once. She feels him probing her slit with his finger again, prodding slowly, curling it inside of her in that sensitive spot until she imagines seeing stars. She’s thrashing in his grip now, completely overstimulated, and still he doesn’t let go, still he adds another finger and she finds herself coming for the third time.

“Please,” it’s a loud whine now, she hates how it sounds crooked from pleasure, “Stop, stop, please - Sensei please stop - ”

He shuts her up with his mouth, taking her to a kiss so deep she almost chokes. She grapples with anything - his shirt, his neck, his hand - anything to keep herself in place, to anchor her so she doesn’t melt. His tongue is just as intrusive as it was, now invading her mouth, teasing her own tongue and her kiss is sloppy, but he doesn’t mind, because he’s choking her with his tongue and she’s trying to breathe.

Their mouths separates with a plop and she pants, trying to collect her composure. She hates this stupid blindfold, can I take them off, please can I take them off, she thinks she’s only saying it in her mind, but he tuts her like how an adult would a child. 

“Told you it makes it feel better. Don’t you agree?” he taunts her, teeth giving little bites on her neck, hickeys, fuck, no, while she keeps whimpering, please take it off, take it off. “No, Nobara, I won’t take them off. Stop fussing.”

For a moment only silence followed after that, and other than the ringing in her ears, she can’t hear anything else.

When she hears the sound of zipper coming down, a rush of panic courses through her veins, and she starts scrambling away from him, starts fussing with the blindfold even though he told her explicitly to not take it off - and just as light is about to enter her line of view, it’s blocked again when he grabs her by the ankle and pull her closer, hands faster than hers to secure the blindfold on her eyes.

“Please,” she begs, she pleads, and still she doesn’t say no. “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease - ”

She hears the annoyed click of his tongue, “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, Kugisaki,” she hears him say, and she feels it later -

Something hot, strange, foreign pole-like shape that sits between her thighs.

Fuck, fuck, it’s his cock, it’s his -

“Gojo-sensei - ”

“None of that sensei shit now,” he snaps, curling his fingers on her hair and she can feel him on top of her, his body heat radiating hotly, his member tense and thick against her stomach. She can feel his other hand going down to fist his cock, to line it up with her slit, to prod her entrance.

Her stomach knots. Something in her chest twists until she can’t breathe. She thinks, this is it now. This is all I’ll ever be.

If she thinks his fingers were an intrusion, then what can she call his cock probing her cunt is? A massive invasion? No, no, she doesn’t think she can’t take it, she doesn’t want to take it, she doesn’t want to take him -

And still she doesn’t say no, still he doesn’t care.

She can’t see it, can only feel it, like something sharp and alien splitting into her center, stretching her apart - tearing her apart. Fuck, fuckfuckfuck it fucking hurts - it’s not a single motion, but a series of them, grinding and insistent, and every one drags eternity behind it. He nearly can’t fit inside of her, he has to loosen her up or else she’ll tear, and she’s grateful he’s kind enough to play with her clit so she can relax a bit. She wants to scream, but it lodges in her throat, a whimper caught halfway to silence.

She wants to ask if he’s happy. Wants to know if this will keep him from sadness, from loneliness, from searching for comfort in her bed again. From ever crying in her lap about his dead best friend, about having to murder him, about how he always reminds her that his one and only would always be that man - the man who rebelled against the Jujutsu Society and died in the hand of his best friend.

Suguru Getou.

The intrusion keeps going. Relentless. She thought it would be one shattering moment, one break, but no - it’s hundred little breaks, it’s hundreds of him, one after another, each sharper than the last. Her body bends and bends until she swears she’ll snap. 

She claws at the sheets. Claws at herself. She claws at anything she can reach that isn’t him. But he doesn’t stop. He never stops. He’s not Saori. Saori stops. Saori asks. Saori’s kind. He’s kind, but he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t stop.

His voice falls against her hair like a prayer, a chant, “Mine, mine, mine,” low and breathless, and she tells herself she doesn’t hear it - tells herself she doesn’t hear him, tells herself it doesn’t matter.

Time stretches grotesquely. She can’t tell if a minute has passed, or ten, or a hundred. Her body convulses against the mattress with each new push, jerking as though electrified, puppet-like, no longer under her command. The heat coiling inside her refuses to dissipate; it builds like a pressure in a sealed room, unbearable and endless. She’ll suffocate from it.

Somewhere above, he murmurs again. Something tender, something that should sound like comfort but lands like a verdict. You’re okay, she thinks she heard him say, you’re okay, you’re safe with me. But she wants to laugh, because if she’s safe, then what’s happening to her? What is all of this? She can’t see his face, she doesn’t know if he’s smiling. The darkness keeps her from knowing whether he’s human at all anymore.

Her fists are still clenched, she’s not sure for how long, but her body betrays her, writhing as if dragged along by a current she can’t swim against.

Hey, Saori, why did you move without telling me?

She thinks of home again, of Yuji and Megumi, of Saori, of laughter they share together, of Fumi, she needs to apologise to her, of safety, of light. She holds onto it desperately, even as the black around her eats everything else.

Next time we see each other, let’s make sure all three of us are there!

He doesn’t stop. He goes on and on, he keeps thrusting, and it doesn’t hurt anymore, it just feels uncomfortable. He goes on and on, as though he could keep unraveling her forever, until she’s nothing but an empty shell of a body, responding against her will.

I wish I could’ve seen her one last time.

She doesn’t know when she’s fallen asleep, but when she wakes, his head is tucked into the crook of her neck, his arms folded tightly around her body. They’re still naked and dirty. For a moment she thinks about shifting, peeling his weight off her - but no, she tells herself, this is normal now. This is what she should expect.

It seems he too must’ve fallen asleep after he’s satisfied.

Satisfied? She can recall him saying. If he were among those patting my back, then I might’ve been satisfied.

She wonders if he’ll be happier if that man was here instead of her. And her if Saori was here instead of him.

Her throat is dry.

She wakes him gently, fingers brushing at his shoulder. “Move a little,” she whispers, voice low so as not to break the silence. “I want some water.”

He stirs, doesn’t immediately let go, and she almost has to pry herself out of his grip. When she sits up on the edge of the bed, she glances back, the irritation slipping into her words before she can stop herself. “Do you want some too?”

It sounds almost like she’s scolding him.

His eyes are still half-cosed, his hair falling over his face, he looks beautiful, smiling - that easy, careless smile. “You’re so kind,” he murmurs, as though she’s just offered him a kindness he doesn’t deserve.

Her legs ache when she stands, the dull soreness blooming through her thighs. It’s not the kind of ache she wants to linger on, so she doesn’t. She just steadies herself, slips into her shirt from last night, and pads out of the bedroom.

The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes her hyperaware of every sound she makes - the click of the switch as she turns on the dim kitchen light, the whisper of her bare feet against the floor, the thin rush of water hitting glass. She grips the water bottle she took from the fridge with one hand while the other holds the glass under it, knuckles blanching, because she needs to hold onto something solid.

The water is cold. She drinks too quickly, tilting her head back until it spills a little down her chin, catching on her shirt. It doesn’t matter. She lets it.

Behind her, she hears the shuffle of bare feet. He doesn’t speak right away, just leans against the doorway, watching her. She can feel his gaze in the silence.

She sets the empty glass down a little too hard, the clink echoing sharp in the stillness. “I’ll get yours,” she says flatly, already reaching for another glass.

“Mhm,” he hums, voice thick with sleep, but there’s a smile in it. He’s shirtless - with shorts on, and she tries not to look at the trail of hair leading down to his groin. The very thing that broke her just moments ago. He doesn’t bother moving closer. “You always take care of me.”

The words sting, though they feel like they shouldn’t. She fills the second glass anyway, slides it across the counter toward him without looking up.

For a second, nothing happened. But when he finally crosses the room to take it, brushing his fingers deliberately against her, she swallows hard. She knows she’ll do it again tomorrow. She knows she’ll always take care of him from now on.

“Are you tired?” she asks, can’t help it.

He glances up from the rim of the glass, already forming that grin. “Why? You want a second round?”

She wants to slap him, but she shakes her head. “No. I’m just asking. I’m going to clean up.”

“Oh,” he says, as if he knows what she’s thinking, “Can I join?”

She doesn’t answer, neither yes or no, and he takes it as a yes. 

The bathroom light is cruel. She squints against it, hand lifting to shield her face as though it were daylight. The white tiles glare back, unforgiving, showing everything too clearly.

Her reflection in the mirror nearly makes her flinch.

Rimmed red eyes, lips swollen, neck mottled with marks that don’t look like hers. She’s already thinking of how annoying it’s gonna be to cover all of them up for school. Presses a hand against the glass as if she could rub them away, wipe herself back to the girl she was yesterday.

But the mirror doesn’t lie.

She turns on the tap, splashes cold water on her face. It runs down her cheeks, dripping off her chin, onto the floor. She bends, cups her hands, washes her mouth and spit them back into the sink.

When she looks up again, he’s behind her.

Gojo leans lazily against the wall, that half-smile tugging at his lips. This is all amusing to him. 

“Don’t look at me,” she mutters, turning her face back to the sink.

But of course he doesn’t listen. Of course he comes closer, the soft pad of his feet against tile, the warmth of his body crowding her space. His hands snake around her waist, and she holds her breath, fingers splayed against her stomach, and his chin finds her shoulder. Their reflection doubles in the mirror - her stiff posture against his easy, languid embrace.

It looks like a couple, she thinks distantly, and the thought makes her sick.

“You look tired,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of her ear. “I like you like this. Meek. Quiet.”

She grips the edge of the sink until her knuckles turn white. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust her voice, and instead reaches for her toothbrush. The simple act of brushing her teeth, dragging mint foam over her tongue, feels like salvation, a return to something human.

He watches her the whole time. His hands never leave her waist.

When she rinses her mouth, he plucks the toothbrush and sets it aside, pressing a kiss against her wet cheek. “You taste clean now,” he says softly, as though it’s a compliment.

She wants to spit again, but instead she turns away, grabs at the shower handle. The pipes groan, water sputtering out in a thin stream before setting into steady warmth. She doesn’t ask if he’s coming in. She already knows.

By the time steam curls against the mirror, he’s stepped in behind her. The hot spray hits her first, soaking her shirt until it clings, transparent and heavy. She peels it off with trembling fingers, tossing it aside. Naked again, like the bed wasn’t enough. Naked again, like she belongs naked to him.

He doesn’t press her this time. No grabbing, no pinning. Just his hands moving through her hair, lathering shampoo until the suds run down her back. His touch is slow, methodical, almost tender. It should feel comforting. It feels like erasure. He’s washing away whatever parts of her he doesn’t want, until there’s nothing left but what belongs to him.

She stands still, arms crossed over her chest, while he works. His fingers dig into her scalp, rubbing circles, and a shiver races down her spine. He hums to himself under his breath, something tuneless, and it echoes oddly in the bathroom, a lullaby turned wrong.

When he tilts her head back under the spray to rinse the soap out, she closes her eyes. For a fleeting second, it feels like surrender.

He takes the soap from her next, foaming it between his palms, dragging the lather across her shoulders, down her arms. He kneels behind her to do her legs, his hair dripping, his face so close she feels his breath against her thigh. She doesn’t move.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, a praise. “So good for me.”

The water pounds against her, louder than her heartbeat, but she still hears him.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t touch her more than necessary. His hands don’t wander.

When he’s satisfied, he turns off the shower, reaches for a towel, wraps it around her like she’s fragile, because maybe she is. He sits her gently atop the vanity, gives her a quick kiss on the forehead, and goes to clean himself up in the shower. She waits silently, not really focusing nor thinking of anything, her mind blank.

After about an eternity, he steps out of the shower and wraps his torso down with a towel. She still waits as she watches him dry himself, putting on clean underwear without bothering with a shirt. She looks down when he approaches her, taking another towel to press the fabric gently against her skin, drying her hair with careful hands. She hates the way it makes her feel - cared for, cherished, when she knows it’s just another kind of binding.

Back in the bedroom, the sheets are still twisted from before.

He searches for fresh ones from the cupboard, putting the old one in the laundry basket, and she waits again as he secures the new sheets to the bed. She’s still naked, wrapped in a towel. He’s half-naked, the towel gone from his skin. She watches as he rummages through his wardrobe, grabs a clean shirt of his, and turns to her with a smile.

She doesn’t question it, doesn’t question him, as he takes off the towel from her body and replaces it with his shirt, quiet while he dresses her with something of his, quiet while he combs her hair lightly with his fingers.

“You’ll look pretty with longer hair,” he says, and she’s not sure if it’s a request or a command.

She finds her voice this time. “I like my short hair.”

He looks at her as though surprised she has a voice, and not just a doll he can play dress up with. “Really?” he asks, and she nods. He sighs, a faint smile curling on his lips. “Well, I’m happy as long as you’re happy.”

Really?

She doesn’t ask him that, instead lets him kneel in front of her.

“Step in,” he says, holding out the waistband of his clean boxers like he’s offering her a gift. She hesitates, toes curling against the floor, but the pause only makes his gaze sharpen, coaxing, expectant. So she obeys, her palms in his shoulder for stability, then one foot stepping in, the other following.

He pulls the fabric up her legs slowly, his knuckles brushing her skin, savoring every inch. It’s practical, mechanical even, and the intimacy of it makes her flush. By the time he eases the band around her hips, she feels stripped bare again, despite being covered.

She stays quiet. It’s easier that way.

His hands linger at her waist, adjusting, smoothing the fabric down, making sure it fits just right. He steps back once she’s fully dressed, as though admiring his hard work. Before any wrong thoughts can reach his mind, she says, “I’m tired. I’m going back to sleep.”

He looks at her, nods, and guides her to bed with him. They settle together, sprawling, him tugging her into his chest again. His hair is still wet, arms unyielding around her.

Her body aches everywhere. Her throat is raw. The scent of soap still clings faintly to her, but beneath it is him, all him. She lies there stiff in his grip, staring into the dark.

Next time we see each other, let’s make sure all three of us are there!

She misses Saori. Fumi. Home. Fumi’s dad, even. Anything but this. This is foreign territory. She doesn’t know this.

When she closes her eyes, she thinks, I wish I could’ve seen her one last time.

She wakes with a start, not because of noise - but because of the light.

The curtain is wide open, sunlight spilling across the sheets, across her bare legs tangled in the fabric. For a moment her body feels weightless, suspended between dream and waking - but then it all returns in a rush. Last night. The mirror. His hands. The bed.

Her chest tightens. She blinks hard, trying to shove the memory down, but it clings to her skin as stubborn as the scent of him in the sheets.

She wants to go home.

There’s a smell drifting in from the kitchen. Warm, rich, savory - it makes her stomach twist. Not the half-hearted toast-and-jam from the last time. Something fuller, something that takes effort. She stretches, arms lifting over her head, but the motion pulls at the ache in her thighs, and she winces. Her neck throbs faintly when she tilts her head side to side, muscles stiff.

She swings her legs off the bed, toes brushing the cool floor, and stands carefully. The wobble in her knees frustrates her - her body’s betraying her, carrying his mark in every sore joint. She pads to the mirror by the wardrobe, pushing damp strands of hair out of her face.

The sight makes her stop, but it doesn’t surprise her.

Her lips are still swollen, eyes rimmed pink. Her neck is a mess. Purple bruises blooming like ink stains, mottled across her skin. She presses a fingertip against one absentmindedly, only to flinch at the tender sting. She’ll have to find a way to cover them for school. A lot more foundation than how she normally uses them, maybe.

Her gaze drifts away from her reflection, to the calendar tacked onto the wall beside the mirror. Neat boxes filled with his quick, careless handwriting. Her eyes catch on one date in particular: 24th December. There’s a black circle drawn around it, bolder than the rest, ink pressed so hard it nearly tore through the page.

She tilts her head, frowning slightly. What could it mean? An appointment? A job? Something important, clearly. Something he hasn’t told her.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

She drags her fingers once through her hair, tugging at the knots, then lets them fall limp at her side. No use standing here. The smell from the kitchen is stronger now, curling into her nose - garlic, maybe butter, something frying. Her stomach growls.

The apartment feels too open when she pads barefoot down the hall. Bright daylight spills through every uncovered window, lighting the place. She presses her palm briefly to the wall as she walks, steadying herself against the soreness in her thighs.

The kitchen greets her with a sight that almost knocks the breath from her. He’s there, of course - standing easy at the stove, spatula in one hand, shirt hanging loose on his shoulders. The sizzle of oil punctuates the silence, a rhythm too ordinary. A pan of eggs, another with sausage. A plate already set with toast and cut fruit, the knife still sticky with juice on the counter.

She contemplates jumping from the balcony.

She stops at the threshold of the kitchen instead, fingers tightening on the doorframe. It shouldn’t look like this. It shouldn’t feel like home.

“Morning,” he says without turning, as if he knew she’d be there. His voice is casual, unbothered, the same tone someone might use with a partner after years together. “You’re up earlier than I thought.”

She glances at the clock. It is still only seven in the morning.

Her throat feels dry again. She swallows. “The light woke me.”

He glances back then, grin tugging easy at his lips, eyes sweeping over her. Noticing her still in his shirt, bare legs pale against the bright kitchen tiles. She looks away before she can see the satisfaction in his face.

“Sit,” he says simply, tilting his chin toward the table. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

She moves, slow, the chair scraping faintly as she pulls it out. The table is set with two plates, two glasses of water already poured, as though he’s planned this from the start. This is just another morning for them. She folds her hands together in her lap, fighting the urge to rub the bruises on her back.

The smell makes her stomach twist again. It’s too good. Too careful. Toast and jam would’ve been easier, quicker, thoughtless - but this… this takes time. This takes effort. She can’t stop thinking about that.

The pan clatters lightly as he slides food onto the plates. He brings hers first, setting it in front of her with a small flourish. A waiter in some cheap cafe. “Eat,” he says, and there’s that grin again, crooked and boyish. “You need your strength,”

Her fork feels heavy in her hand. She lowers her eyes to the eggs, the toast, the neat fan of sliced apple, and tries to breathe through the knot in her chest.

“What do you think?” he asks, smug.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s just eggs.”

“And sausage. And toast.”

“Yeah.” She raises an eyebrow. “Exactly. Just sausage. And toast.”

He chuckles. “You’re so mean. At least thank me, will you?”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Chews in silence, staring blankly at anything. “Oh, right,” she says, remembering something, “It’s your birthday today. Getting older every day.”

“Watch it, I’m only thirty one!” he pouts, and she can’t help the stir in her heart. Without his shades or blindfold, his eyes always manage to strip her bare somehow.

Thirty one, she thinks, thirteen years older than her.

Her taste in men hasn’t changed. Her taste in women is still Saori.

She wonders if his taste is still that man.

 She chews slowly. He doesn’t rush her. He never does. He eats with that ease, one elbow on the table, fork spinning lazy between his fingers. This really is just a normal breakfast to him. She’s his girlfriend, his wife. Whatever story he’s decided they’re living.

Her eyes flick up, just once, to his face. He looks younger in the morning light, the shadows smoothed out of him, hair pushed back sloppily. Not the man who left her shaking last night. Not the man who -

She drops her gaze. Focuses on the toast instead.

When her plate is half-empty, he reaches across the table without warning, stealing the slice of apple she was saving for last. His fingers brush hers in the process, casual and warm, and she jerks back like she’s touched a hot stove. He only grins around the bite.

“You’re predictable,” he says through a mouthful of fruit. “Always save the sweetest for last.”

Her throat tightens. She’s so annoyed. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” He wipes his thumb across his bottom lip, points the clean finger at her plate. “Eat it before I do then.”

She stabs the next piece of apple with her fork, chewing it furiously, eyes locked anywhere but on him. He laughs softly, satisfied.

There’s another calendar atop the fridge. He keeps calendars everywhere.  Her eyes drift toward it. There it is again. The 24th. That heavy black circle staring back.

He notices. Of course he does. He always notices. “You’re curious,” he says leaning back in his chair, studying her like can peel the thought straight from her skull. “I can tell.”

She clears her throat. “I don’t care.”

“Of course you do,” he says smoothly. Then, with a shrug: “It’s just a date. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Something prickles in her chest. Not dread exactly, not anticipation either. Just something in between.

His hand stretches across the table again. This time he doesn’t reach for food. His fingers find her wrist, light but firm, thumb pressing just over her pulse. The touch is careful, almost absentminded. He’s checking if she’s still real - if she’s still his.

She’s not anyone’s. If anything, she’ll gladly be Saori’s.

But the person in front of her is not Saori.

She pulls away when she hears her ringtone. He looks disappointed to see her walk back to the bedroom to retrieve her phone, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it. The screen lights up, the name reads Yuji Itadori.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for half a second before she swipes to accept.

“Yo, Kugisaki!” Yuji’s voice bursts bright through the receiver. “You awake already? Good, I was about to call Megumi but you picked up first.”

Her mouth feels dry. “Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

“Don’t forget today, okay? We’re meeting at Shibuya around noon. Gotta pick out a gift for Gojo-sensei.” He sounds almost smug at being organized for once. “Then later we’re surprising him at the cafe - remember the one we went to the last time we hung out together? We already told the staff. They’ll set up something nice.”

Her breath stumbles in her chest. A cafe. Surprise. She didn’t know any of this. Gojo hadn’t said a word to her. Her eyes flick instinctively toward the kitchen. She feels more annoyed than anything else.

“...What?” She presses her knuckles against her thigh.

Yuji laughs lightly, like she’s joking. “C’mon, don’t tell me you forgot. It’s Gojo-sensei’s birthday! We wanted to do something special, just us. He’ll totally pretend like he doesn’t care, but he’ll love it.”

Her mind scrambles for footing. Shit, shit - she totally forgot. It feels like stepping into a room where the floor’s been pulled out. I didn’t remember a single thing about the inviting him to cafe kinda thing, but I know we were gonna get gifts for him - fuck, why did she forget that so easily?

“I… uh.” Her voice cracks. She clears it, forcing steadiness. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Yuji hums, then: “You sound weird. Did I wake you up?”

“No.” Too fucking fast, Nobara. She bites the inside of her cheek.

There’s a pause on his end. Not long, but long enough to make her pulse spike. Yuji’s not dumb, he’s just… nice. He notices things, but never twists them into suspicion the way other people might.

“I can swing by and get you, if you want,” he says after a beat, gentle, tentative. Naive. “I figured you were at the dorm, but - ”

“No!” The word leaps out, too loud. She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing she could drag it back down her throat. 

Silence again. She can practically feel his eyebrows knit on the end.

“...You sure?” Yuji asks carefully. Not accusing, not prying. Just careful, always careful. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

Her heart hammers. “I said I’m fine,” she manages, voice flat. 

Behind her, a soft sound - bare footsteps.

Her spine stiffens. She turns, phone still pressed to hear, and sees him there. A plate in his hand, the faintest frown etches into his face. Annoyance.

She meets his gaze, warning, shaking her head just barely. Don’t start.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Watching her, jaw tight.

“Don’t worry, Yuji, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you guys at Shibuya.”

When Gojo’s ears pick up the mention of Yuji, he eases a bit. 

Yuji exhales, relief warming his voice. “Okay. Good. Don’t be late! Megumi’ll kill us both if we mess this up. See you soon, Kugisaki!”

The line clicks dead.

The phone is still warm in her hand when he plucks it out of her grip. She doesn’t resist - can’t, really. He sets it down on the dresser, face-down. When his gaze comes back to her, it’s not annoyance anymore. It’s calm.

“You lie too easily,” he murmurs, close enough that she can feel his breath at her temple. His hand slides up, brushing a strand of hair back, the gesture tender. “Do you even hear yourself?”

She looks up at him, daring him. “Should I tell him we just fucked, then?”

He waits, amused. There’s a curl on his lips, an almost grin.

“Hah,” she sighs, pulling away from him. “You’re lucky Yuji loves you. He’s throwing you a birthday surprise. Too good for you, really.”

“You don’t think I’m good?” he asks, playful, stepping closer to her.

“Who are you kidding?” she replies, tone full of sarcasm.

He presses his thumb to her lips, silencing her without effort. Her breath stutters. She hates that she doesn’t feel the need to get away, doesn’t feel the need to resist. She hates that she likes it when he’s good to her. When he’s not cruel.

“You are so easily railed, aren’t you?” he asks, and she doesn’t answer, because he’s tilting her chin up, and she has to stand up on her tiptoes to not fall forward, hands bracing against his chest.

Sweat forms in her forehead, and she wonders if he notices.

His breath patters her skin, getting heavy, and she hates that she doesn’t mind if he asks or not anymore, because the feeling of his lips touching hers is better than anything else. It’s different from Saori, different from Fumi’s dad - different from Fumi, even. Her teacher doesn’t fumble, isn’t sloppy, and she hates that he’s just really that fucking good at kissing.

By the time she reaches the cafe, her stomach is in knots. It’s the stupid eggs and sausage she forced down this morning, she tells herself, not from nerves. The street outside is already crowded with Saturday chatter, and the little bell over the door jingles too brightly when she pushes inside.

Yuji waves at her immediately from one of the corner tables, his smile so big - it feels like it could split his face. “Kugisaki! You made it!”

She adjusts her bag - bought with Gojo’s money from her last angry shopping spree - higher on her shoulder, forcing a smile. “Of course I made it. Why wouldn’t I?”

He blinks, then grins wider. “No reason. Just - you’re on time, ‘s all.”

She flicks his forehead when she sits across from him. “I’m always on time.”

The table in front of him is already littered with wrapping paper and ribbons he must’ve bullied the staff into bringing out. A small bag sits on his lap, bulging with something poorly wrapped. She eyes it suspiciously.

“Is that your gift?” she asks.

“Yeah!” he beams, proud. “A custom keychain with a teeny tiny Six Eyes! The guy at the shop thought I was insane but it turned out awesome.”

Nobara pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re crazy.”

Yuji shrugs, still smug. “At least Gojo-sensei’ll like it. What about ‘ya? Whatddya get?”

She hesitates for half a beat, then pulls out the slim box from her bag. “Shades. His old ones are falling apart.” I bought it with his money.

Yuji bursts out laughing, loud enough to draw a look from one of the waitresses. “I thought we agreed to no glasses.”

The bell over the door jingles again, and Megumi walks in, shoulder stiff. His gaze scans the cafe, settles on them, and he comes over.

“You’re late,” she says as he slides into the seat beside Yuji.

“I’m not late.” He drops a plain white bag onto the table. “I’m exactly on time.”

Yuji peeks inside before Megumi can stop him. “A book?”

“First edition,” Megumi says flatly. “He’ll appreciate it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Nerd gift.”

“Better than sunglasses he already has thousands of.”

Her jaw drops. “You - ”

Yuji snorts and covers the sound with his hand. “Okay, okay, enough! He’s gonna be here any minute.”

The staff brings out a small cake, decorated simply with white frosting and a lazy swirl of blue on top. So Gojo, Nobara scoffs. They’ve dimmed the lights a fraction, and one of the waitresses is already fiddling with the candles. It feels like something from a middle school party, clumsy and earnest, and Yuji’s practically vibrating with excitement.

Even Megumi looks happier than usual.

She folds her arms, sinking into her chair. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t need any of this. He’s too old, too annoying. And yet - watching the table pile with gifts, her chest feels tight, seeing Yuji’s determination to make it perfect.

They really love him. Nobara doesn’t know if she can say the same.

The bell rings again.

“Shhh,” Yuji hisses, ducking too low for anyone to take it seriously. “He’s here.”

And then he is, tall frame filling the doorway, sunlight chasing him in. His sunglasses are perched lazily on his head, hair messy, smile already tugging as if he knows what they’re doing. He doesn’t even look surprised to find them all there.

“Surprise!” Yuji shouts anyway, nearly knocking his chair over.

The cafe echoes with claps and halfhearted cheers from the staff who’d been bribed into playing along. Gojo blinks once, then presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh my god, you guys. For me?”

Yuji leaps up first, thrusting the bag at him. “Happy birthday, Gojo-sensei!”

Gojo ruffles his hair with one big hand -  the hand that wrecked her last night, Nobara can’t help but think, and shoves the thought away - taking the gift like accepting an award. “You shouldn’t have.”

Megumi’s comes next, a quiet Happy birthday as he pushes the book toward him. Gojo flips it open on the spot, whistling. “First edition? Megumi, you’re too kind.”

Megumi mutters something about it being the only decent choice, but his ears are red.

It’s Nobara’s turn. She hadn’t planned to stand, but she does, pressing the slim box into his hand before she can second-guess it. “Here,” she says, too sharp. “Don’t break these in a week.”

He tilts his head, amused, and pops the box open. The shades catch the light, sleek and new. “Woah,” he drawls. “You spoil me.”

She crosses her arms. “They’re practical. Don’t read into it.”

But of course, he leans closer anyway. Close enough that she can see the tiny flecks of blue in his eyes, smell of sugar and coffee and something minty - the same smell she got used with the more she kisses him - on his breath. “You’re so mean,” he murmurs, voice pitched so only she can hear.

Her jaw tightens. The nerve. Out here, in front of Yuji and Megumi - ever reading too much into anything, and Gojo dares to play this game? Her first instinct isn’t heat rushing to her cheeks but irritation curling sharp in her stomach.

Her eyes flick toward the others, then snap back to him. “Don’t push it,” she answers, quiet and pointed, lips barely moving.

Satisfaction flickers across his face, a spark of challenge. He straightens, slipping the new shades onto his face - and gets rid of his old one,  like nothing happened - and he hadn’t just brushed up against the edge of getting caught.

“Perfect fit,” he says loudly, flashing the grin that makes Yuji laugh out loud. “You really do love me, Nobara-chan.”

“Shut up,” she fires back, tone flat, but Yuji only laughs harder, assuming it’s their usual bickering.

It’s Megumi who lingers, his gaze sharper than others. He doesn’t say anything - but she can feel it, him watching, weighing. It makes sense that he picks it up fast, he lived with Gojo for a long time. Guilt trickles down her heart, and for a moment, she considers apologising - but for what? He’ll get confused. 

“Here, Kugisaki!” Yuji slides a plate with a slice of cake across the table.

She takes it with a quick smile, noticing that each of them has gotten their slices already, except for the birthday man. But Gojo reaches and smoothly serves himself a plate too, grinning the whole time he does it.

He’s sitting next to her, she only realises that.

Megumi’s eyes catch hers. He’s attentive.

Gojo takes his first bite of cake with exaggerated delight, his new shades - her gift - perched on his face. “Mmm. Delicious! Almost as sweet as my present.”

Nobara kicks him under the table. Hard.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance at her, just takes another bite, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Hope you like chocolate, Sensei! Megumi and I argued about the flavour,” Yuji says, that wholesome grin of his continuously painting his face.

“Chocolate’s perfect!” He offers a thumbs up. “You two know me so well!”

Yuji beams, clapping his hands together. Nobara stabs another bite of cake with unnecessary force. 

In a sudden move, Gojo pushes his chair back, napkin tossed lazily onto the table. “Bathroom break,” he says, “Don’t eat my slice while I’m gone!” He winks, tapping the edge of her plate as he passes, slipping towards the back of the cafe.

Her shoulders unclench only once his figure disappears down the hallway.  

Yuji is immediately occupied with licking stray frosting off his fork, oblivious. Megumi, however, sits straighter in his chair, quiet in that way he always is before speaking.

Nobara catches him watching her. “What?” she snaps, sharper than intended.

“Nothing.” He looks away, gaze skating toward the window. His fingers tap once against the table, slow. Then: “He liked the sunglasses.”

Of course he would bring that up. Nobara forces a shrug. “They’re practical. He breaks them every other week.”

Megumi hums, not disagreeing, but not letting it go either. “Expensive taste, though.” His eyes flick to her bag - the same one she knows he’s seen before, dangling off her shoulder between classes. “You save up for those?”

Her chest goes tight. She meets his gaze head-on, steady. “What are you, my accountant?”

Yuji chuckles, mouth full. “C’mon, Megumi. She probably got a deal. Kugisaki’s like… scary good at bargaining.”

“Hm.” Megumi doesn’t argue, doesn’t smile. His attention drifts back to his plate, and his tone is pointed when he adds, “Guess I just didn’t expect you to notice he needed new shades.”

Her fork clatters against porcelain, too loud. She recovers with a huff. “Anyone with eyes can tell when his old ones are falling apart. What are you trying to say?”

Yuji, oblivious as always, waves his fork. “Well, I think it’s awesome. Way better than my keychain idea. He looked so happy when you gave them to him.”

The praise makes her skin itch. She can still feel Megumi’s stare, dissecting.

She glares at her half-eaten cake like it offended her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Well,” Megumi says finally. “Still feels… personal.”

Before she can fire back, Yuji says suddenly, “Hey, Kugisaki,” eyes lighting up as if he’d been sitting on the question for a while, “You ever hear from that friend of yours? Uh… Fumi? The one from back home?”

Nobara blinks, caught off guard. “Fumi?”

“Yeah, you told us, right? She’s like, your childhood friend I think,” Yuji answers, and it’s not that she’s confused about - it’s that she’s not expecting it, not expecting him to remember at all, let alone mentioning it again to her.

“Oh,” she says, “Oh, yeah. We do still communicate, actually.” Her voice is softer than she means it to be. “Saori, though…”

Yuji scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “She’s the big sister friend you mentioned, right?” 

Nobara nods. “Yep. It’s been years since we last saw each other. About eight, maybe?”

“That’s a long time,” Megumi interrupts, thoughtful. “You’d like to see them again?”

You’re too cute, Nobara. I wish you were my age, somehow.

She sits up a little straighter. “Of course!” She doesn’t even have to think. Her smile curves genuinely. “Next time we see each other, I want to make sure all three of us are there!” Her chest warms with a kind of ache she hasn’t thought about in months. “That’s how it should be, anyway.”

It’s the truth. It’s been a long time, too long, and she wants to see them again not just as ghosts in her memory, but as living, breathing people. She wonders where Saori is. Wonders if she can find her, if she tries. 

She wants to see her again, wants to see Fumi, laugh with them, sit with them, maybe even cry.

She wonders distinctly if Gojo somehow can help her locate Saori.

“So yes,” she says, a little finality in her tone. “Definitely!”

The hope of reunion fills her chest like sunlight streaming through a window. Suddenly life feels worth living again.

“That’d be awesome!” Yuji grins. “I hope you get to meet them soon, Kugisaki.”

I hope so, too.

Chapter Text

Gojo’s head is heavy on her lap. Not crushing, not uncomfortable, not really - just heavy, like the way dogs plop down and expect to be carried, to be spoiled. He sprawls across the couch, legs dangling off the edge, one arm tucked over his stomach. His eyes are closed behind her sunglasses: the brand-new pair she gave him, and he’s still refusing to take off even indoors.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, combing her fingers absently through his hair. It’s softer than it looks, sliding between her nails. “You look like a mutt begging for scratches.”

His lips curl, lazy. “Then scratch me, Nobara-chan. I’m a very loyal dog.”

She scoffs, pushing her palm flat against his forehead. “More like a stray.”

“Eh,” he hums, voice stretching like taffy, “But a cute one. The kind you’d secretly smuggle into your apartment and feed leftovers to. Admit it.”

Her nails rake lightly across his scalp, and she tells herself it’s just because it makes him shut up for a second.

He starts talking about something - a bakery he found last week, some new stupid invention Shoko told him about, how Nanami once tried to teach him how to cook rice properly and nearly walked out halfway (correcting himself, but since then I learned how to cook well, for you of course). Nonsense, really. He never stops talking when he’s like this.

Her fingers pause for a moment, twirling one lock before letting it fall. There’s something strangely dog-like about him like this, stretched out, utterly unguarded, trusting her enough to rest where she could easily shove him away. If she wanted to.

She doesn’t.

Instead, her gaze drifts toward the far wall where his calendar hangs crooked. December. That circle. The 24th.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he’d said, weeks ago, with that cocky confidence that made her grind her teeth. And he’d never mentioned it again.

Her thumb rubs against his scalp absently, mind drifting elsewhere.

Yuji had been the easiest to ask.

They’d been loitering outside the dorms, waiting for Megumi to drag himself down. She remembered nudging Yuji’s arm, voice light, casual, made it like it was nothing.

“Hey. What’s so special about December 24th?”

Yuji had tilted his head, face blank. “The 24th? Uh, Christmas Eve?”

“Not that.” She forced a smile. “Something else?”

He’d shrugged helplessly, sheepish grin stretching. “Sorry, Kugisaki. No clue.”

“Don’t stop,” Gojo murmurs from her lap, startling her. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth curves faint. “Feels good when you scratch right there.”

She presses her nails lightly against his scalp in mock irritation. “You’re so needy.”

“Mhm. You like it.”

Her jaw tenses. He’s not wrong, and that’s what makes her want to dig her nails in deeper, to hurt him just enough so he knows she’s still angry. Because she is. The memory of him pinning her down on his birthday, his rhythm relentless even when she’d pleaded - can I take them off, please can I take it off - still burns against her skin.

She’s someone who holds grudges.

And yet her hand gentles again, against her will. She hates that she’s fond of him. Hates how easy he makes it to forget.

Her eyes flicker to the calendar again. The circle on the 24th stares back.

It was Megumi who’d given her the answer.

Not immediately, of course. He never did.

They’d been walking back from training, Yuji sprinting ahead like an overexcited puppy, leaving them behind. She’d taken the chance, voice steady, careful.

“Megumi. What’s December 24th?”

His expression barely shifted, but she caught the way his eyes narrowed, almost imperceptible. “Why?”

“Just curious.” She kept her tone sharp. “I saw Gojo-sensei’s calendar on his desk and the date was circled. I figured one of you would know.” She shrugged. “I asked Yuji, but he didn’t understand what I meant.”

He hadn’t answered right away, only shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground ahead of them.

Finally: “His best friend died that day.”

Her step faltered. “What?”

Megumi’s gaze stayed forward, flat as ever. “Suguru Getou. They were… close.”

And that was it. He hadn’t explained further, hadn’t needed to. The name alone told her everything she didn’t want to know.

Gojo yawns against her thigh now, utterly content. “You’re quiet,” he says, voice muffled.

“Thinking.”

“Dangerous.” His grin flashes briefly before fading back into laziness. “About me?”

She doesn’t answer. Her nails trace lightly across his temple, through his hair. She remembers the way Megumi’s voice had gone taut when he said it: His best friend died that day. 

The warmth in her chest is laced with something bitter.

Because she knows he loves her. Twistedly, selfishly, stupidly - he loves her. But not like that. Not like the way he loved his best friend - if they can ever be called that.

Best friend, huh? Nobara thinks, looking up to the ceiling. If they’re best friends, then what is Saori to me?

Her hand stills briefly in his hair.

“Why do you care?” Megumi had asked, too perceptive. Curiosity edged in suspicion.

Gojo shifts now, turning his face into her stomach, muffling his voice against the fabric of her shirt. “I said don’t stop,” he says, stubbornly childlike. “It feels like you’re mad at me when you do.”

She’d shrugged, eyes darting away. “No reason.”

“Maybe I am.” She exhales through her nose, dragging her fingers back into his hair.

He laughs softly. It’s a joke to him. But she’s not joking.

She looks down at Gojo, sprawled in her lap like some overgrown dog, eyes shut, at peace. She doesn’t know how long she can maintain that peace until she decides to be mean and ruin it for him. For her. For everyone.

It’s another week of her - now the one sprawling on his bed - in his apartment. Gojo always buys the most ridiculous things: imported sheets, pillows so soft it feels like they could swallow her whole, a bedframe wide enough to fit two of him if he ever decided to clone himself. Nobara lays diagonally across it, the blanket bunched under one knee, hair fanning across his pillow.

Her phone hovers above her face, and she squints against the glow. She hasn’t texted Fumi in weeks, and her last conversation with Yuji and Megumi reminds her why she misses Fumi in the first place. The chat with her scrolls higher and higher, years of on-and-off conversations stacked up, half-forgotten memes and stupid pictures of food. She types before she can stop herself.

NK: do u still talk to saori

The question sits ugly on the screen for a second. Too direct. She almost deletes it, but then the little “sent” bubble pops up and it’s too late.

Fumi responds with her usual jittery speed.

FM: not really. last time was ages ago. why???

Why. The word needles her. Why indeed? She exhales hard through her nose, tapping her nail against the edge of the phone case.

NK: jus wonderin. u dont know where she is now?

This time the typing bubbles take longer. Her stomach knots.

FM: my dad maybe?? he asks about you sometimes btw. keeps saying “how’s Nobara doin” like you’re his kid instead of me lol

A laugh breaks out of her unexpectedly, quick and sharp in the quiet room. Of course he does. He never got a taste for what she really was. Maybe he’s regretting it. Regretted refusing her.

NK: guess he misses me more than u do

FM: well. he keeps saying you were the “polite one” ??? whatever that means

“Polite,” Nobara mutters aloud, rolling onto her side. She’d been loud, sneaked out at night to hang out with Saori, fought boys twice her size, kissed him without guilt - if that’s polite, then Fumi’s dad must have been blind.

NK: ha. ur dad. typical lmao

FM: i can ask him about Saori if you want?

Her throat tightens. Yes. God, yes, she wants that more than anything. To know if Saori’s alive and well, if she smiles the same, if she’s wearing a wedding ring. The thought makes her stomach twist so hard she nearly drops the phone. Married. If Saori’s married… if she belongs to someone else… Nobara doesn’t even know what that would do to her.

She bites down on her lip until she tastes blood and forces herself to type.

NK: yea. if its not weird. jus curious

The message whooshes away. She flips the phone onto her chest and stares up at the ceiling. Saori feels close suddenly, it aches - her laughter, the way she’d tuck Nobara’s hair behind her ear, the soft pressure of lips against her mouth with that careful whisper: Is this okay? Always asking. Always waiting for a nod.

You’re too cute, Nobara. I wish you were my age, somehow.

Her phone buzzes again.

FM: okie. i’ll bring it up when he’s not in a bad mood :3 no promises though!!

She smiles, small and bitter.

NK: thx. ur not completely useless ;P

FM: rude!!!!

Nobara is about to reply when the creak of the door makes her freeze. She tilts her head, caught like a thief.

Gojo leans lazily against the frame, towel dangling from one hand. His hair is damp from the shower, sticking up even messier than usual, and of course he’s still wearing the damn sunglasses she bought him.

“What’s got you so serious, Nobara-chan?” His voice is all sing-song tease. Ugh. She hates him.

She flips the phone face down against the blanket, acting as casual as she can manage. “Nothing. Just scrolling.”

He steps inside, long strides eating up the space. She hates that he’s so fucking tall. “Mhm. You looked way too focused for cat videos.”

She scoffs. “Please. I don’t waste my time on cat videos.”

“Oh?” He tips his head, grinning. “So what then? Memes? Fashion blogs? Or maybe…” He drags the last word out. “…something you don’t want me to see.”

The mattress dips under his weight as he drops onto the edge, right beside her dangling knee. His hand lands heavy, palm spread against the sheets. He looms over her, and she hates that her pulse skips at the closeness.

“You sexting someone behind my back?”

Her laugh is sharp, but nervous. She doesn’t know if he can hear it, that hint of distress underneath her tongue. “Be fucking for real. Like I’d waste my time on some loser when I’m already stuck babysitting you.”

He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Ouch. Right in the ego.” Then he grins, wolfish, predatory. It’s so obvious, sometimes. She doesn’t remember why she thinks he was ever genuine. “But flattering, in a way. Means I’m the only loser you bother with.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He leans further, shadow falling across her. “I could just read over your shoulder, y’know.”

Her grip on the phone tightens. Every muscle screams at her to push him back, to snap at him, to protect the secret sitting just a button away. But she forces her expression flat, bored. She’s not affected, yes, she isn’t. “Go ahead. You’ll just find shopping ads and memes.”

For a moment, he studies her face, quiet in a way that scares her more than all the teasing. But he shrugs, stretching out across the bed like a dog, his arm brushing her side. “Fine, fine. I’ll believe you.”

Her pulse is erratic. She turns the screen toward the blanket, thumb hovering protectively over the chat with Fumi. If there’s one thing a-man-who-owns-everything can’t have, it’s this. Her precious Saori.

He nudges her ribs with an elbow. “You’re really bad at hiding things, Nobara.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes close behind the shades. “If you say so.”

The silence hums between them.

She exhales through her nose, nails digging into the back of her phone. She thinks of Saori again, of soft lips and whispered is this okay? She thinks of how she used to imagine growing up and marrying her, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She thinks of how wrong it would feel if Saori belonged to anyone else now.

Her chest aches. 

She presses the phone harder against her sternum, as if she can hide her own thoughts that way.

Gojo shifts, sprawling fully now, one leg bent over hers, head dropping onto her stomach with a sigh. “You’re tense,” he says, muffled. “That mean you’re mad at me again?”

“Why would I be mad at you, idiot?” she asks, more annoyed than anything else.

He laughs softly.

She stares at the ceiling until her eyes prickle, the weight of him pressing down, the phantom taste of Saori’s kiss still lingering in her memory. It was ten years ago, but she can feel it, clear as a day. 

His head is heavy on her stomach, hair still damp, strands sticking through the thin fabric of her shirt. He exhales a long, contented breath, and then tilts his face to look up at her, half-hidden grin curving against her ribs.

“You’re so stiff,” he says, lazy, teasing, but there’s something underneath it. A hunger. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

She swallows. “I’m not pretending.”

He pushes himself up, bracing on his elbows, suddenly too close. His hair drips water against her cheek, and the towel falls forgotten onto the sheets. His sunglasses slip, and for a second she sees his eyes - pale, sharp, unguarded.

“Let me help you relax, hm?”

She knows what he means before he even leans in. His lips brush her temple, then her jaw, and she doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss him back, doesn’t shove him away either. 

His hands find her waist, sliding under the hem of her shirt, palms warm. He’s not rough, not demanding - if anything, he’s too gentle, his touch careful, cajoling. He smells faintly of soap and the faint sweetness she noticed before, sugar clinging to skin.

She lets him. He doesn’t ask anymore, and she’s glad that she also doesn’t have to say no again, free to give it to him.

His mouth finds hers, slow, lingering. He kisses like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly. When his tongue presses forward, she parts her lips automatically, a reflex, though her chest feels empty.

Saori’s face flickers behind her eyelids. Is this okay? she’d asked, thumb brushing her lips. Giving her a choice.

He doesn’t ask anymore, and frankly, he doesn’t have to. He assumes.

She’ll always let him.

His weight settles over her, long body curling down to cover hers, his knee pressing between her thighs, right on her core. She doesn’t try to focus on it. He presses his forehead against hers, breath shallow, hands still cradling her sides.

“I need this,” he murmurs, voice lower than usual, almost breaking. “Let me have this, okay?”

Ah, Nobara notices the calendar beside the mirror, a week before the 24th.

His voice sounds raw. He’s clinging to her not because of who she is but because he can’t stand being without someone. And she wonders, frankly, if she’ll do that, too, in the future. Using someone so shamelessly because you’re too caught up in your grief, oblivious to the fact that you’re doing more harm than good.

But she nods, barely. Only a fraction.

He needs this.

His relief is immediate, audible in the shaky laugh he exhales before kissing her again, harder this time.

Is he, oblivious?

She closes her eyes and imagines a different weight, a different warmth. The careful way Saori’s hands would pause, waiting for her to nod, waiting for her to choose. The way Saori would smile against her lips like they had all the time in the world.

She was ten, and she would be satisfied staying ten if it meant she could have Saori to herself.

She doesn’t enjoy being eighteen. Because it isn’t Saori who’s in front of her, it’s Gojo.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s not oblivious. 

She lets him kiss her until her lips ache. Lets his hands slide higher under her shirt, lets his body press her deeper into the mattress that smells like him. She doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t even speak.

Her silence is its own kind of consent, and he takes it as such.

The text from Fumi comes early - before Nobara’s even fully awake, blinking at the pale morning light bleeding through Gojo’s curtains.

FM: my dad found Saori

Her heart stutters. She blinks again, rereads it once. Twice.

FM: he said a friend of a friend of a friend works with her now. i’ll send details later ok, i gotta go!!!

And just like that, Fumi dips out of the chat. No explanation, no follow-up. But it doesn’t matter. Nobara’s wide awake now, a thrill running through her chest so fast it’s dizzying. She presses the phone to her chest and exhales, a shaky little laugh bubbling up.

Saori.

She’s so fucking happy.

She rolls over on the bed - carefully not waking him up. The bed’s a mess: her clothes are everywhere, one of her plushies is wedged between the pillows - her chiikawa helplessly squished on his arms - and there’s a pile of shopping bags in the corner. It’s not even his apartment anymore; it’s theirs.

The fridge downstairs is full of watermelons because she can’t stop buying them. (She’s always liked them. Now in the city, she can get more imported goods - her village doesn’t offer much, only local farm options.) Her lipstick stains his mugs. Her makeup spills across his bathroom sink. (She wears Dior now. It helps a lot that Gojo has unlimited money.) Her underwear is folded into his drawers. (This she tries not to think much about. It’s become natural for them. Sometimes she’ll wear his boxer shorts too if she runs out of panties.)

Somewhere along the line, she started living here without realizing it.

Not that she particularly loathes it, she just can’t say she likes it - the prospect of her actually living here, truly moving here. (She casts that thought away. It’s no good for the human psyche to think of something as torturing as that.)

She pads to the bathroom to wash up, humming under her breath, grinning at herself in the mirror like an idiot. Her reflection grins back.

It’s three days before the 24th. She doesn’t think about that part too long - doesn’t let the memory of him circling that date in black ink drag her mood down. Not now.

By the time he finds her in the kitchen, she’s already cut up half a watermelon and is eating it straight from the bowl, perched on the counter as if she owns the place.

And maybe she does, in a way.

He comes in, hair sticking out at every angle, rubbing his eyes. Stops in the doorway, blinking at her. She doesn’t tell him that he looks beautiful.

“…Why’re you smiling like that?” he asks, voice rough from sleep.

She shoves another watermelon cube into her mouth. “Like what?”

“Like a maniac.”

She snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”

He leans against the doorframe, still looking at her. “Something happened?”

“Nope,” she lies easily, swinging her legs. “Just in a good mood.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide. Maybe because her good mood is infectious; even his perpetually sharp gaze softens. He’s not an entirely bad man. But he’s not one hundred percent good either. So she doesn’t take it for granted - him acting kind, lenient. That kind of freedom is much too precious to be ruined, especially coming from him.

The day flows like that - light, easy, unnaturally warm. She finds herself laughing more, touching him first, nudging his shoulder while they’re watching TV (he gets surprised as always, she rarely initiates any touch with him), curling against his side on the couch without overthinking it (if she starts to think about it, she’ll die). He keeps giving her these looks, confused but kind of charmed. 

When she reaches out and ruffles his hair while he’s scrolling on his phone, his head tilts instinctively into her touch. Dog-like, as always. Adorable. But would bite you if you stop.

“Seriously,” he mutters, looking up at her. “Did someone drug you with serotonin this morning?”

She shrugs. “What if I am just deciding to be a better, kinder person?”

He makes an exaggerated barf noise, but he’s grinning. She grins back.

Later, when she’s folding laundry - their laundry, they’ve been doing this for a week, playing house, playing wife and husband and whatever the fuck they actually are beneath the surface of that good-for-nothing facade - he comes up behind her and loops his arms loosely around her waist. Not in his usual, overbearing way. But resting there, chin on her shoulder. 

“Tell me,” he says softly, sweetly. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t want to hurl. “What’s got you so happy?”

“Nothing,” she answers again, smiling into the stack of folded shirts.

“You’re lying,” he hums.

“What if I am?” she teases.

He doesn’t answer, only squeezing her gently. It makes her chest ache a little, how easy it is to love him when he’s like this. When he’s not asking for anything. 

She moves around the apartment like a girl possessed by joy. Everything she does has this unspoken undercurrent: I know where she is. I’m closer now.

He doesn’t need to know that part. Saori is hers.

Wholly hers. He doesn’t get to take her away, too.

They spend the afternoon running errands together - he insists on carrying all her bags like some smug, trophy husband, my princess must be tired from all the walking. She rolls her eyes but lets him, whatever. In the car, she catches herself staring out the window, daydreaming, smiling.

She doesn’t know if she’s delusional, but she can see the clouds taking the form of Saori. Maybe it’s a sign from God.

He catches her once, at a red light. “You’re glowing,” he says, genuinely baffled.

“Shut up,” she says, cheeks warm. She doesn’t do much to hide it.

“I mean it.”

She flicks his shoulder, pretending to be annoyed, but inside, she’s buzzing with happiness.

When evening comes, they’re on the couch, his head resting casually over her chest, watching something neither of them is really paying attention to. She texts Fumi again - no response. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before she locks the screen and tosses the phone aside.

Three days. Three days until the 24th.

She doesn’t think about that man. She doesn’t think about the way Gojo’s expression softened when he said, “You’ll know soon enough.” 

She focuses on the fact that somewhere out there, Saori exists in the same timeline. That the gap between them is finally shrinking.

Gojo shifts atop of her, a puppy hugging its mother, glancing up at her. “You’re weird today,” he declares.

“You’re always weird,” she shoots back.

“Yeah, but at least I’m consistent.”

She laughs. She doesn’t say anything to that.

The notification comes when she isn’t even looking at her phone. It’s face-down on the couch, buzzing against the fabric, and she only picks it up because she has a phone addiction and can’t stay away from her phone for more than five minutes (and especially since she’s waiting on that news about Saori).

He’s sprawled on top of her thighs, too busy muttering to himself to notice.

FM: ok so. i asked my dad for the details. saori’s married. no socials but her husband has one :/

She sits up straighter on the couch. Her half-finished cup of watermelon juice sits forgotten beside her. She stares at the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, trying to process those two words.

Saori’s married.

For a moment, she’s twelve again. Back in that tiny kitchen where the three of them - her, Fumi, and Saori - used to sneak snacks after dinner. Saori was the oldest by a few years, always the one who told them which rooftops were safe to climb, which neighborhood aunties had the best candy, which teachers to avoid if you were late to class. She wasn’t flashy or loud; she had a way of making everything feel comfortable. Safe. Like the world wasn’t that complicated after all.

I’m gonna grow up and be strong and pretty and you’re gonna have to marry me!

Nobara remembers how Saori would tuck her hair behind her when she was nervous. She copied that habit, unconsciously. She still does it sometimes before a fight.

Married.

The word sits heavy, like a stone sinking to the bottom of her stomach. Married. Saori has a husband. A whole new life that Nobara isn’t part of. For three years, Nobara’s memories of her had stayed neatly in their little village, unchanged, untouchable. But now… Saori’s out there laughing with someone else. Building a future with someone Nobara’s never met. Someone who wasn’t there when they were huddled together on cold nights, swearing they’d leave their boring town and make it big someday.

If you were a boy, Nobara, I would certainly want to marry you when you’re older.

If only she was a boy.

She presses her palm against her sternum. Her heartbeat feels uneven. 

It’s December 24th.

The apartment is warm. There are shopping bags in the corner, a pile of his jackets draped over a chair, the dishes scattered on the sink, still not done yet. He’s in her lap, fiddling with her shirt, demanding she ruffle his hair. But Nobara’s world has narrowed to the screen in her hand and that one word looping through her mind: marriedmarriedmarried.

Saori’s married. To someone else.

Not to her.

Her eyes sting.

Gojo shifts against her legs, sighing. “Stop moving. ‘S comfy here.”

She doesn’t hear him. She sits very still, as if moving might make it more real. Her memories don’t fade; they get more intense.

Saori’s smile in the golden light. The way she’d nudge Nobara’s shoulder when she was sulking. Her scolding voice when Nobara dared them to sneak into the abandoned house down the hill. Her laughter, loud and bright, echoing through the fields.

No, Nobara, kicking them in the butt isn’t nice. But I appreciate you doing it for me.

She’d smiled, then, happy to have Saori acknowledging her.

She’s not smiling, now. She doesn’t think Saori still remembers her.

All of it feels so close that Nobara could reach out and touch it. But it’s not hers anymore. Saori has someone else to share her everyday with. Someone who probably knows how she takes her coffee. Someone who gets to hear that laugh now.

It’s unfair, she thinks. Unfair, unfair, unfair.

Her phone slips out of her hands and lands on the couch with a soft thud.

She clamps a hand over her mouth. It’s laughable, cruel, even, that today of all days, the world is collapsing. 24th of December. It’s supposed to be Gojo’s bad day. She knows what this date means for him -  even though he never says it out loud. She’s supposed to think of him, supposed to hold him up when the grief catches him. She’s supposed to be his comfort, the way she planned after hearing Megumi’s explanation. She knows that, understands her role, knowing why Gojo picks her.

But she can’t.

Tears slip hot down her cheeks, quiet. She wipes them fast, but his head tilts lazily, his voice muffled. “…What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Her voice cracks.

He props himself on his elbows, sunglasses slipping down his nose, eyes narrowing. He sees too much. It’s infuriating, sometimes. “Hey.”

She turns her face away. If he asks, she doesn’t think she can take it. She’ll shatter.

But he doesn’t ask. He climbs up her body, weight sinking her deeper into the cushions, caging her in. His palm cups her cheek, thumb brushing the wet trail there. He doesn’t look smug, isn’t coy - his grin is gone.

“Don’t cry, Nobara,” he murmurs, low, as if it’s that simple.

She wants to scream. Wants to tell him she’s not crying for him, not for whatever wound today tears open in his chest. She’s crying for someone else, someone he doesn’t even realize lives inside her like this.

His arms are already around her, pulling her against him, her face pressed to the warm line of his throat. He’s solid, immovable, smelling faintly of soap and sugar, and she can’t push him away.

She breaks.

The sob tears out before she can stop it, muffled into his skin. His grip tightens instantly, possessive, fierce. “That’s it,” he whispers, rocking her slightly. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

She shakes her head against him, nails clutching the back of his shirt, desperate. She hates him for holding her so well. Hates him for thinking this is about him.

His lips press against her temple, soft, grounding. “You don’t have to tell me. I don’t care why. Just cry. I’ll take it.”

It’s supposed to be the other way around, she thinks viciously. You’re the one who should be breaking today. You’re the one who should be held. 

But he strokes her hair, patient, unbearably tender. His hands are at her back, his chest rising steady under her cheek, chin resting against her crown.

She hates him. 

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “You’re with me. You’ll be okay.”

She doesn’t answer. Her sobs burn down into quiet shudders. She’s pressed into him, wrapped in his long limbs, his heartbeat under her ear.

And maybe it is fair.

On his birthday, he took something from her. Now, on his day of mourning, she takes this from him - his comfort, his strength. She drains it greedily, selfishly. She can’t survive otherwise.

Maybe the world is fair in all the way that matters.

Nobara doesn’t move for a long time.

She’s on his bed, half-buried under the sheets, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. The curtains are drawn halfway, letting in thin slivers of afternoon light that cut across the floor in sharp, quiet lines. She tracks the movement of dust motes drifting through the air, slow and lazy. Her chest aches in that dull, persistent way. It doesn’t demand attention, rather refusing to be ignored.

At some point, she hears the door  slide open and shut. Gojo’s footsteps are unmistakable. He doesn’t say anything. She’s grateful he didn’t. The bed dips at the edge as he sits down, hearing the faint clatter of something against the nightstand. There’s a warm smell: rice and broth and something sweet. Miso, perhaps.

“You’ve been in here all morning,” he says eventually. 

She doesn’t respond. She can’t. Her throat feels tight even though she’s not crying anymore. It’s that same static in her head, crowding out everything else.

He leans over her. “I made lunch. You should eat before it gets cold.”

She doesn’t turn to look at him. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, the rhythm mechanical. She doesn’t think she even understands what he’s saying. It flies over her head.

When he leaves for his mission, the apartment falls quiet again.

The silence is dense.

She can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall, the occasional creak of the walls, her own short breathing. She’s not sure how much time passes before she finally sits up, pulling the tray closer. The soup is lukewarm now. She drinks it slowly, without tasting it, because she knows he’ll check.

It’s still the 24th. The day drags on endlessly, stretching thin and pale over her head.

As Gojo comes back that evening, the air shifts. She hears the door click open, hears him drop his bag somewhere by the entrance, and then his voice fills the space, lighter than she expected.

“I’m back.”

She doesn’t get up to greet him. She hasn’t done much of anything since the morning. Not since she cried in his arms and regretted it.

He comes into the room, still in his uniform, hair a little damp from sweat, blindfold pushed up to his forehead.

He takes one look at her and exhales through his nose, soft. He’s not mad. Why is he not mad? “Still in bed.”

He peels off his jacket and tosses it aside, blindfold coming off too (he hates not being able to look at her, she only notices that recently), then climbs onto the bed behind her, pulling her up gently until she’s sitting between his legs, her back against his chest. She doesn’t resist. Her body moves where he puts it, pliant and floppy.

“You didn’t finish eating,” he murmurs, spotting the tray on the nightstand. He reaches over for it, setting it on his lap. Then he picks up the spoon and taps it lightly against the edge of the bowl. “Open up.”

She blinks at the spoon, dazed.

“C’mon,” he says. “You’re not dying on me on Christmas Eve.”

Her mouth opens automatically. The first spoonful is cold, salty. He feeds her slowly, not pushing her to talk. His chin rests against the crown of her head. She’s aware of the weight of his arms around her, of the way his breath patters her hair.

It’s strange, this role reversal.

Usually, she’s the one making sure he eats, nagging him to take off his shoes when he collapses on the couch, cleaning up after his carelessness when the weight of his grief crushes the edges of his smugness.

Today, he’s the one holding her up.

When the bowl is empty, he sets it aside and doesn’t move away. His arms remain around her waist, loose but firm. She leans back, sinking into him, her head tipping against his collarbone. The heat of his skin seeps into her bones.

Neither of them talks. 

She finds herself holding onto him more than usual. Her fingers clutch at his sleeve without her realizing it. She shifts until she’s practically wrapped around him, limbs tangled with his. He doesn’t question it. His hands trace idle circles on her arms, occasionally slipping under the hem of her shirt to rest against her skin.

She breathes him in slowly, trying to anchor herself. Her mind keeps slipping, returning to that single, inescapable fact - Saori is married. She doesn’t want to think about it anymore, but she’s physically incapable to.

“You’re clingy today,” he says quietly. 

She presses her face into his chest, muffling her answer. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh, low in his throat. His hand finds hers, interlacing their fingers without fanfare. He doesn’t pester for explanations. He doesn’t bring up the way she’d been lying there earlier.

But his fingers reach her chin to tilt her up, and she wants to hurl.

His breath is a warm thing on her face, pattering softly. His eyes aren’t cold, but they’re not kind either. Sometimes he gets like this after coming back from a mission. And it’s the 24th, after all, he must’ve been upset that they gave him a mission on his day of mourning.

She wonders if he’s upset about having to take care of her, too.

“What was he like?” she asks, before she can mull over it. It’s the same question she asked him long ago - what about him? that he can’t answer. She doesn’t know if he simply didn’t answer because he didn’t know what to say, or if there was something else. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“Hm?” he asks back, even though she’s sure he understands what she means.

“Your best friend,” she says, then looking away from him, because she can’t bear to look at his grief. “He died today, right?”

It’s silent.

He doesn’t have an immediate answer. It’s strange coming from him, since he’s always bluffing his way through. But it’s different, right, in this case, because it’s his best friend he’s thinking about?

“Who told you that?” he asks instead, maybe because he doesn’t want to give her an answer. Something she can hold over his head. He can’t stand it when people have power over him, that much she can tell.

“Does it matter?” she asks, flatly, eyes still refusing to look at him.

He laughs, softly. “No, I’m just curious. But I figured sooner than later that you’d find out.” His hand makes to grab her neck and it’s not rough, but his thumb is on her jaw and he wants her to look at him. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? I knew it from my very first glance.”

“You’re dodging the question,” she says, trying not to feel anything when his thumb presses against her lips. She’s still in his lap, between his legs, and her hands are resting innocuously on his thigh.

“Why should I answer?” he says, expression unreadable. “It’s not like it matters to you.”

It does, she wants to say, it does matter when you use that as a reason.

She’s not stupid. He’s sad over his dead best friend, sure, but if that’s it, he can go to literally anyone else. Doctor Ieiri is an acquaintance of his, and from what Nobara’s heard, she’s probably a part of his friend group, too - before that Suguru Getou defected from Jujutsu High, anyway. A doctor who’s also an old friend is more fit to be whatever Nobara is to him right now, than his own student.

“Forget it,” she says finally, giving up. He won’t answer even if she pesters him. “Thank you for taking care of me. I should probably head back to my dorm.”

He frowns, caught off guard. “What? Why?”

“I’m tired,” she says, already scrambling away from him. But his grip is tight and she can’t move when he does that. When he doesn’t want to let her in but also doesn’t want to let her go. It becomes confusing, with him.

“You’ve always slept here, though,” he counters, tightening his arm around her waist. “Stay, won’t you?”

“I think Megumi is getting aware of us,” she says, and she doesn’t know if that look on his face is amusement or dread. “That’s why I think it’s best if we don’t see each other, at least for a while.”

He pouts, though he doesn’t disagree. “I can’t not see you everyday. I like it when I wake up and see you in my bed.”

Her jaw goes tight. “You need to get used to me not being here, Gojo-sensei. It’s hardly appropriate.”

His mouth gaps a little. “Hardly?” he asks, the word spitting out from his tongue. “What’s inappropriate about it?”

“Well, for a first, you’re my teacher, and I’m your student,” she states, refraining herself from smacking him in the head. Is he being purposefully dense?

“You never have a problem with it,” he says, like it’s factual, and maybe it is, maybe she just doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet.

“I’m having a problem with it now,” she says, stubborn. “Please, let me go home. I’m really tired.” Let me drown on my self-wallowing because the girl I wished to marry is married to someone else.

“Hmm,” he hums, thoughtfully, considering. “At least you should wash up first before you go home. How about that?”

She goes silent. She hates it when he’s not wearing anything to cover his eyes. When he willingly gets himself worked up just so he can look at her directly. She feels stripped bare under those stark blues. Feels like she can’t hide anything from him, no matter how much she wants to try.

“Can we take a bath?”

His grin is broad, and he’s so happy, and it makes her sick.

The air is hot and muddy around her.

Of course, she’s snuggled up against him, back to his chest, his legs on either side of hers and they’re in the bath together. This is one of the reasons why she dislikes warm baths now. It reminds her of his heat and all encompassing presence. The way he’s so big compared to her, rendering her mute and small.

Her head rests on her pulled up knees, and she hugs her legs, curling up. The tub isn’t small to begin with,  it’s built for someone like him, but for two, it’s nearly suffocating. Just sensory nightmares all around.

His fingers trace her back languidly, not really making any pattern, though it gives her goosebumps all the same. It’s a nice distraction from the fleeting feeling in her chest, that absolute sorrow gawking at her heart whenever she decides to think of Saori. She can’t help but always run there, especially when the alternative is him.

“It’s Megumi, isn’t it?” he asks, continuing, “The one who told you about the date.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t give him any reaction either. Her heart aches too much, her hands numb from sadness.

“Raised him as my own. Figured he’d be a menace like me.” 

He’s not a menace, she thinks, he’s not you.

“No matter. It’s all in the past now,” he says, like a statement. His voice wavers a little. A small glimpse of his so-called weakness.

“You need to let go of him,” she speaks up, finally. “Let go of your best friend.” 

He hums. “Yeah. Maybe I should do that.” His hand sneaks around her waist and he pulls her flush against him in one smooth swoop. The water splashes from the force. She silently gasps. “But it’s so hard, y’know.”

Yeah, I know. It’s so hard to accept that Saori’s married. She’s not dead, but she likes a man, and won’t probably like Nobara because she’s not a man.

“You just need to try,” she says, unkind, he doesn’t deserve it.

“I’ve tried,” he says, sighing, chin resting on her shoulder, breath too fucking hot and seductive in her skin. “I’m trying, in fact. I just wished we had more time. Maybe I should’ve joined him, too, in his genocidal plans.”

The world won’t survive it. One special grade sorcerer defecting is already bad enough, let alone two, a Six Eyes and Limitless Cursed Technique user at that. It will probably be the end. But he knows that. He’s rational enough to not let his emotions get to him. She wonders if she’ll ever reach that stage of selflessness.

She thinks he’s selfish, but she doesn’t know how much he’s endured to still be the good guy in everyone’s eyes. Maybe she’s a little breath of fresh air for him, someone he can be a bit cruel to and someone he can find a lot of comfort in. But does it have to be her? A girl thirteen years younger than him?

He can have anyone he wants. A man or a woman. She’s sure there are lots of people who’ll willingly throw themselves at him. So why her?

“Why didn’t you?”

His answer is instant. “I see no point in it.” His vocal chords drums against her body. A little shiver she can’t quite get away from. “I still have a moral conscience, you know. My only wish is to change how the Jujutsu world works. That way no one can be left alone by anyone, be it in death or in life.”

Is that the reason? Does he think she’s alone, that’s why he refuses to leave her side, refuses to let her leave him?

Yuji is closer to Megumi than he is with her. Megumi is a reserved person, but she knows he cares deeply about the two of them. Gojo can’t possibly think she’s alone just because of that. 

“Is that why you do this?” she asks, turning to him, looking up at him. His eyelashes are as white as his hair, and in this light, he looks ethereal. Almost like an angel. Lucifer, perhaps. Because they both fell from hell. “You’ll change the Jujutsu world by fucking your own student?”

His mouth twitches. She can see it, that malevolent side of his, the side he only shows with her and when he finds a strong curse to exorcise. Being the strongest, he rarely finds enjoyment in killing weak curses, since he only uses a fraction of his power. But with her, with the strong ones - he’s excited, because he can be a lot more cruel and a lot more worked up.

“We need to have a talk about your use of profanity,” he says, clicking his tongue. Both of his hands are on her hips, and he’s lifting her up, positioning her entrance to his cock. She closes her eyes, hard. He lowers her down, slowly, very slowly to let her know how much she stretches around him. It’s no use, the pain doesn’t subside. When he’s mean, he doesn’t give her any preparation. Maybe it’s her fault for riling him up as well. “You’re a girl, Nobara-chan. Surely you need to be more polite and sweet.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, and gasps when he plunges her body down, impaling her on his cock. She writhes, hands grabbing the side of the tub, trying to get away. He doesn’t let her. 

“Ah-uh, please stay,” he tuts her, like she’s a child. “We don’t want you getting hurt from tripping on that wet floor.”

She doesn’t cry. Frankly, she has no energy for it. Her cries should be reserved for Saori only. And it’s true, because she can’t cry anymore. She’s just tired, she thinks, and hurt. 

She tries to breathe around it, around him, but it really doesn’t matter when his size is all she can think about. It’s uncomfortable, it’s awfully hot and big for her. She knows this, she’s done it a lot with him, but he’s always been kind and nice to her, always loosening her up before the real thing. Or he’s only doing that because he doesn’t want her permanently damaged and potentially report him to someone in authority should there be proof of his depravity. 

“You asked for this, Kugisaki,” he says, sneaking a hand between her legs, down to her clit. “I told you it’d be nice if at least you wash up first before you go home, but you asked me, can we take a bath?”

She wants to say, it’s not like you wouldn’t go after me in the shower if I wash up alone, but it gets swallowed by the whimper in her lips, his fingers stroking her button purposefully. Heat pools up in her stomach, her cunt, her whole body. She’s thrumming with pleasure, or torture - it doesn’t matter either way, both being one and the same to her. 

He shallowly rocks his hips, more water splashing around them, as he keeps dancing his fingers on her center. When he lowers his head to suck at the skin on her shoulder, she thinks distinctly, if fucking was always meant to be this way. This - sad, monstrous feeling curdling up in her gut, a hint of disgust and something else she can’t name, something she refuses to name, a bit of pleasure and a lot of pain, and maybe she has that mixed up, because a lot of time she can’t feel the difference between feeling in pain or feeling pleasure. Maybe it’s the same for other people, too, maybe she’s not alone in this way. That can’t be, right? This must be what a lot of people are feeling, right?

His unoccupied hand is fiddling with her nipple, pulling sometimes rough and twirling it hard. She pants, because there’s nothing else that she can do, nothing she can do to fight him. She lacks strength in the physical side and going hand to hand with the strongest sorcerer is a dumb idea. So she lets him, because she doesn’t have a choice, because this is inevitable.

She feels dizzy. Her blood is rushing so fast from the adrenaline, from the way his long, slender finger rubs her clit, from the way his hand keeps playing with her tits, never satisfied with them, from the way his tongue licks and sucks in her skin like a leech. The water is cold now but it may as well be hot from the heat of both their bodies alone. He hums, that lullaby gone wrong again, as he traces a pattern on her center. It feels raw, alcohol to an open wound, an offering of her heart in the altar. What kind of altar, she doesn’t know, but if there is one, she doesn’t want to know.

“No,” she says, finally finding her voice. 

His response is in a mocking, shocking tone. “No? No what, Nobara?”

She whines, a moan slipping out of her mouth when he snaps his hips up, a punishing thrust on her insides. “No, no I didn’t ask for this - ”

Cries out anyway when he scrapes her clit with his nail, cutting, too much, too sensitive, get it away - get it away.

“I want to go home,” she begs, pleads, body twisting to her side so she can look at him, so he can see how sorry she is. “Please, please, I’m sorry,” hiccup, is she crying? Hands reaching up to grab at him, “I want to go home, let me go home.”

She’s crying now, she’s sure, after all that talk about saving her cries for Saori. She can’t trust herself, can’t even keep a promise on her own.

“Don’t cry, Nobara,” he mutters, parroting his own sentence earlier, but this time it’s mean, this time he’s unkind. It amplifies his cruel stroke on her clit, now burning, flaring up with heat and pleasure. “You’ll go home soon enough. After this is over, okay?” he says, and it’s a mock-concern, and she wants to be angry at him so bad, but it’s impossible to be angry and aroused at the same time, or it is possible and she’s just not trying hard enough.

The heat coiling in her lower stomach dissipates right before she’s about to come. He can tell by the way she writhes, by the way she’s trembling. It’s not fair that he can see her so thoroughly. Why can’t she read him that way, too? Why is it only him that can do everything and get away with it?

She pants, breath coming in and out ragged, as she struggles to keep still, struggles to not roll her hips to chase that pleasure. It’s easy, she thinks, just a few up and down and she can come. But her pride is too big for that, and apparently his is too, seeing him all grinning and cocky.

 She can’t come out of her own volition. He always drags it out of her. The thought of coming on her own violates her, making her want to hurl. It’s like she also wants whatever this is if she does, instead of him forcing it out of her.

“As much as I love this, I hate not being able to look at you,” he says like it’s a matter of fact. His hand closes around her throat and she shudders, not wanting to look at him, lowering her head down. He plays with her nipple as he continues to speak. “So here’s what we’re doing: you stand up and walk to the bed, and lie there on your back, and I’m gonna come to you, alright?”

When she takes too much time to answer, he bucks his hips up, cock hitting that too-deep spot inside of her. She gasps.

“Alright?” he asks again, demanding.

“Alright,” she says instantly, not wanting to enrage him further.

“Good girl,” he says, giving her praise, giving her a kiss on her temple, gentle, kind, unlike what his cock is doing to her. “Up up, now.”

She does as he says, barely able to keep her legs straight as she steps out of the tub, drying her feet on the wet mat now, a mess and evidence from what they’ve been doing. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at him for confirmation.

After he nods, she turns away and begins walking slowly to the bed, her thighs aching even before he did anything remotely serious to her. It’s not fair, she thinks again, how he manages to do so much with so little.

This isn’t Nobara Kugisaki.

Nobara Kugisaki that everyone knows isn’t like this.

She’s not meek, quiet, or so easily silenced by anyone. She’s strong, tough, and sometimes thinks she’s better than anyone. She likes shopping, dressing up pretty for no one in particular, likes to assert dominance. She used to think she only likes girls, with maybe some exceptions for boys. Fumi’s dad is one of the only two men she’s ever had a ‘relationship’ with, if she decides to add Gojo to the basket. But in reality, she only likes the attention Fumi’s dad gave her, likes the way he crumbled so easily under her grip.

With Gojo, though, it’s difficult to tell.

She likes it when he comes to her and throws his head on her lap, snuggle up against her stomach and mumble something incoherent, muffled by her clothes. She likes it when he throws an arm over her waist, keeping her in place, legs curling up as he gets comfortable. She also likes it when he pouts because her fingers stopped ruffling her hair for some reason, whether it be to stretch her hands or to check on her phone. Her favourite spot in his apartment is the big, comfortable couch in the living room, with a decent-sized TV. She can lounge all day long and not get bored. Sometimes when he comes back tired from a mission, he’ll find her on the couch with a blanket and sneak up underneath, head coming to rest on her thighs and sighing dramatically, rambling about the not-exciting mission. Most days she doesn’t listen, too focused on her TV show, but sometimes she gives him some reactions too, here and there. He gets really happy when she does that.

Things she doesn’t like about him, though, are longer than the things she likes about him. 

First and foremost and the one she’s still particularly bitter with: he’s too physical. Too touchy. He has no concept of physical boundaries whatsoever. He’s always been like this, even with Megumi and Yuji. But with her, it’s worse, so much worse. Sometimes he doesn’t think before unconsciously grabbing her arm, her shoulders, or her waist. It makes her irritated. She can’t relax just one second around him, because she doesn’t know what he’s thinking. One time when she’s on the field with him while watching Megumi and Yuji sparring, his hand reaches out to hers, tangling their fingers together. She pulls away from him immediately, but she can’t tell if one of them is watching her or not. She prays no one notices.

The second: she doesn’t think he cares if anyone finds out about what they’re doing. This thing going on between them - it could potentially ruin her reputation, her future as a whole. So she’s very careful with how they’re perceived. But he’s reckless, almost on purpose, to show the world what they are. It doesn’t even make sense, knowing they don’t have a label to their relationship yet. If it ever comes to that point, she thinks, she’d rather die.

Third: he’s very, very demanding. He doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants. He asks, he pesters, he corners her until she tells him what he wants her to say. It doesn’t even matter that she doesn’t want to, or that she’s annoyed with him. He’ll get what he wants, in the end, because that’s how he operates. Because he was selfless enough not to follow his best friend’s path in eradicating the whole human population, so he gets to be a little selfish now.

She lays in his bed, thinking distinctly, if this is one of those selfishness.

Her knees are up but she closes her legs, head comfortably on his pillow, body sinking into the sheets below, all owned by him, including her. He takes too long in the bathroom. It’s been five minutes and he’s not out yet.

She rolls to her stomach and grabs her phone, checking the time. Seven thirty. Still not too late if she wants to go back to the dorm. With the commute maybe she’ll get there around eight, if she leaves now. But she doubts he’ll let her. He hasn’t had his fair share of pleasure yet.

She’s checking the chat room between her and Fumi when he steps out of the bathroom.

“Who are you texting?” he asks immediately once he sees the phone in her hand.

“No one,” she says, plopping it face down on the desk. She rolls again to her back, propping herself up in her elbows, watching him. If there’s one thing they share, it’s that they’re both not afraid of nudity. Nobara has always known her body is amazing, and she suspects Gojo must feel the same way too, and she can’t really blame him for having such high confidence with himself if he has the body to make up for it.

“You take too long,” she adds, as though she didn’t just cry and beg him to stop.

He grins. “I had to clean your mess,” says him, like the mess wasn’t made by both of them, rather only her. He takes to sit on the edge of the bed, idly rubbing her ankles.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Are you mad?” he asks of her, and she doesn’t have a chance to answer because he’s already pulling her ankle down so she’s closer to him, face-to-face, cynicism-to-grief. It’s still the 24th, but he doesn’t look sad. Or maybe he just masks it too well.

“Why would I be mad?” she asks instead, frowning. She knows he likes to rile her up sometimes, gets a reaction out of her. It’s so amusing to him, apparently.

“Are you still in contact with Fumi’s dad?” he asks all of the sudden, surprising her. The audacity nearly kills her.

“What?” she spits out, offended, upset that he’s bringing this out of the blue.

“What what?” he gleefully grins, sneaking a hand between her legs and lowering his head to suck at her collarbone.

She squirms, trying to get away, but his other hand clamps on her forearm hard, and he forces her to still from the force. She bites her lips, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of reacting.

“C’mon, I was merely asking,” he says again, sneering, a finger already finding her center and rubbing. She clutches at him now, pooling her energy into pushing him, but he doesn’t budge. He’s like a solid wall of rock.

Heat starts coiling in her lower stomach, easy and slowly, how easy it is for him to make her feel good. She exhales at the sudden intrusion on her inner walls, his finger makes to prod at her entrance, exasperatingly slow. It curls on her inside, dragging on the nerve that ticks her, rendering her trembling and writhing.

“Not gonna answer me?” he asks, still asking, good fucking God, won’t he just shut up, a glint in his eyes, that levity dripping out of his face like a mixture of genuine happiness and the want to torture her.

She’s shaking, she knows she is, and any word that’ll come out of her mouth will be adjacent to a moan, and she can’t give him that. So she bites her lower lips, hard, drawing out blood, she doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to give in.

He shifts on the bed so he’s kneeling between her legs now, fingers still languidly fucking her, nice and slow, as if they have all the time in the world. He drops his weight forward, mouth latching on one of her tits, leisurely sucking and smooching. Her hands have placated themselves on his hair, winding on his smooth, soft locks. She doesn’t know if she’s pulling him in or pushing him away, too afraid to confront herself of what she really is all along.

A compliant participant, or an unwilling one? Does her heart and body not usually sync together; because even though she wants to go home so badly, she also doesn’t stop him. What does that make her, then?

Her thought is interrupted when he adds another finger, two digits driving in and out of her with determination, a will to wring out an orgasm from her. He’s not mean, this time, not forcing her upon his cock before preparing her for his girth. It’s alright, she thinks, she can do this. She will. 

His dick is pretty, like everything else about him, glistening as if shining, precum dripping out of the head, completely and utterly aroused by her, heavy between his legs. She can still remember the shape of him, from the tub, the way it chokes the life out of her. She didn’t go that far, she recalls, with Fumi’s dad. Most they went for were trying to get each other off - he never penetrated her.

Gojo is the first one, she thinks again, bitterly, to really reach that part of her. There was no blood, but she was bleeding all the same. 

“You’re out of your head,” he says, coming up to give her a chaste kiss on her cheek, endearing, lovingly. “What’re you thinkin’? Tell me.”

Her head is turning, nausea creeping up her neck and nerves. “I’m not thinking of anything,” she says, stubborn, not giving it to him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed. “Ow, c’mon. You’re breakin’ my heart.”

Another finger. Three digits now. Three slender fingers going in and out of her, and she wants to stop already. No, no, you can do this, you got it. After this, she’ll go home, right? He’ll let her go, right?

“Uh,” she pants, hands tightening their grip on his hair, back arching weakly. “Uh, oh - m’not… Not thinking of anything.”

She can hear the slickness from her cunt. It’s embarrassing, actually - the sound is so lewd, like coming straight out of a porno. He doesn’t seem to mind it, of course, the freak that he is. It gets him harder, even. Tension springing on his dick as more blood flows there.

“Fuck,” he curses, fingers going in a little rougher, body moving up so he doesn’t crush her as he takes his other hand to fist his cock, forcing more and more precum to come out, slowly dribbling down her mound, the liquid trickling in between her folds, seeping into her skin, marking her indefinitely. “Look - look what you do to me?”

She stares at him, looking down to his cock, now angry and red and wanting. His fingers are still inside, scrubbing her inner walls raw, his thumb coming up to stroke her poor, abandoned clit - jolting it awake, her palm instantly covering her mouth so she doesn’t make noise.

He takes his hand off his dick and leans over her again, roughly snapping her palm away. “Don’t do that, I want to hear you,” he says, cruel, mean. His fingers go faster and faster inside of her, dragging her nerves, curling up to hit that spot, over and over without mercy. All the while, his thumb is stroking and pinching her clit.

“Oh,” she lets out one single moan, because she can’t take it anymore, “Oh, ohh - ” another, “Ah! Ahh!” and another, the rest coming out in short whimper, her palms flat on his chest and she doesn’t know if she wants to push him away or for him to continue, too dazed with pleasure.

“Kiss me,” he demands, rather than saying, and she obeys him, reaching for him, lips chasing his, opening obediently when he bites her lower lips with his teeth, his kiss consuming and devouring. His tongue is an invasive thing on her mouth, tangling with her own, full of hunger and devotion. Her fists batter at him when she struggles to breath, making him retreat, their saliva connecting as he pulls away, a thin thread of spit and snapping as he gets down again, now tracing his lips between her tits, and her stomach, and ultimately her cunt.

She gasps as he replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue, licking and swirling her clit. Her chest rises and falls as though she’s been running for miles, suffocated by the weight of pleasure and nerves just flaring up every time he makes to suck her little button, his teeth grinding it and her hips jerked up as a reaction.

“Don’t - ” she wants to say, cuts off because of the intensity, “Don’t bite - ” she says, or pleads, breathless, she doesn’t want to dwell on it, just wants him to stop tormenting her.

His laugh is an instant, shaky thing, reverberating through her whole body, drumming against her skin. “You’re soaking,” he marvels, the unoccupied hand of his goes to rest on her stomach, arms winding her thighs so she doesn’t try to get away. He blows his breath on the puff of her clit, making her shudder, making her lost on all thoughts and incoherence taking over. “You want me so bad.”

She shakes her head rapidly, denying, it’s not true, it’s not true. “No - that’s not - ”

She arches her back, tears forming in the crease of her eyes, the sensation so intense she can feel the whole of her world crumbling down. He’s curling his fingers against the soft spot inside of her, just fucking grating her like cheese, his tongue relentless on her clit. Her toes dig in the mattress, muscles spamming and straining, her hands fisting the sheets. She feels so unbelievably, unbearably hot. Sweat trickles down her forehead, her neck, and she doesn’t know if it’s tears that’s dripping down her ear, obscuring her sense of hearing.

“Hm? That’s not what?” he hums, astonishingly pleased, and the vibration of his voice drums on her skin. More of her wetness keeps pouring out of her, an evidence of shame, something she can’t lie about.

“True,” she manages to say, face pinching up, “That’s not true,” she adds again, stubborn, he can’t fuck it out of her.

He giggles, full of joy, childlike, mocking her. Her muscles are going taut, preparing for the onslaught of pleasure, but, but he -

“No!” she whines, crying, begging, he’s no longer fingering her, no longer latching onto her cunt, he’s retreating, looking down at her with a faint, amused curve of his mouth, cruel, cruel. “Gojo-sensei - ”

“Satoru,” he corrects her, looming above her, lips just a shy centimetre away from hers. “Call me Satoru.”

She chews the inside of her cheeks, flushed, eyes hooded, unable to look at him so openly like this.

“Gojo-sensei - ” she starts to say, but his hand shoots up to envelope her neck and her mind short-circuits. Trembling, both of her hands closes around his wrist, a silent plea, don’t kill me.

“I said,” he murmurs, eyes staring so intently at hers, the stark blue rendering her speechless. Can see the darkness of him just beneath it, that if she tries to touch it, she’ll be able to feel it. “Call me Satoru.”

She gulps, nodding. There’s nothing else that she can do. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, Satoru.”

He grins, showering her eyelids with kisses. “You’re the best,” he beams, absolutely ecstatic. He’s kissing her pain away, drinking her tears, swallowing her heart. “Say my name.”

His hand crawls away from her neck, to her thighs, opening her up more, as if it’s possible, folding her legs like a pretzel in each side of hers. He kneels on the bed, between her legs, rubbing his dick on her clit, coating it with her slick, not even hesitating to make noise - he’s confident like that.

He throws his head back, drunk on pleasure. “Say my name, Nobara-chan.”

“Satoru,” she breathes, softly.

“Fuck.” He lines the head of his cock on her entrance, groaning. “Again.”

“Satoru,” she says, dragging it out of her.

He starts to penetrate her, going in exasperatingly slow, to torture or to ease the stretch of her cunt - she doesn’t know.

“One more time,” he asks of her, and she doesn’t have it in her mind to deny him.

“Satoru,” she says again, teeth chewing on her cheeks, drawing blood. He’s still going in, and every inch she takes, she finds it more difficult to breathe. Her hands starts scrambling for purchase, something to hold on to. Mind screaming at her, you can’t, you can’t take it, get it out - get it out! “Satoru, I can’t - ”

“Hush,” he shoos her, leaning down so he can kiss her forehead, his palm hot on her head. “You can, and you will, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

She does what he says, breathing, inhaling, exhaling, calming her mind, shut up, shut up. But he keeps pushing, keeps forcing his way in, even though her cunt is clamping down on his cock tightly, not giving a way.

“Shit - just, shit, try to relax for me, Kugisaki,” he says, eyes closing hard. She sniffs, sighing again, calming her body. “Holdin’ on to me so tight. Can’t move,” he murmurs, opening his eyes, a faint smirk on the curve of his mouth - a proud one? “Loosen up, c’mon.”

She shakes her head, panicking. “No, I don’t - ” sobs, “I can’t - ”

“Of course you can,” he says, confident, the hand not holding himself up so he won’t crush her goes to tease her clit, and she jerks, involuntarily, though it does make her open up for him more. “See? You can take it.”

Her center is radiating heat, just hot, hot all around, that it starts to turn cold. Goosebumps covers her whole body and she trembles, she’s shaking, as he rubs her little nub, as he drives himself deeper inside of her. Her wetness slicks out of her slit, coating him, she can feel the liquid dripping down to her asshole, rewiring her brain.

Just when she thinks he’s buried to the hilt, he’s still pressing forward, making space for himself, carving his veins into her skin so she’ll remember the shape of him. She pants, breathless, eyes shooting up to the ceiling, thinking, thinking.

If I had stayed in that village, I’d be as good as dead.

She remembers thinking about that, about her whole dream of coming to Tokyo and making it big - but none of that, she thinks, none of that includes whatever the fuck this is.

I want to go back. I want to go back.

He sighs after finally sheathing himself deep inside of her, utterly content. It’s uncomfortable, but only for a while, and it doesn’t hurt anymore, but he does stretch her badly. 

Let me go back.

“Say my name,” he demands, taking both of her legs over his shoulder, caging her in, bending her more. She’s forced to meet his eyes this way, forced to look at him. 

“Satoru,” she whispers, soft, low, and it’s driving him crazy.

Her face scrunches up instantly as he moves, thrusting into her, his movements unhurried, still beginning, they have all the time in the world. He repositions her so her legs are below his arms, hugging his back, he’s leaning forward and pressing a kiss on her neck, the thrum of her pulse, chewing, licking.

“Again,” he murmurs, breathing harshly against her skin.

“Satoru,” she mumbles, quietly, closing her eyes. His pace is picking up, rougher. Heat starts to build again on the low of her stomach, refusing to dissipate. Since she was on the verge of coming already, it doesn’t take long for her to get close to that peak again, breath hitching, she’s clutching at him, chasing that release.

 “You’re close, aren’t ‘ya?” he asks, face in front of her now, grinning, smug, she wants to wipe that smile off his face. But she kisses him instead, because she doesn’t know what else to do. He’s rocking his hips a little bit faster now, more of mercy for her than anything. His chest brushes her nipples at every movement, puffing them up, sensitive, she wants to get away, she wants to -

Her kiss falters as does her body, muscles taut with her orgasm, she’s thrashing so badly against him that he has to hold her, and she cries, she whines, she’s whimpering. His abdomen grinds against her clit, and she almost chokes from the intensity of it. Spit gurgles on her mouth, and she swallows thickly, mouth pulling away from his as she tries to collect her breath.

His eyes are clouded, foggy, hazy. He’s drunk on her. She clenches around him, genuinely can’t take it anymore. But he doesn’t know, or rather doesn’t care, as he keeps sliding in and out of her, if only with a little more difficulty now.

“Jesus,” he laughs, breathless. “You’re so - you’re grippin’ me,  y’know?” She doesn’t answer, trying to relax her cunt around him, just so he’d shut up and leave her alone, chase his own pleasure. He doesn’t let her. “Do you even realise how tight you are?”

Ugh, ugh she wants to hurl. But the sentence curls on her mind and her brain registers it as a praise, moving sharply to her stomach, adding only to her pleasure, sickly sweet on her cunt. She pulses around him again.

“Oh, ‘ya like that,” he grins, toying with her, hips rolling into her. “You love it when I talk dirty, don’tcha?”

She wants to respond, wants to say, it’s not like that - but a moan beats her to the race and she lets out a full, loud ahh that doesn’t sound like her. It’s awfully lewd, awfully dirty - and he keeps choking it out of her, keeps driving in and out of her, rougher, harder, his thighs pressed flush against her ass every time he’s in, and the head of his cock just barely slipping when he’s out. 

“You feel so good,” he groans, eyes closed, and she’s grateful she doesn’t have to look at him anymore. But he makes to latch on the other side of her neck, teeth grinding on her skin, and she’s just about to lose it. “Fuckin’ perfect. Fuckin’ made for me.”

She wants to argue, she’s not made for him, she’s not made for anyone - but he’s going faster, lost in his own pleasure, teeth full on biting her shoulder, she’s sure he’ll leave more than a mark; a bruise. Her body moves with him in tandem, heat coiling on her stomach again, building up another round of peaks. She’s clutching into him, silently begging, don’t stop, don’t stop, keep going - please don’t stop.

His canine sinks into her body and she jerks, hips bucking up to meet his thrust, embarrassed of herself that she gets off to pain - to getting bitten. But her pleasure washes over her and she doesn’t think about that anymore, her hand - out of her own volition, coming down to rub her clit, lengthening her orgasm. She can’t see it, can only feel it, his smirk palpable against her skin, blood trickling down her shoulder and onto her tits.

His rhythm becomes unsteady, becomes even rougher, as he’s nearing his own peak, mumbling something, muffled, she can’t hear it, reverberating on her body. He’s hot, heavy on her, hands slipping underneath her waist, both arms hugging her, crushing her. She struggles to draw a full breath, squeezed by him, lungs burning with the effort.

“Fuck,” she can subtly hear him curse, “Fuckin’ hell, you’re so good,” he murmurs, incoherent, “So good for me.”

 As she thinks she’s had enough, her body doesn’t say so, spiraling toward another high, so sure, so fast, and she comes again  - with him, bodies pressing to each other so tightly, him burying himself inside of her to the hilt, her convulsing against him. She pants, breathless, closing her eyes, a sudden kind of tiredness slowly seeping into her bones.

He shoots his load in her cunt, just spurts after another spurts, until she can feel some of them dripping out and down, overloaded. It feels warm - having him come inside of her. But her thoughts run to how she’ll have to scrub herself raw to get his come out of her, and she hates it, so she shuts it down, bitterly.

They don’t stay like that for long. He shifts to lie beside her, their skin still touching, heat trapped between them. She starts to move, trying to get up, her mind just telling her to wash up quickly if you don’t want to get pregnant washupwashupwashup -

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Her heart takes a little trip. She forces a smile, lips tethering in that edge of discomfort. “The bathroom. I feel sticky.”

He sighs, pulling her close, her spine meeting his chest, face nestling on her neck. He soothes the bite he left earlier, tongue swirling on the scar, sucking, licking it. She wants to close her eyes and give in to the comfort, but her mind is constantly screaming at her to clean up, clean the fuck up.

“Stay like this for a while, please,” he murmurs, low, soft, a thing he knows will get to her.

She swallows thickly. Maybe it will work another time, but she just feels so dirty and uncomfortable that she can’t think of anything else. “You can join me in the shower, if you want,” she offers him, trying to reason. His - and hers, too - come leaks out of her, compounding the agitation that she’s currently feeling.

She’s not looking, but she can feel his grin slowly forming.

“Let’s go for another round, Nobara-chan.”

She wants to throw up.

Saori’s married.

Her thoughts are running there again, but this time it’s continued with, what’s her husband like?

He takes her against the wall, in the shower. She comes twice. He comes only once. Now that she thinks about it, most of the time, Gojo only comes one time with her. He never asked her to blow him, either. Never asked her to pleasure him directly - and she wonders, if it’s intentional, on his part, because it is - on hers. She feels gross at the thought of taking his cock in her mouth. She finds more enjoyment in pleasuring a girl - like what she does to Fumi, occasionally, when Fumi visits Tokyo. She’s more of the pushing type, taking control, knowing what to do - whether it’s with Fumi or her dad. But with Saori, or Gojo, she doesn’t really have it - control. Sure, Saori’s kind, Saori stops when Nobara asks her, but Saori’s the one initiating it always, she thinks.

Is Gojo just a fragment of Saori, repeated?

She doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to think about it.

After the shower, he tells her to get ready, because he wants to take her somewhere. Where? She frowns, looking at the clock. It’s nine pm now. Most of the stores are closing up. He’s being vague about it, not answering her. Doesn’t matter. She likes dressing up.

She pulls on a charcoal-gray skirt that brushes mid-thigh, slipping thick tights underneath for warmth. A white turtleneck comes next, soft against her skin, then the beige jacket - lined with fleece, its collar brushing her chin when she zips it up. A white purse hangs from her shoulder, chain strap glinting faintly as she moves. 

“Woah,” he whistles, looking at her. She rolls her eyes. She knows what he’s about to say.

“Save it. I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

“Rude,” he pouts, but approaches her in front of the mirror. He’s standing behind her, their height difference clearer to her eyes, her head just coming up to the top of his chest. Sometimes she forgets how tall he is because he’s always sprawling down on her lap, snuggling on her like a dog. “Look at us. We make a good couple, don’tcha think?”

He’s wearing a black turtleneck, snug against his frame, and a bomber jacket lined with a thick cream collar. The fabric is heavy enough for Tokyo’s winter chill, even without snow. His trousers are dark and pressed, held in place by a simple belt. Sunglasses - the one she bought him - rest in his hand, pushing through his hair when he adjusts them. He’s effortlessly confident, she can’t blame him.

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, preferring not to give his teasing a response. “Where are we going?”

He leans down behind her, fingers slipping down her turtleneck, breath blowing hotly against her skin before she feels his wet mouth pressing a kiss. She shudders. “You’re okay, right, going out now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she snaps, ouch, she’s very not agreeable. She always is after they’ve done the deeds.

“Well,” he grins, that stupid, big smile on his mouth, ugh, “I figured you’d be tired after - ”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” she cuts him off, flatly, turning to him, meeting his stare. “I’d rather not hear.” 

His eyes glints with amusement. Then, without warning, he kisses her, raising to his full height so she’s forced to stand on her tiptoes. His arms slinks on her waist and he presses her close to him. He doesn’t go further than that, though, pulling away from her just as she’s about to protest.

“You taste sweet,” he taunts her, one hand cupping her cheek. She slaps it away, you’re ruining my makeup. “Is it strawberry?” Her lipgloss looks shiny on him.

She groans. “Ugh. Yes.”

He licks his tongue across his lips. “I like it. What brand?”

“You wouldn’t know.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, sweetheart. Whatever.” He right his glasses, hitting that nerd pose he’s always doing before he starts to overexplain about something. “Contrary to popular belief, I am actually - ”

She kisses him to shut him up.

It’s a KFC.

He’s taking her to a KFC.

She doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry. A fast-food joint, of all places? Come on, he has more money than that. Her purse is from him. The loafer she’s wearing - not high heels, she can’t walk with the current condition of her legs - is also from him, too. The necklace on her neck as well.

“Don’t fret. You’ll understand soon enough,” he tells her, ruffling her hair, dad-like, and she wants to throw up. “Let’s go, what do you want?” They’re standing in front of the machine, and her eyes immediately slides into a certain item.

“Can I have the sundae?”

“Sure. Anything for you,” he blows her a kiss. She catches it on her palm, makes a fist, and throws it to the ground, grinding it below her feet. He makes a shocked face, clutching his heart. “Aww, that’s mean.”

You’re mean.

“You’re not eating?” she asks when he only adds cola to the basket. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“You’re worried about me?” His glasses slip down a little, revealing the cocky stare he throws at her.

She jabs at his shoulder. “I’m serious, Gojo-sensei - ” pause, he’s looking at her, displeased, “I mean, Satoru.”

He shrugs off his shoulder. “I don’t feel like eating.”

“At least get some fries,” she says, following, “Please?”

He hums, pleased. “Since you’re asking me so nicely.” 

She tries her best not to snarl at him. He knows how to rile her up, this much she remembers. He taps his card on the reader; the receipt prints with their order number, just a few digits behind the one flashing on the KFC screen.

He leads her to the seats in front of the window, overlooking the outside, does he like watching people? She takes a seat beside him, and gasps when he drags her chair closer to him, his arm hanging on her shoulder. She makes a cringed expression, does he not think, this is public, anyone can catch us, and she’s just about to scold him when he props his elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm - eyes staring sadly outside, not looking at her.

“We parted ways here, y’know.”

Oh.

Oh - it’s still the 24th. Of course, how can she forget that?

She doesn’t know what to say, and she’s grateful when he doesn’t mind, just casually continuing to tell her the source of his sorrow.

“I heard the news from Doctor Ieiri,” he says, a faint smile curling on his lips, some kind of reminiscing taking over his expression. “That he was here. So I got here as fast as I could. He was there,” he gestures with his fingers, pointing to a spot on the left of the window - outside, he means outside. “And I was there,” he adds, pointing to the right side of the window.

“I confronted him, back then. If he really did kill his parents.”

Her brain starts rewiring. So Suguru Getou is as insane as the news portrays him. Nobara hates her mother, sure, but she’d never - 

“When he said yes, I knew there was no going back. I knew I had to kill him.”

But you didn’t, did you? She’s heard from Senior Maki that an event occurred a year ago in Tokyo Jujutsu High, named Night Parade of a Hundred Demons - this Suguru Geto was the mastermind behind that. 

“But I didn’t. I couldn’t kill him.”

She looks at him, and as always, she can’t really read what’s on his mind. But what’s on the surface is clear - it’s grief. Absolute grief.

“A thought crossed my mind. I don’t want to lose him - ” he pauses, rearranging his words. “I don’t want to see him go. I thought: I could join him. If I can just stay by his side, any other thing wouldn’t matter to me. To us.”

His explanation only tells her one thing: Gojo still loves him. And probably would always continue to love him.

“But then he asked me, am I the strongest because I’m Satoru Gojo? Or am I Satoru Gojo because I’m the strongest?” He looks at her, finally, smile fully forming on his lips. “What do you think, Nobara-chan?”

Her breath stutters. She doesn’t know what to say. Her answer wouldn’t matter to him. He’s reached his conclusion long ago, hasn’t he?

“I know. A difficult question, right?” he asks, tone in that sing-song voice, too cheerful, too wrong. “Because I couldn’t answer the question, I knew that I wasn’t selfish enough yet to abandon the whole of humanity. I knew that he was already too far gone.”

He leans in her shoulder, forehead pressing against her jacket, and she can feel the patter of his breath subtly. Her hand comes up to his head, softly stroking. It’s become a habit of hers.

“He said,” oh, he’s still speaking, but it’s a bit muffled now, and his voice is a little bit too low. “He said, ‘Kill me if you want. There’s a meaning to that, too.’ I didn’t understand what that meant.”

Kill me if you want. There’s a meaning to that, too.

If you were a boy, Nobara, I would certainly want to marry you when you’re older.

She understands now, why her. Why it has to be her.

They’re one and the same. They’re made from the same grief, the same sorrow. Gojo - Satoru is mourning what could’ve been, and she’s mourning what never had the chance to be. Even in another universe, she thinks, there wouldn’t be any. There won’t be a universe where they’re not drowning in sorrow or wallowing in grief.

“I still don’t understand, by the way,” he says again, now looking up, nose buried in her jacket but eyes visible to her. “Isn’t it funny?”

“I think,” she starts, unsure. He nods, encouraging her. “This is just my opinion - but in this world, I think some things are just not meant to be understood.”

“Really?” he hums. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one - ”

She’s interrupted when the number of their order is called. He stands first, the gentleman that he is, to go walk up to the counter. She stares outside now, thinking, thinking loudly.

They’re just using each other. He’s just using her to forget his past. She knows that now.

But does it matter, really?

It doesn’t. It really doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that he’s thirteen years older than him, or that he’s her teacher. It doesn’t matter when most of the time, he doesn’t ask anything of her. He just gives her everything. She takes, and takes, and takes - and occasionally gives him something. He’s not one hundred percent at blame here. The fault lies in the both of them, right? She shouldn’t have returned his affection then if she hates him so much. But there’s still just one more thing she doesn’t understand.

What is she to him, and what is he to her?

They’re not best friends - best friends don’t fuck each other, that’s for sure. They don’t share the same bed and wake up next to each other every morning and pretend they don’t know each other that much in classes. They don’t hide the nature of their relationship. Best friend, to Nobara… is what Saori truly is.

Maybe they don’t have to put a label on what they are. It’s more comfortable, than directly acknowledging the elephant in the room. It’s better for everyone’s sake, including hers.

“Kugisaki?”

She’s forced to stop thinking so much when she hears the drawl of someone familiar’s voice. Her eyes snap up to the person, and the next thing she knows, she’s swallowing a hundred shards in her throat.

Megumi is here. Someone is next to him. Tsumiki, she remembers him saying, my older sister.

“Fushiguro!” Nobara remarks, voice trying to be as excited as possible. Crap, crap - why is he here? “What are you doing here?”

“What I wanted to ask,” he says, flatly, shrugging. “We’re hungry.”

“Yeah, well - ”

“Megumi?”

Oh my God, oh my God.

“Gojo-sensei?” Megumi marvels, eyes lighting up a little at the sight of Satoru, but his eyes are looking at her next and Nobara knows she’s fucked up. “What a coincidence.”

Nobara forces a smile. “Indeed, right?”

Satoru places the tray in front of her, oblivious, uncaring. “There’s your sundae, Nobara-chan,” he says, giving her the cup. He then turns to Megumi. “You’re hungry too? Have you ordered anything?” His hand ruffles the contents of his wallet, and he takes one card out of the slot.

Tsumiki shakes her head. “Thank you, Gojo-san. We still have our own money, though. But we really appreciate it.”

“Ah, don’t be so formal,” he murmurs, grinning. “Sure you don’t need it?”

Megumi speaks up this time. “No, thank you.” He glances at the space between her friend and his teacher. “Are you guys here together?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Nobara silently curses him in her mind. What the fuck, what a bumfuck - “No, Megumi. We just happened to meet here.” Nobara adds, shrugging. “And since it’s free money, I can’t resist.”

Megumi’s eyes narrow - a habit of his when he gets suspicious. The four of them are standing except for Nobara - she’s still seated in her place. It makes her fidget. A lot.

“What’s wrong, Megumi-kun?” Tsumiki asks, touching her brother’s shoulder. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I’m just…” He’s staring at Satoru. The man doesn’t seem to hide anything, his grin ever stupid and annoying. “Something’s going on with you two.”

Nobara tries not to choke at that. “What do you mean?”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you mean, Megumi?” Satoru chimes in. “Like Nobara said, we just happened to meet here. And what better way to treat my favourite student than giving her ice cream?”

He so, so wants the whole world to know what we’re doing. It’s intentional, he’s intentional. Her thoughts are scrambling for anything - any reason, purchase, any dignity. Why does it have to be Megumi of all people? If it’s Yuji, they can just bluff their way through. He’ll get suspicious too, sure, but he’s too polite to ask them more. Megumi, though, he’s someone who has been in Satoru’s care since he was a child. He’ll notice the smallest detail she won’t even begin to think about.

“Whatever,” Megumi says, sighing, finally. “Gojo-sensei,” he turns to Satoru. “I’m going to ask you to not do anything stupid.”

Too late, Megumi.

“What do you mean?” Satoru asks, acting oblivious. 

“You know what I mean,” Megumi replies, tone snarky. “C’mon, nee-chan. We’re leaving.”

“Eh, already?” Tsumiki asks.

“Yeah. I don’t want to eat here anymore.” Megumi’s eyes land on Nobara’s, quiet and heavy. “I’ll talk to you soon, Kugisaki.”

Oh, fuck, fuck, I’m fucked. “Yes, of course, Fushiguro,” Nobara tries her best to sound as casual as possible. “Fushiguro-san,” Nobara nods in Tsumiki’s direction. She nods back.

“Alright, then. We better get going,” Tsumiki says. “Gojo-san, we’re leaving.”

“So soon,” he sighs, pouting. Nobara catches the stare Satoru and Megumi exchanges, her heart lurching to her stomach. “If you need anything, just call me, okay?”

Tsumiki nods. “Of course. Thank you, again.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything as they leave. Once they’re out of vision and out of the KFC, Nobara releases a breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding the entire time.

“That was so fucking close,” she mumbles, more to herself.

“He’s suspicious of me,” Satoru says, taking a seat beside her. “Expected that from him. He catches on things better than anyone else.”

Nobara takes the sundae to her mouth. “You need to be careful.”

He hums, not listening to her.

“Satoru, I mean it.”

He looks at her at last, shades obscuring his eyes. “What if I don’t want to be?”

Her mouth is sandpaper. The ice melts in her tongue, but if anything, she feels hotter than before. “You simply can’t. No one can know.”

He takes the sundae from her, stealing a spoonful. “You’re embarrassed to be with me?”

“Not that,” she denies. “But this - ” she takes a deep breath. “Us, is something inappropriate for them.”

“For whom?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t act dense.”

He hums again. His fingers close around his shades and he takes them off, slipping it on his collar. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, giving up, head leaning on her shoulder again. “Today’s a very bad day.”

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t move her hand to ruffle his hair. They’re itching to feel the softness of his locks.

“Suguru, Megumi… it’s like I’m not allowed to relax for just one second.” He looks up at her, grinning, cheeks smashed on the fabric of her jacket. “But you, Nobara-chan. You make me happy.”

She fights the dread in her stomach.

“Will you hold me?” he asks, and she knows she won’t refuse him, won’t even try. There’s no use.

She twists her body to the side, meeting him, so his head is now resting on the curve of her neck and she’s hugging him, arms resting on his back, enveloping his figure. His hands find their way to her waist, holding on to her tightly.

He doesn’t say anything, and nor does she. But next thing she knows, she feels some kind of wetness on her shoulder. His body is shaking, albeit lightly. He’s crying.

She doesn’t know what to say, or if she should comfort him. But this is comfort enough, she thinks, this is more than what I was willing to give. So she stays silent, more of mercy to him than anything else. There’s only so much burden someone can bear. If she can alleviate some of it, especially from the strongest’s shoulder, she comes to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter.

When has it ever mattered, really?