↳ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Slowburn
↳ Pairing: lawstudent!gojo x fem!reader
↳ Warnings: unrequited love, angst, one-sided pining, slowburn, emotional tension, self-doubt, playful banter, satoru being stupid (in his own way), shoko being chaotic, toji being toji, drinking, background teasing, science nerd reader
↳ Playlist: (will link here!)
↳ Masterlist: 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10
"I’m afraid that if I listen, I’ll find out what I want."
Dinner came alive under the glow of strung deck lights, soft yellow bulbs swaying faintly with the breeze. Toji was at the grill like he owned the place, chest puffed out, flipping skewers with more showmanship than skill. Shoko sat cross-legged with a beer in hand, sunglasses long gone but her smugness still intact, while Utahime fussed over the salad bowl like it was life or death.
You tugged at the sleeves of the oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. You should’ve returned it. You told yourself that every time your fingers curled tighter into the soft cuffs. But the sea wind was sharp now, and the fabric was warm, faintly smelling of coffee and soap and something sharper you couldn’t name.
Shoko spotted it instantly.
“Hold up,” she said, tipping her beer bottle toward you. “Is that—” her eyes narrowed, “—Satoru’s hoodie?”
Your stomach dropped. “What? No, I—”
“Don’t even try,” she cackled, slapping the table. “That’s his. He lives in that thing. I’d know it anywhere.”
Toji barked a laugh. “No way. He gave it to you? Hm," He hummed, looking at Gojo with an unreadable look. "He doesn’t even lend me his lighter.”
Utahime arched a brow, lips twitching. “Color me shocked. Satoru doesn’t share.”
Heat flushed up your neck. “It was cold,” you muttered weakly, trying to disappear into the fabric. “He just—”
His voice cut across the table.
Gojo sat slouched in his chair, soda bottle dangling from his hand, gaze fixed on the horizon like he couldn’t be bothered. His tone was flat, bored even, but the finality in it shut the teasing down instantly. He twisted the cap, took a sip, leaned back.
The silence lasted a beat—then Toji exploded into wheezing laughter, Shoko clapped like she’d witnessed history, and Utahime shook her head, muttering something about children.
You wanted to melt through the deck boards.
But then, across the table, his gaze flicked—quick, sharp—checking if you were embarrassed. Just once. Then gone.
Later, when the grill was empty and the beer bottles clinked against one another, the chaos of the table began to die down. Utahime retreated inside to tidy, muttering under her breath about grease stains. Shoko disappeared with her phone glued to her ear. Toji stretched out on the bench, half-asleep, claiming he’d “earned a nap after feeding the masses.”
That left the deck quieter than it had been all evening.
You sat curled into the bench, knees tucked close, the hoodie still wrapped around you. The sleeves slid past your wrists, nearly covering your fingers. You tugged at the fabric absently, trying to focus on the ripple of the sea instead of the memory of Shoko’s grin.
A shadow shifted beside you.
“Y’know,” his voice came low, almost amused, “you wear that like you stole it.”
Your head snapped up. He was standing there with another soda in hand, the deck lights catching faint glints in his hair. His eyes slid to the hoodie, then back to your face, the barest curve tugging at his mouth.
“I—” you fumbled, tugging at the sleeves again. “I was going to give it back.”
“Were you?” He leaned one shoulder against the railing, unbothered. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Your pulse skipped. “You’re the one who shoved it at me.”
“Mm.” He tilted the bottle toward his lips, sipping slow, as though he had all the time in the world. “Guess I did.”
The silence pressed between you, filled only by the hum of the waves.
Then, softly—“Looks better on you, anyway.”
Your breath caught. He didn’t look at you when he said it, didn’t linger. Just tossed the words out like they weighed nothing, like he hadn’t just lit your chest on fire.
You curled deeper into the fabric, hiding the flush on your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
His laugh was low, quick. “So I’ve been told.”
And then, just like that, he pushed off the railing and strolled away, leaving you alone with the hoodie, the sea breeze, and a pulse you couldn’t calm down.
You watched his retreating back, the sway of his shoulders as he slipped into the cabin shadows, soda bottle dangling carelessly in his hand. It should’ve been nothing. Just a comment, just a joke. He probably wouldn’t even remember he’d said it by tomorrow.
But you couldn’t shake it.
The way his voice had dipped—not soft, not tender, just… casual. Effortless, like giving you his hoodie, like telling you it looked better on you, cost him nothing. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe that was the point.
Because to him, you could be nothing. Just another body on the yacht, another of Shoko’s quiet little tagalongs. Someone safe to tease, safe to hand off his hoodie to without thinking twice. He didn’t know your heart leapt at things as simple as a brush of his sleeve, or that the weight of his gaze left marks you carried long after.
Maybe that was why he was so comfortable.
He didn’t see you. Not in the way you feared you already saw him. To him, you weren’t fragile glass or complicated history—you weren’t her. You were… background noise. Someone to fill silence with, someone to hand a coffee mug or a hoodie to without it meaning anything.
And yet, it felt like everything.
The dissonance pressed sharp against your ribs. How could he sound so broken in his letters—words dripping with ache, with longing—and yet stand here, teasing, unbothered, almost light? How could he write like a man trapped in the ruins of love, but move like someone who hadn’t been touched at all?
Maybe neither. Maybe both.
All you knew was that every small thing he gave you—the hoodie, the laugh, the offhand glance—settled too deeply into you. You wanted to tell yourself it was just attraction, just nerves, just curiosity. But the way your chest pulled tighter each time his voice cut across the noise, the way your skin remembered the warmth of his hoodie as if it were something sacred… it scared you.
Because what if it really was nothing to him, and something to you?
The thought clung sharp and unwelcome, and you almost drowned in it until a sharp clack pulled you back. Shoko had slammed a deck of Uno cards onto the table like she was calling a duel.
“Uno,” she announced, lips curling into a grin. “Loser drinks. Winner decides the next game.”
Utahime, emerging from the cabin with new, clean set of clothes, rolled her eyes at Shoko's sudden declaration. “You’re impossible.”
Toji sat up, cracking his knuckles with a smirk. “Bring it. Don’t cry when I win.”
“You’re already crying,” Shoko shot back, shuffling with vicious efficiency.
You were still gathering your cards when the bench dipped beside you. Satoru slid in without a word, the smell of salt air clinging to him, his shoulder brushing yours as though the space had been his all along. His knee nudged yours under the table, not hard, not by accident—but he didn’t move it either.
Shoko noticed the movement, eyes glinting with curiosity. She raised a brow at Satoru. “You know,” she started slowly, like she was testing the waters, “I can’t help but notice how you’ve been having these little moments with Y/N ever since she got on board. What are you doing, Satoru?”
Utahime hummed in agreement, though her focus stayed on her cards. “This is the first time I’ve seen you interact consistently with someone else besides us.” Her tone wasn’t accusing—just factual, clinical in a way that made it sting sharper.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, your throat tightening. You opened your mouth to brush it off, but Satoru beat you to it.
“Moments?” he echoed, tilting his head lazily in Shoko’s direction, feigning confusion. His voice was level, calm, like he hadn’t just been caught with his knee pressed against yours under the table. “Pretty sure you’re imagining things again.”
Shoko’s lips curled. “Am I?”
“Mm.” He flicked a card onto the pile, not even glancing her way. “You overanalyze everything, Shoko. It’s one of your many, many flaws.”
The table snorted at that—Utahime’s soft laugh, Toji’s loud bark—but your pulse was still hammering. Because even as he dismissed them, even as he leaned back like the whole conversation meant nothing, he still didn’t move his leg from yours.
If anything, the weight of it grew more deliberate.
Shoko’s eyes narrowed at the faintest twitch of his mouth—too subtle to call a smile, but not far from one. She leaned back with a scoff, though the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement.
But then her eyes turned to you. Sharp. You couldn't decipher what her gaze held. It was somewhere between concern and...disappointment?
As if she could read your mind, Shoko's lips suddenly pulled into a teasing smile. “Right. Nothing to see here.”
Utahime gave you a small, knowing glance, her brows lifting just slightly before she turned back to her cards.
You forced your attention down to your hand, fingers tightening around the cardboard edges as though that could ground you. But all you could hear was the steady thrum of your heartbeat, all you could feel was the quiet pressure of his knee against yours.
“Don’t peek,” he murmured without looking up, laying his first card down in smooth, unhurried motion.
Your pulse jumped. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he said simply, dropping a card with unhurried precision. “You’re bad at lying.”
Your throat tightened. It was nothing—just words, just a brush of his knee against yours—but they hooked into you like barbs.
Shoko’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing. She slammed her own card down, then leaned across the table, a wicked grin spreading slow. “Ohhh,” she sing-songed, dragging the sound out until even Toji looked up. “Sharing hoodies, sharing secrets—what’s next, guys? Matching rings?”
Heat scorched up your neck. “Shoko—”
But Satoru didn’t flinch. Didn’t even bother to look up from his hand. He tossed a +4 onto Toji’s stack with ruthless ease.
“Relax,” he drawled, voice smooth. “If you officiate, I’m filing for annulment.”
The table erupted. Toji cursed so loud a few seabirds scattered from the railing. Utahime covered her laugh with her hand, shoulders shaking. Shoko clutched her chest like she’d been mortally wounded.
“Annulment?” she gasped dramatically. “After all the sacrifices I’ve made for your love?”
Satoru didn’t so much as twitch, but the corner of his mouth curved just enough for you to notice.
You tried to laugh too, but your cheeks burned hot, the sound tumbling out awkward, thin. The heat of him beside you, the casual press of his knee, the weight of his hoodie still around your shoulders—it was too much, too close.
And yet you didn’t move away.
The game descended into chaos fast. Toji accused Shoko of stacking the deck, Shoko accused Toji of being an idiot, and Utahime calmly threatened to walk out if someone didn’t stop yelling. Gojo didn’t bother defending himself when the accusations turned on him—he just sat back, long fingers loose on his cards, expression unreadable. And somehow, without breaking a sweat, he still won three rounds in a row.
When the fourth game ended, Shoko slammed her cards onto the table with theatrical flair. “New rule,” she announced, eyes glittering with mischief. “Truth or Drink. Uno’s boring.”
“Simple,” she explained, already reaching for the bottle on the table. “Answer honestly, or take a drink. No whining, no skipping. Those are the rules.”
Toji groaned but dragged a glass toward himself anyway. “Fine. But I’m not answering anything about my exes.”
“Noted,” Shoko said sweetly, which was never a good sign. Then she turned to you with the precision of a shark circling its first meal. “Y/N. First question.”
Your stomach dropped. “What—why me?”
“Because you’re blushing like a teenager,” she said with a grin sharp enough to cut. “Alright. If you could steal one thing from anyone at this table, what would it be?”
Heat rushed into your face so fast you could feel it in your ears. Toji was already snickering like he knew something you didn’t.
Your gaze flicked, unbidden, to the man beside you. Gojo wasn’t even watching. His profile was calm, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his soda bottle. Not a smirk, not a twitch, nothing to betray that he’d noticed.
You grabbed the shot glass, downed it in one go, and slammed it back onto the table with more force than intended. “Drink.”
The table roared. Toji laughed so hard he slapped the wood. Shoko leaned back in triumph, satisfied with her chaos. Even Utahime was smiling into her glass.
When the noise died down enough to breathe again, Utahime turned to Gojo. “Your turn. What’s something you’d never admit to anyone?”
He tilted his head, thought for half a second, then shrugged. “That I hate tomatoes.”
“That’s it?” Shoko groaned, scandalized. “That’s your big secret?”
He didn’t answer, just let the faintest curve tug at his lips. Somehow, the sheer flatness of his delivery made everyone laugh anyway.
Round by round, the questions went on. Toji confessed to crying during a dog food commercial (“The golden retriever died, okay?”). Shoko admitted she’d skipped an exam to get a tattoo on a dare. Utahime revealed she hated roller coasters but still went, every time, because she couldn’t stand looking “boring.”
By the time the circle swung back to you, your nerves had finally started to settle. Until Toji leaned in, grin wide. “Alright, Osaka. Who’s caught your eye since you got here in Tokyo?”
The blood drained from your face.
Shoko sat forward instantly, like she’d been waiting all night for this. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Your hand shot out, quicker than thought. “Drink.”
The table erupted again. Toji nearly fell out of his chair, Shoko wheezed like she’d broken a rib, and Utahime shook her head with quiet amusement.
But when the laughter dimmed, you felt it.
Just for a second, Gojo’s eyes flicked to you. Cool. Unreadable. Then gone again, sliding back toward the deck of cards as if nothing had happened.
It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.
But your chest ached anyway.
The questions kept rolling, each one sharper than the last. Toji asked who Utahime worst kiss was (“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she shot back, and drank). Utahime grilled Shoko on whether she’d ever lied about a patient’s note just to get out of rounds (Shoko's offended silence said enough).
By the time it looped back to Gojo, the table had grown bold.
“Toji,” Shoko said sweetly, eyes narrowing like a cat, “ask him something he won’t dodge.”
Toji grinned like Christmas came early. He turned toward Gojo, resting his chin on his hand. “Alright. Who’s the last person you thought about before you fell asleep last night?”
You tried to laugh, tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal—but your stomach dropped. You fiddled with the hem of the hoodie still wrapped around you, praying he’d brush it off like before, make a joke, drink his way out.
Gojo’s gaze didn’t shift, didn’t falter. He leaned back against the bench, glass in hand, and spoke as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
Shoko’s head snapped toward him. Utahime froze mid-shuffle. Even Toji’s smirk faltered, though only for a second.
Heat flared in your cheeks so fast you thought you might combust. “W—what?”
Gojo tilted his head, tone casual but steady. “Last night. You figured out the flaw in my case study. I would’ve wasted hours circling the same dead end, but you cut right through it. So, yeah. I thought about that before I fell asleep.”
He shrugged, lips curving faintly at the edges. “Grateful, I guess.”
The table exhaled at once, laughter and teasing rushing back in like a tide. Shoko cackled, smacking the table. “God, Satoru, the way you said it—you nearly gave her a heart attack.”
Utahime shook her head with a smile. “That’s… honestly the nicest thing I’ve heard you say about anyone, ever.”
Toji groaned, throwing his cards down. “Boring answer. I wanted scandal, not gratitude.”
The noise returned, wrapping around the group like nothing had happened. But you sat frozen, pulse hammering, the warmth of his hoodie suddenly unbearable against your skin.
Because even if his words had been plain, even if they were nothing more than acknowledgment, they stuck.
Y/N.
The last thought before he slept.
Your chest pulled tighter.
You told yourself not to read into it. That it was just respect. That it meant nothing.
But your mind betrayed you anyway, circling back to every glance, every silence he let you fill, every small thing he’d handed you without making a scene. The hoodie. The coffee. The way he’d let your words on biology spill without interruption.
He had said your name like it belonged in the quiet between one day and the next.
And that terrified you more than anything else.
The game went on long after your cheeks had flushed from the wine Shoko kept topping into your glass. Every laugh felt lighter than the last, but your steps turned clumsier when you finally stood.
“Careful,” Utahime said gently, slipping an arm around your shoulders before you could wobble again. “Let’s get you back.”
Shoko waved you off, bottle in hand, already pouring herself another. “Lightweight! Go, sleep it off. I’ll join later.”
Toji snorted. “Join later my ass—you’ll be out here yelling at the moon by yourself.”
Utahime rolled her eyes, steering you toward the cabin. You let her, head fuzzy, warmth heavy in your limbs. The hoodie around you smelled faintly of coffee and sea salt, anchoring you even as the world tilted.
The door shut behind you with a soft thud.
The air felt different without you there—lighter in noise, heavier in silence. The bottle Shoko had been pouring from sat half-forgotten at her elbow, her gaze fixed sharp on Satoru. Toji sat sprawled across from her, casually shuffling the cards he hadn’t bothered to put away, though his eyes flicked toward Gojo every so often with quiet calculation.
For a while, nobody spoke. The waves lapped steady against the hull, the wood creaked, and the last streaks of the sunset bled into the horizon. Then Shoko leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, eyes narrowing at Satoru.
“Alright,” she said finally, her voice sharper than the sea breeze. “What the hell was that?”
Gojo didn’t look at her, fingers idly turning the stem of his empty glass. “What was what?”
“Don’t bullshit me.” Shoko’s tone cut clean. “You’ve been orbiting Y/N since the minute she set foot on this yacht. Coffee, dishes, little side conversations. Now, thinking of her before you sleep? C'mon Satoru," She huffed, eyes not leaving his form. "I’ve known you a long time, Gojo, and I’ve never seen you go out of your way like that. Not with anyone. And don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing.”
Toji snorted softly, laying his cards flat against the table, though his gaze stayed fixed on Satoru. “She doesn’t know you the way we do. You throw her that kind of attention, and of course it’s gonna stick. Doesn’t matter if this is her first time seeing you—maybe she’s the type whose heart flutters easy, I can tell. She blushes around you a lot. Or maybe that's just who she is.”
The words lingered, weighty in the air.
Satoru’s jaw worked once, then stilled. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out like he didn’t have a care in the world, but the subtle tightness in his shoulders betrayed him. His fingers tapped once against his knee, restless, before he exhaled through his nose.
“She got me curious,” he said at last. His voice was steady, clipped, like each word had been measured before it left his mouth. “That’s all.”
Shoko’s brow furrowed. “Curious?”
Gojo’s gaze flicked to the horizon, where the last of the sun had burned itself out. His fingers tapped idly against his knee. “The way she talks. The way she thinks. It’s different. Most people don’t surprise me anymore, but she did.”
Toji finally looked up, one brow arched. “Curious, huh. That’s how it starts.”
The corners of Satoru’s mouth curved faintly, like he might’ve thrown a smirk, but it never fully formed.
Shoko didn’t laugh. She leaned back, crossing her arms, her gaze never leaving him. “Be careful, Satoru.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly, the pale blue sharpening as they locked on hers. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Shoko said evenly, “don’t use her to patch yourself up. Don’t let her be another stand-in for the ghost you can’t let go of.”
The air shifted. The wind tugged at the corners of the cards on the table, but none of them moved to stop it.
Then, softly—without hesitation—Shoko said it.
The name landed like a stone tossed into deep water—small in sound, heavy in impact. It rippled through the silence, sinking into all the spaces they’d been carefully stepping around.
Satoru’s hand stilled against his knee. His face didn’t change—not at first—but the silence around him thickened, suffocating, as though even the sea itself was waiting for his response.
Toji shifted, eyes flicking between them, but said nothing. This was Shoko’s strike, and his place—for now—was to watch.
For a long moment, Satoru didn’t move. His jaw flexed once, twice, the only sign that the name had landed exactly where it was meant to: right in the wound that had never healed. His glass sat forgotten at his side, condensation dripping steadily onto the table.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Clipped. Dangerous in its restraint.
One word. Enough to make the air between them vibrate with the weight of everything unsaid.
But Shoko didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, steady, unyielding, the way only someone who’d known him too long could.
The silence stretched until Toji exhaled, leaning back with a shake of his head, the tension easing only slightly.
But the damage had already been done.
The weight of that single word—Don’t—still lingered, hanging heavy in the space between them. The creak of the yacht and the hush of the waves seemed louder now, filling the silence that followed.
For once, even Shoko didn’t push. She sat back, exhaling slow, and reached for the bottle she’d abandoned earlier. Her hand hovered over the neck of it, then dropped away. She rubbed at her temple instead, eyes narrowing not in defiance but in something quieter. Concern.
Her voice was steadier when she spoke again, softer but no less direct. “Look, Satoru. I don’t care if you’re… interested. Or intrigued. She really is special. You know it. Toji knows it. Hell, even Utahime probably sees it, and she barely says a word about anyone.”
Shoko’s gaze held steady on him. “What I do care about is you knowing yourself. If you’re giving her pieces of your attention, if you’re pulling her in with that curiosity of yours, you need to be sure you’re not doing it just because you’re lonely. Or because she reminds you of someone else. I don’t want to see her turned into a placeholder for a ghost you can’t put down.”
“You don’t get it because you haven’t grown up with her. I have. I’ve seen her pull all-nighters not just for her own work, but for mine—sitting through anatomy charts and physiology flashcards she didn’t even need to study, just so I wouldn’t feel alone." She continued, eyes never faltering, "I’ve seen her talk herself down after a panic attack, then turn around and tutor Yuuta like nothing happened, because she didn’t want him to feel her fear.”
Her fingers tapped against the table, her jaw tight. “She’s not the type to put herself first. Ever. That’s why people like her get hurt the most. She’s brilliant—God, the way her brain works, the way she sees patterns in things nobody else even notices? I used to copy her homework shamelessly, because I knew she was right. She’s curious, she’s loyal, and she doesn’t have that armor we do. She feels things too much.”
Shoko’s voice softened even more, though her gaze never wavered. “So yeah, maybe she’s quiet, maybe she doesn’t ask for attention—but the second you give her yours, it’ll mean something to her. And I’m telling you now, Satoru, she’s not someone you can play orbit around without consequences. Not for her.”
She leaned back then, exhaling through her nose, like she’d finally put down something heavy.
Toji hummed his agreement, though he didn’t interrupt.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. The hoodie he’d been wearing earlier was gone—on you now—and the sight of his bare forearms, pale in the dim light, only sharpened the distance in his posture. He looked like he wanted to brush it off, make a joke, but nothing came.
Instead, his gaze slipped past them, out toward the horizon where the last embers of the sunset had been swallowed by the sea. “I know,” he said finally.
Shoko’s brows lifted slightly. “Do you?”
His mouth twitched, not into a smirk, not into a frown. Just something faint. Fragile. “Yeah. That’s why it feels… different.”
Toji arched a brow, sitting forward, elbows braced on the table. “Different how?”
Satoru was quiet for a beat, his eyes still fixed on the dark horizon. Then he exhaled. “She doesn’t remind me of Aki.”
The admission came low, clipped, but certain. His fingers tapped once against the table, restless. “She’s not like her. That’s the point. She surprised me. No one does that anymore.”
The words settled like a confession, quiet but enough to shift the air.
Shoko studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she leaned back, the edge in her posture softening. “Good,” she said at last. “Then do me a favor, Gojo.”
His gaze flicked back to her, wary.
Shoko’s lips curved, but there was no humor in it. “If you’re going to keep letting her surprise you, don’t waste it. Don’t treat it like it’s disposable. She deserves more than that.”
The words lingered between them, heavier than the sea air.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. His expression didn’t shift much—still calm, still unreadable—but the faint crease in his brow betrayed something: irritation, or maybe discomfort. He let a beat of silence pass before speaking, his voice even, deliberate.
“I’m not doing anything.” His gaze cut briefly toward Shoko, sharp but not defensive. “You all brought her along. She’s part of this trip. I’m just… trying to get to know her. Same as anyone else would.”
His fingers tapped against his arm once, a restless rhythm. “Don’t make it sound bigger than it is.”
Toji raised a brow, half-amused, half-skeptical, but didn’t jump in right away. Shoko, on the other hand, held his gaze, searching it like she might find the crack he was trying so hard to cover.
Satoru held her gaze, but the silence between them stretched taut. Words said, words unsaid. No one at the table quite believed him. Not even him.
Because curiosity had its weight—dangerous, insistent, hard to control. It pulled people into places they had no business going, unraveling things better left untouched. And if he wasn’t careful, it wouldn’t just be him who paid the price.
After all, everyone knew the ending to that story.
Curiosity killed the cat.
The sun blazed high, bright and merciless, baking the deck until it almost burned beneath your bare feet. Utahime had been the first to strip down to her swimsuit, folding her neat dress into a perfect square before diving headfirst into the glittering water. Toji cannonballed after her with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, the splash soaking even Shoko, who was still on deck nursing her sunglasses and a can of soda.
“You’re all insane,” she muttered, though five minutes later she gave in, tugging her shirt over her head and slipping gracefully into the sea. Their laughter echoed off the hull, mingling with the steady slap of waves against the yacht.
You stayed where you were, knees tucked up on the deck bench, cardigan draped around your shoulders even though the air was warm. The water shimmered, inviting, but the thought of jumping into it—into all that noise, that reckless chaos—made your stomach knot.
Watched Toji challenge Utahime to a race back to the ladder. Watched Shoko splash him mercilessly when he cheated. Watched the ocean swallow their voices until all you could hear was the hum of the yacht beneath you.
And in between it all—you watched him.
Satoru hadn’t joined. He leaned against the rail a few feet from you, sunglasses shielding his eyes, a lazy sprawl to his posture that made it seem like he belonged anywhere he stood. He hadn’t said much all morning. Not to you, not to anyone. Just the occasional murmur to Toji, the bare minimum to keep Shoko from snapping at him.
But there was something there.
The air between them was different today—Shoko and Satoru. Small things. The way her jokes didn’t quite land with him, the way his replies came a fraction too clipped, too practiced. You’d caught her glancing at him once, then looking away, her mouth tightening around her straw like she wanted to say something and thought better of it.
When you woke, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the headache. It was the silence.
Breakfast had already been laid out, plates steaming faintly, but the air around the table felt… off. Toji wasn’t throwing jabs across the table, Shoko wasn’t needling Satoru into snapping back, and Utahime—normally the quiet anchor in their chaos—looked almost adrift, her eyes sliding between everyone like she couldn’t quite catch the rhythm either.
You chalked it up to the hangover at first. Maybe you were still too fogged, too slow to catch up with them. Shoko had glued herself to your side, nudging the orange juice your way, cutting off Toji when he teased you about your sluggishness. Protective, almost. It was easier to let her distraction wash over you than question why she was quieter than usual.
But now, as you sat on the deck with the sun sharp against your skin, watching the water churn with laughter and splashes, the thought pressed heavier.
Utahime and Toji were at it again, racing to the ladder, Shoko trailing behind with a sharp splash that had Toji yelling her name. Their noise was loud, alive, familiar.
And yet you couldn’t shake the memory of the morning—the small talk that had fallen flat, the way Satoru’s replies had sounded clipped, deliberate. The way Shoko had leaned closer to you, like she was anchoring herself to your presence instead of sparring with him like always.
You wondered what had happened after Utahime had guided you back last night. What words had been exchanged in your absence. What lines had been crossed—or nearly crossed—while you were already curled up in bed, unaware.
Because whatever it was, you could still feel it now.
The silence at breakfast hadn’t been your imagination.
And the tension that lingered between Shoko and Satoru—it wasn’t the sea breeze, either.
You tried to focus on the water.
Shoko’s laugh carried over the waves, sharp and clear, as she shoved Toji under. Utahime, now perched carefully on the ladder, shouted something about fairness before Shoko splashed her too. Their noise rang bright against the afternoon, the kind of easy chaos you’d grown used to seeing from them.
Your gaze drifted again, traitorous.
Satoru was still by the railing, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over his bent knee. He hadn’t moved to join the others, hadn’t laughed at Toji’s antics, hadn’t so much as turned his head when Shoko shouted a curse loud enough to rattle the gulls overhead.
He looked the part of someone at ease—hoodie traded for a white t-shirt, sunglasses covering half his face, posture all careless sprawl. But you’d seen him in the kitchen yesterday, sleeves rolled up, dishwater clinging to his skin. You’d seen him at the table this morning, words measured, too neat.
Now, it was like watching two halves of a person at once: the one who could peel an orange with steady precision, and the one who could drown you with silence.
Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe the weight in your chest belonged to last night’s drinks, not to something you shouldn’t even be touching.
But the longer you sat there, the more it pressed into you.
And when his head finally turned, when his sunglasses tilted just enough to catch you staring—your stomach dropped.
The faintest curve tugged at his mouth, gone almost before it formed.
“What,” he drawled, voice carrying lazily across the deck, “jealous you’re not in the water?”
You blinked, caught, heat crawling up your neck. “What? No.” Hugging your knees tighter, you shook your head, eyes darting toward the edge where Shoko and Utahime were floating on inflatable rings while Toji kept diving off the side like it was a competition. “I can swim. I just don’t want to. The water’s cold.”
“Mm.” He tipped his head back against the railing, letting the sun spill across his throat. “So you’d rather sit there sulking while they’re having fun?”
“I’m not sulking,” you muttered, though the petulant edge in your voice betrayed you. “I’m observing.”
That made him glance at you, one brow lifting over the rim of his sunglasses. “Observing?”
You gestured toward the surface where small flickers of silver darted just beneath. “Look—see those fish breaking the surface every so often? They’re damselfish. Territorial little things. If we were snorkeling near coral, they’d probably swarm us. They go straight for masks and fins.”
Satoru’s lips twitched. “You’re telling me those tiny things are braver than half the people I know?”
“They’re not brave,” you corrected automatically, warmth spilling into your voice despite yourself. “They’re programmed. It’s instinct. In biology, everything has a system—defense, offense, survival. Even the smallest fish will risk themselves if it means protecting their patch of reef.”
Your eyes flicked toward the deeper water where Toji had vanished again, surfacing farther out with a bark of laughter. “Like reef sharks. People think they’re aggressive, but they’re not. They’re cautious. Curious. They circle to test you. Most shark ‘attacks’ happen because people misunderstand the behavior.”
The quiet that followed made you falter, heat creeping back into your cheeks. You ducked your head, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie. “Sorry. I—uh. Rambling again.”
But he didn’t tease. Didn’t cut you off.
Instead, he shifted, sliding down onto the bench beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as though the space had always belonged to him. His sunglasses caught the reflection of the waves, but you could feel his gaze even if you couldn’t see it directly.
“You always talk like that?” he asked, voice lower now. “Like the world makes more sense to you if you can name it?”
Your pulse skipped. The hoodie you wore still carried his faint warmth, and now, with his shoulder pressed into yours, it felt like being pinned in place by something you didn’t dare name.
“…Maybe,” you admitted softly. “Biology makes sense when people don’t. The ocean especially—it’s dangerous, but predictable. It has rules. I like rules.”
He huffed something close to a laugh, shaking his head. “Rules, huh. Guess that’s why you had my case study solved before I even finished reading it.”
You winced, cheeks burning hotter. “That was—different.”
“Mm.” His knee nudged yours under the table, deliberate this time. “If you say so.”
You opened your mouth, searching for a comeback, but the words scattered. Because for all his teasing, there was something sharper in his tone, something like interest—not the casual curiosity of yesterday, but a spark you couldn’t quite place.
All you knew was that the waves crashed steady below, the others’ laughter echoed across the water, and Satoru Gojo sat too close beside you, smelling faintly of salt and coffee, looking at you like you’d surprised him again.
Shoko’s laugh carried across the water as Toji resurfaced with a dramatic splash, shaking droplets into her face on purpose. She smacked him with the back of her hand, cursing, but her grin was bright, genuine. Utahime rolled her eyes from her float, trying to keep her notes from getting splashed.
It was chaos, the kind you could hear without looking—but you didn’t notice much of it. Not with Satoru sitting so close, knee pressed against yours under the bench, hoodie sleeves tugged up on your arms like it belonged there. He wasn’t even looking at the others, not really. His gaze lingered on the horizon, then on you, and it made the air feel thinner somehow.
“Y/N!” Shoko’s voice rang out suddenly, loud and teasing. “You sure you don’t wanna swim? We’re having all the fun without you!”
You startled, flustered, shaking your head quickly. “I’m fine!” you called back, tucking your knees tighter against your chest.
She narrowed her eyes at you, like she was about to call out another jab. But then her gaze shifted sideways, lingering on the way Satoru leaned back against the bench, knee pressed to yours like it belonged there, his profile calm, almost careless. Her smirk never came.
The echo of last night’s conversation tugged at her instead. Be careful, Satoru.
Shoko knew better than to mistake this for nothing. She’d grown up with you, watched the way you carried your heart—quiet, deliberate, too quick to hold onto kindness even when it cut. She knew how easily someone like you could mistake attention for gravity. And she knew Satoru—how rare it was for him to lean in, to stay curious.
Her chest tightened, but she didn’t speak. Not this time.
Because she trusted you weren’t as fragile as you looked, and she trusted him—however reckless his heart had been before—to know what he was doing. She’d be there, before and after, no matter where this path led.
But for now, she let it be.
By the time the sun went down, dinner plates had been cleared and the last of Shoko’s half-bitter jokes faded into the hum of the sea, the group had drifted back indoors.
It started with Utahime. She’d been trying for hours to coax Satoru out of his cave, but the man was as stubborn as he was tall, hunched over his laptop like gravity itself pinned him to the desk. “If you won’t come out,” she’d muttered with a sigh, arms crossed, “then fine. We’ll just bring everyone in.”
Which was how you ended up cross-legged on the boys’ cabin floor, notebooks spread across the low table, Toji scribbling numbers for his med school project like he was taking it out on the page, Shoko balancing her notes in one hand while nursing her glass of wine with the other, and Utahime flipping furiously through her law readings like she could kill them by speed alone.
Satoru sat where he always did: in his chair by the desk, posture loose but attention sharp, as if the rest of you had migrated into his orbit, not the other way around. His laptop glowed pale across his cheekbones, eyes lowered, the click of keys filling the silence.
At first, it was companionable: the occasional sigh from Utahime, the rustle of Toji’s pen against paper, Shoko muttering that she should’ve gone into veterinary medicine instead of this hell. But soon enough, Utahime broke.
“Gojo,” she groaned, leaning her chin into her palm. “Help a fellow law student out. Help me. Please. This case brief makes zero sense.”
Without looking up, he said, “You’ll figure it out.”
Utahime scowled. “That’s not help.”
Finally, he lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming under the lamplight, and leaned back with a lazy stretch. His attention flicked not to Utahime, but to you.
“Ask Y/N,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “She’s got a talent for these things.”
You froze, pen hovering over your notebook. “What?”
Utahime blinked between you and him. “She’s not even in law.”
“She solved my case study yesterday.” His tone was casual, but his eyes glittered with something sharper—mischief, curiosity. “Might as well let her carry the team.”
Heat shot to your cheeks. “I didn’t solve it, I just—”
“She did,” he interrupted, unapologetic, one brow raised in that infuriating way. “So. Go on, genius. Let’s see it.”
Utahime slid the paper toward you with more hope than hesitation. Shoko arched a brow from behind her glass, muttering something like, this ought to be good, while Toji leaned back, smirking like he’d just been handed a show.
You swallowed hard, glanced down at the page—then blinked.
It was complicated. Not just “I stayed up too late to care” complicated, but dense, layered with multiple precedents and contradictory rulings that knotted into each other like tangled thread. A case on corporate liability tied to environmental negligence—half a dozen jurisdictions referenced, a nightmare of exceptions.
Even Satoru’s notes in the margins were crossed out three times, whole sections bracketed with question marks.
Your pulse spiked. No wonder Utahime looked lost. Even Gojo hadn’t cracked it.
But something in you clicked. The way you did with biology problems, tracing pathways, linking cause and effect until the system revealed itself. You found yourself reaching for a scrap of paper, scribbling connections, underlining statutes, sketching arrows that looped between one precedent and another.
“It’s not about strict liability,” you murmured after a beat, almost to yourself. “That’s why it looks impossible—because they’re framing it like intent is the core issue. But it isn’t. It’s omission. Failure to act. Look—”
You slid the paper closer to Utahime, your pen moving fast now, sketching out a flowchart of statutes and cases. “Here. The company didn’t cause the pollution directly, but they failed to prevent it when they had a legal duty to. That’s negligence at scale. It ties back to Article 709 in the Civil Code—general tort liability. They can’t hide behind subcontractors because of the duty of care precedent in—” you flipped to another page, “—R v. Takashima, 1982. It extends the duty upstream. So the court won’t toss it. They’ll rule negligence, not strict liability, but the damages will still stick.”
Utahime’s brows knit tighter as you filled another page with quick diagrams and notes, your voice steady as you explained each point. By the time you circled the final connection, her expression had shifted from frustration to wide-eyed relief.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, staring down at the papers like they’d just been handed from heaven. “That… actually makes sense.”
Shoko let out a low whistle. Toji, sprawled across his bed, smirked. “Guess you’ve got your own secret weapon, huh.”
Utahime groaned, but nodded gratefully. “Seriously, Y/N—you just saved me.”
The silence that followed was brief but sharp, cut by Satoru leaning back in his chair, lips quirking as his gaze flicked—too pointedly—to you.
“Told you she’s special.”
It was thrown toward Utahime, almost offhand, but the way he said it—low, certain, not even teasing—settled somewhere deep in your chest.
You laughed softly, trying to wave it off, but your hands betrayed you, curling tight in your lap. Because no matter how casual the words were meant to sound, you couldn’t ignore the weight of them.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your temple, trying to calm the rush in your chest after his offhand comment. Special. The word still echoed even as Shoko started flipping through Utahime’s notes and Toji cracked a joke about charging you for tutoring. You laughed when you were supposed to, but your skin prickled with the weight of his gaze.
“I’m starving,” you said quickly, pushing yourself up from the floor. “I’ll grab something from the galley.”
No one questioned it—Shoko was already lost in Utahime’s assignment, and Toji just grunted his approval like food was always the right choice. You slipped out of the boys’ cabin, the air cooler in the narrow corridor.
The cabin was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the yacht shifting with the tide. You leaned against the counter, clutching the last of the crackers you’d scavenged, when the door clicked open.
Satoru slipped in like he owned the air, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, hair messier than usual. He clocked you instantly, then the food in your hands, and smirked faintly.
“They’re just crackers,” you muttered, breaking one in half. “Hardly a crime.”
“Depends on the jury.” He plucked one straight from your fingers without asking, crunching it like he’d earned it.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. For a moment, it was just the sound of chewing, the low hum of the yacht, the quiet weight of being in the same space.
It was you who broke it. “You always this nosy?”
He blinked lazily. “Nosy?”
“Dragging me into your law problems. Making me wash dishes with you. Stealing my food.” You arched a brow, trying for lightness. “Seems like a pattern.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed, gaze steady. “Maybe I’m just curious.”
The word lodged in your chest, too sharp, too deliberate.
You tried to laugh it off, fiddling with the wrapper in your hands. “Curious about what? I’m not that interesting.”
To your surprise, he shrugged. “Most people don’t surprise me. You did.”
That silenced you. Not in a heavy way, but in the kind of way where your mind spun, scrambling for somewhere safe to land. You wanted to ask what he meant, why he said it like that, but you bit your tongue.
Instead, you shifted. “What about you? You never talk about yourself.”
He smirked faintly, like he’d expected the jab. “What’s there to say?”
“I don’t know. Family? Friends? Something real, for once.”
The silence stretched again, not uncomfortable, just… taut. You fiddled with the edge of the cracker wrapper, watching him lean against the counter like he belonged to it. His hoodie was loose, the sleeves shoved to his elbows, and the dim cabin light cut shadows across his face that made him look softer than he should.
When he spoke, his voice was low. “My mom’s in Kyoto. Don’t see her much. Dad’s gone.” A pause. “Got cousins. They’re fine.”
It was so bare-bones, so stripped of detail it almost sounded clinical, but it still landed heavier than you expected.
You blinked. “That’s it?”
His mouth quirked. “You asked. I answered.”
“That’s not an answer,” you shot back before you could stop yourself. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “That’s—cliff notes.”
“Better than nothing.” He tipped his head toward you, blue eyes sharp even in the half-light. “And don’t pretend you’re not used to filling in blanks, Y/N. You practically thrive on it.”
The words struck close—too close. Your throat tightened, but you swallowed it down. He wasn’t wrong. You had spent weeks filling in his silences with the words in those emails, piecing together a ghost of him you thought you understood.
So you deflected. “You’re annoying.”
That got the faintest twitch of a smirk out of him. “You’re nosy.”
You huffed, dropping the wrapper on the counter. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll go first.”
He arched a brow, skeptical but amused. “This I gotta hear.”
Your chest tightened, but you pushed through. “My parents work overseas. Korea. It’s just… been me, pretty much. Family friends kept an eye on me, but it’s not the same. I learned how to fill space on my own.”
For a second, you regretted saying it. It sounded pathetic out loud, like something that would only earn pity. But he didn’t look at you that way.
He tilted his head, gaze steady. “Explains why you read law for fun.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “That’s not—”
“—Normal?” His smirk widened a fraction. “Yeah, I know.”
You rolled your eyes, but your voice softened anyway. “It’s just… science, law, medicine—things that make sense. Even when life doesn’t. I think that’s why I love them. You can always find answers if you look hard enough.”
Satoru studied you in silence for a long moment, like he was measuring the weight of every word. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften, but it didn’t cut either.
Finally, he hummed, low in his throat. “So that’s what you are.”
“Someone who hates unanswered questions.” His shoulder lifted in the faintest shrug. “Guess that explains why you’ve been poking around me all day.”
Your cheeks heated, traitorous. “I haven’t—”
“You have,” he said flatly, though the edge of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing a smile. He pushed off the counter, stepping close enough that the scent of coffee and saltwater wrapped around you. He plucked the empty wrapper from your fingers like you couldn’t be trusted with it and tossed it neatly into the trash. “And you’re not subtle.”
Your breath caught. He wasn’t touching you, wasn’t crowding you—not really. But the space felt tighter anyway.
You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “Maybe I just like crackers.”
That earned you a low chuckle, the sound threading down your spine. He didn’t press, though. Just leaned back against the counter again, deliberately casual, like he hadn’t just unraveled you with a single glance.
And that—his ease, his comfort—left you spiraling.
Why did he act like this with you? Like sitting shoulder to shoulder at breakfast, or letting silence stretch without filling it, or offering pieces of himself so matter-of-factly. He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t open. But somehow, he was already… comfortable.
It left you wondering if maybe he saw you as nothing at all—so unthreatening, so unimportant—that he could let the guard down he never lowered for anyone else.
You both walked back together, side by side. Neither of you said much—just the quiet sound of your footsteps against the wooden floor, the faint hum of the waves brushing against the hull. Satoru moved with his usual ease, hands shoved into his pockets, hoodie gone but the ghost of its warmth still clinging to you.
When you slipped back onto the deck, Toji was already gathering the empty bottles, Utahime fussing at Shoko to drink some water before bed. No one asked where you and Gojo had been, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He just dropped into his seat, leaned back like he’d been there the whole time, and the conversation picked up without skipping a beat.
It was almost too easy, the way he blended back into their rhythm. You followed Utahime when she tugged you toward the cabins, grateful for the excuse to leave before Shoko dragged you into another round. The night air clung damp and heavy against your skin as you stepped inside, shutting out the laughter and noise behind you.
Hours later, the yacht had gone quiet. Shoko’s breathing was even in the bunk across from yours, Utahime’s soft rustle audible through the thin walls. You lay on your side, staring at the small strip of moonlight leaking in through the curtain, the hoodie still draped over you like an anchor.
The sound cracked the stillness like a blade.
Your phone, tucked just under your pillow, vibrated once against your cheek. You froze. That tone was too familiar.
You didn’t move at first—just stared at the dark, your pulse hammering. Then, with trembling fingers, you pulled it free, the glow of the screen washing pale over your face.
Your chest tightened. The room seemed to tilt. It had been days since the last one—weeks since you’d stopped waiting for them altogether. And yet, here it was.
For a long moment, you couldn’t open it. Couldn’t breathe.
Because out there, just hours ago, you’d been laughing with him, shoulder brushing his, voice low as he teased you over crackers like it was nothing.
And here—on your screen—was proof of the ghost he still wrote to.
Proof that no matter how you convince yourself that Satoru is just an arm's length now, closer, nearer - not just familiar to you anymore, but real; his heart is nowhere near this damn yacht, or even this sea.
Your thumb hovered over the notification.
Part of you wanted to open it. To read the words that had once felt like they were yours to keep, even if they weren’t meant for you. Another part of you wanted to throw the phone into the sea, to never see her name again.
But your body betrayed you.
And there it was—her name at the top, his words below, the ache you had no right to feel crawling through you all over again.
Aki,
I don’t know why I’m writing again tonight. Maybe because the sea is too loud, or maybe because the silence underneath it is worse. Either way, I couldn’t sleep, and my hands are restless. And when I don’t know where else to put them, they always end up here.
We’re out on a yacht. Shoko, Utahime, Toji—same circle as always. They drink, laugh, argue over stupid games. It should be comforting, it should be enough. But every time they break into another round of noise, I find myself glancing toward the rail, half-expecting to see you standing there. Not even doing anything, just… being. It’s pathetic, really. How I keep looking for you in places I know you’ll never be.
It’s been years, hasn’t it? Long enough that if anyone else asked, I’d lie and say I’ve moved on. But the truth is, time hasn’t done a damn thing. I don’t think it ever will. Everyone else seems to be moving forward, building something new, but me—I’m caught in a loop. I wake, I work, I breathe, I laugh when I’m supposed to. And then when no one’s watching, I find myself here, writing to you like it could ever matter.
I thought the sea breeze might feel cleansing, that maybe the horizon would make me believe in something bigger than the ache I’ve been carrying. For a second, it almost worked. I felt lighter. Like the sun itself was mocking me with the idea that I could start over. But it always fades. It always passes. And I’m left with this—the weight in my chest that hasn’t changed since the day you left.
If you were here, you’d tell me to stop. You’d call me dramatic, laugh in that way you used to when you thought I was being ridiculous. You’d say I’m clinging to shadows. And you’d be right. But that’s the thing about ghosts, isn’t it? They don’t ask permission. They stay. They take up space. And I don’t know how to make you leave, or if I even want you to.
Sometimes I wonder if you’d even recognize me now. I’ve gotten quieter. Colder. People say I don’t smile the same. I don’t laugh the same. Maybe they’re right. Maybe the best parts of me were things I only ever showed you. And when you disappeared, they went with you.
I don’t know what I want from this. From writing to you. Closure? Forgiveness? Maybe just proof that I’m still capable of wanting something. All I know is that I keep coming back here, again and again, like muscle memory. Like prayer.
And every time, it feels the same. Empty. Pointless. But I keep writing anyway.
Because maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel less like missing you.
And more like remembering you.
—S
You stared at the screen until the words blurred, until the glow of it felt like it might carve into your chest. The draft folder where you never dared to reply. The endless thread of letters you had no right to read.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, then locked it. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the faint hum of the sea outside. You tugged the hoodie tighter around you, burying your face in the sleeve until all you could smell was him.
And you told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t yours to feel, wasn’t yours to carry. That he was still writing to a ghost, and you were just the stranger who happened to witness it.
But when you shut your eyes, the words lingered anyway. Curling sharp against the back of your mind, pressing into you like a bruise you couldn’t stop touching.
But you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Because right now, you won't let it hurt. Not when you're reminded over and over again that all of this was just plain stupid. Unnecessary. Foolish.
Because in this heartache, there's only room for two.
↳ 𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓪𝓸'𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓻!
i enjoyed writing this so much, so i took my sweet time writing ch 11 so much that i got carried away.... this chapter is too long for my own liking, but hey --- more gojo scenes?????
anywho, how are you guys liking lightness and weight so far?
a feedback/reblog would me a lot to me! thank you for the smol appreciation you guys have shown! ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡
see u guys in chapter 12!
