Pairing: Gojo x AFAB!reader
Summary: Y/N has the Hanahaki Disease, a rare illness caused by unrequited love. She’s been hiding it for years. When she and Satoru Gojo are forced to work together on a mission, her condition flares, and he realizes how serious it is. Now he has to figure out how to help her while she struggles to protect him from the truth.
TW: mentions of illness, blood, and self-sacrifice
Most people thought Hanahaki was just an old tale, the kind of story kids passed around to scare each other. She used to think that too, until about a year ago when she found herself coughing up blue petals that matched Satoru Gojo’s eyes.
The problem was, those eyes weren’t warm when they looked at her anymore. They were cold, sharp, and full of blame.
He still hadn’t forgiven her for Suguru. How could he? She’d known about Suguru’s struggles, had seen the cracks before everything fell apart, and yet she kept it to herself. Suguru had begged her not to tell Satoru, and she listened. When he left, all of Satoru’s grief and anger turned on her.
Six years later, things hadn’t changed. She was twenty-four now, still caught in the same place, still standing next to someone who could barely stand the sight of her. Satoru treated her like a reminder of everything he lost, and she treated him like someone she couldn’t let go of.
She kept leaving flowers on his desk he always threw away. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was pathetic. But it was the only way she knew how to stay close to him.
And when he looked at her with that familiar, piercing glare, she wondered if he’d ever see her as anything more than a mistake.
The phone call came late in the evening. She was half-asleep at her desk, a crumpled report under her cheek when the vibration startled her awake. Yaga’s voice was on the other end, steady and no-nonsense as always.
“Y/N, I’m assigning you and Gojo to a joint mission. Tomorrow morning. Be at the gates by nine.”
It had been years since she and Satoru worked together—years since Suguru’s departure split everything in two. Missions were carefully assigned to avoid putting them in the same place for too long, but apparently that luxury had run out.
“…Understood,” she said quietly, even though her chest tightened at the thought.
The next morning, Satoru was already at the gate when she arrived. He leaned against the wall with his usual casual posture, sunglasses hiding half his face. To anyone else, he looked relaxed, even bored. But she knew better. His jaw was set just a little too tight, his hands shoved a little too deep in his pockets.
“Look who finally showed up,” he said when she got close, his tone sharp enough to sting. “Try not to slow me down today.”
It wasn’t much, but it was the first thing he had said directly to her in weeks.
Yaga arrived not long after, briefing them both on the curse activity near Kyoto. A cluster of disappearances, high potential for a special grade, minimal time to waste. She kept her eyes on Yaga, listening carefully, while trying to ignore the way Satoru’s presence beside her felt like a weight pressing down.
“Can I trust the two of you to handle this?” Yaga asked, glancing between them.
Satoru smirked. “Please. I can handle it in my sleep.”
Y/N forced a smile. “We’ll get it done.”
It wasn’t until Yaga walked away that the silence between them settled in again—thick, heavy, almost suffocating.
This was their first mission together since everything fell apart.
And the worst part was, she couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of the curse they were about to face… or of spending hours alone with Satoru Gojo.
The trip to Kyoto started quiet. Too quiet.
They boarded the train together, but it might as well have been two separate trips. Satoru sat by the window, long legs stretched out, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat. To anyone else, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. She sat across from him, stiff, hands folded in her lap to keep from fidgeting.
For the first half hour, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rattling of the train and the occasional murmur of other passengers. She stared out the opposite window, pretending to be interested in the scenery rushing by, while she felt his presence across from her like a constant reminder.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Still buying those flowers?” His voice was casual, almost mocking, but his eyes—half-hidden behind the sunglasses—were sharp.
Her throat tightened. “I—yeah.”
He gave a short laugh, humorless. “You know I throw them out, right?”
She didn’t answer right away. How could she? Because it was the only way she could still reach him, even if it was just to be rejected. Because she didn’t know how else to stay. She lowered her gaze instead, murmuring, “Doesn’t matter.”
He leaned his head back against the window with a sigh, as if the conversation bored him already. But his grip on his knee tightened just slightly.
The silence settled in again, heavier this time. She wanted to say something—about Suguru, about the past, about anything—but the words stayed locked in her throat.
When the train finally slowed for their stop, she stood a little too quickly, clutching her bag as though it were an anchor. Satoru moved past her without a word, tall figure already striding toward the platform ahead.
Some things, she thought bitterly, never changed.
By the time they reached the hotel, the sky outside had already darkened. The clerk at the front desk skimmed through the reservation book, then gave them an apologetic smile.
“I’m afraid there’s only one room available for the both of you,” he said.
Her shoulders tightened. “One room?”
“Yes. A single bed and a couch,” the clerk explained.
Before she could respond, Satoru leaned lazily against the counter, smirking. “Well, that’s one problem solved. You get the couch.”
She didn’t even argue, just gave him a flat look. “Okay.”
The room itself was modest—a queen-sized bed, a narrow desk, and a small couch pushed up against the window. She immediately dropped her bag onto the couch, claiming it without hesitation.
“You’re really not going to fight me on that?” Satoru asked, tossing his bag onto the bed.
“No. It’s fine.” she whispers, smoothing the couch cushions. “Makes things easier.”
“True,” he said, flopping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, arms folded behind his head. “But you’ve gotten boring. Where’s the fire? The Y/N I remember would’ve at least argued about fairness or comfort.” he says in somewhat of a mocking tone.
She glanced at him, expression flat. “People change.”
For a moment, the grin slipped from his face, but it returned quickly, sharp and careless as ever. “Guess so.”
Silence fell after that, broken only by the muffled city noises outside the window. She stretched out on the couch, grateful for the little bit of distance it gave her, though it didn’t make the tension any lighter.
Even after all these years, being alone in a room with Satoru felt like walking on glass.
Morning crept in through the thin hotel curtains, washing the room in pale gray light. Satoru was already up, sitting at the desk with his sunglasses pushed onto his nose, flipping through the mission notes Yaga had given them. To anyone walking in, he looked calm, collected—like he hadn’t even slept.
Y/N stirred on the couch, dragging herself upright slowly. Her movements were sluggish, her skin pale against the morning light. She tried to smooth her hair back and straighten her clothes, but it didn’t hide how worn down she looked.
“Rise and shine,” Satoru said, voice light and almost sing-song, though his eyes flicked toward her for just a second too long.
She gave a weak nod, grabbing her bag and heading for the bathroom without a word. The door clicked shut behind her.
When she came back out, she looked a little more put together, but not by much. The sickly edge was still there—the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped as though they carried something heavy.
Satoru noticed. He wasn’t blind. But he didn’t say a thing.
Instead, he pushed back from the desk, standing up with his usual cocky grin. “Come on, partner. Let’s go exorcise some curses and remind Kyoto why they’re lucky we showed up.”
She forced a small smile, adjusting her strap. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They left the hotel side by side, their footsteps in sync even though neither of them looked at the other.
The site was an abandoned train yard just outside Kyoto. Twisted metal and scattered debris painted the ground in rust and dust, the air thick with the stench of cursed energy.
Y/N’s chest tightened the moment they stepped inside, not from the curses—but from the atmosphere. She could already feel the branches of Hanahaki curling tighter inside her lungs, restless.
Three special grades waited for them in the center of the yard, hulking shapes with warped, jagged features. Behind them, a cluster of people—civilians, pale and trembling, bound by the curses’ twisted limbs.
“Tch. Hostages,” Satoru muttered, his playful mask slipping just slightly. Then he turned to her with his usual grin, cocky and confident. “I’ll deal with the big guys. You look for an opening and get the civilians out. Don’t mess it up.”
She nodded quickly, steadying her breath. “Got it.”
Satoru moved first, his figure a blur as he crashed into the curses head-on, Infinity flaring around him. The ground cracked under the weight of the fight, each clash shaking the air.
Y/N darted along the edges, scanning for an opening. One of the curses lashed out, and Satoru met it with ease, his voice carrying across the chaos. “Now, Y/N! Go!”
She sprinted toward the hostages, heart pounding, when it hit her—the sharp, suffocating flare in her lungs. The petals clawed upward without warning, burning her throat. She stumbled, hand pressing to her mouth as she coughed violently, a taste of iron and flowers filling her chest.
Her vision blurred for a split second. And in that moment of distraction, one of the curses broke past Satoru’s defense, a jagged limb striking dangerously close to the hostages. A scream tore through the yard as one of them went down, blood spilling into the dirt.
Her stomach dropped. She had hesitated. Because of the disease, because of her weakness.
“Y/N!” Satoru’s voice snapped across the chaos, sharp and furious. He’d seen. He always saw.
She forced herself forward, swallowing the coughs, reaching the injured hostage with trembling hands as panic churned in her chest.
The walk back to the hotel was painfully quiet. Satoru didn’t say a word, not even his usual smug remarks. He just walked ahead with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his long stride forcing her to keep up. She stayed a few steps behind, keeping her eyes on the ground, the image of the injured hostage burned into her mind.
Every now and then she opened her mouth, ready to say something—an apology, an explanation, anything—but the words wouldn’t come. And Satoru’s silence was louder than anything she could’ve said anyway.
By the time they reached the hotel, the weight of it was unbearable.
The door had barely shut behind them when he turned on her.
“What the hell was that?” His voice was sharp, cutting. The easygoing tone he always wore around others was gone—this was raw, furious. “You had one job. One. Get the hostages out. And instead, you almost got one killed.”
She froze, clutching the strap of her bag. “I—I know. I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” He laughed, bitter and humorless. “You think ‘sorry’ fixes the fact that someone’s bleeding out right now because you couldn’t focus for five seconds?”
Her throat closed up. “I—It wasn’t like that, I just—”
“Just what?” He stepped closer, towering over her, his blue eyes cold enough to freeze her in place. “Too careless? Too weak? You’ve always been like this—always holding back, always screwing things up at the worst time. You think I can trust you to watch my back when you can’t even handle civilians?”
The words hit harder than any curse ever could.
She wanted to explain, wanted to tell him the truth—that it wasn’t carelessness, it was the disease eating her alive from the inside out. But the words stuck, the secret clamped in her throat along with the flowers.
So she just stood there, silent, as he spit the next words like venom:
“You’re a liability, Y/N. And I don’t need liabilities.”
For a long moment, Y/N just stood there, gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles went white. Satoru’s words echoed in her ears, each one digging in deeper than the last.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low, steady—but laced with something sharp.
“Why are you so mean to me, Satoru?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Is it really because I messed up today, or… do you still blame me for Suguru?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
His expression flickered—just for a second. The cocky mask slipped, the fury dimmed. But then his jaw tightened, and his voice came out colder than ever.
“You knew,” he said flatly. “You knew what he was going through, and you said nothing. You let me believe everything was fine while he was falling apart right next to us. And then one day—he’s gone. And you expect me not to blame you?”
Her chest ached, and not just from the disease. “He begged me not to tell you. He didn’t want you to carry it too. What was I supposed to do, Satoru? Betray him?”
“Yes!” The word cracked out of him, sharp enough to make her flinch. “You were supposed to tell me. I could’ve helped him. I could’ve stopped him.”
His voice broke, just faintly, but he quickly masked it with anger again.
“Instead, I lost my best friend. And every time I look at you, all I see is the person who let it happen.”
Her throat tightened, petals threatening to rise, but she swallowed them down with effort.
“…I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve been sorry every single day since then. But no matter what I do, it’s never enough for you, is it?”
Satoru’s eyes burned cold as he stepped closer, his voice rising with every word.
“Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim here. This—everything—Suguru leaving, the way things fell apart—it’s on you. All of it.”
Y/N’s breath caught, but he didn’t give her time to respond.
“You were supposed to be his friend. You were supposed to look out for him. And what did you do? You kept your mouth shut. You watched him drown right in front of you, and you let it happen.” His voice was shaking now, not with sadness, but with rage.
Her hands balled at her sides. “I didn’t let it happen—”
“Yes, you did!” His voice cracked sharp as a whip. “You had every chance to stop it. To tell me. To give me something. But instead, you kept it to yourself because what—he asked you to? That’s your excuse?”
Satoru’s anger only grew. “You don’t get it, do you? If you had said something, I could’ve fixed it. I could’ve stopped him. But you took that chance away from me. From him. And now he’s gone. He’s gone because of you.”
Her chest tightened like it might cave in. “…Satoru—”
He cut her off, his voice low but trembling with fury. “Every time I see you, I see the reason he’s not here. The reason everything fell apart. You’re not just a mistake, Y/N—you’re the mistake that cost us Suguru.”
The silence that followed was deafening, his words slicing into her deeper than any curse ever could.
“You loved him?” Satoru’s voice rose, sharp enough to cut. “Don’t insult me with that. If you really loved him, you wouldn’t have stood by and done nothing. You wouldn’t have let him walk away. Don’t you dare act like your grief is the same as mine. You’re not the one who lost a brother—you’re the one who let him go.”
Y/N’s chest tightened suddenly, the familiar burn clawing up her throat. Her stomach dropped. Not now.
She staggered back a step, hand flying to her mouth as the taste of iron and flowers filled her lungs. Panic shot through her veins—Satoru couldn’t see. He could never see.
“Y/N?” His glare wavered for a fraction of a second, confusion flickering at the sudden change in her expression.
She turned sharply and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her just as the first cough tore out of her chest. She gripped the sink, body shaking as petals spilled between her fingers, scattering across the porcelain.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, tears burning her eyes as she tried to stifle the sound. On the other side of the door, she could hear Satoru’s footsteps approach, then stop.
“...What the hell’s your problem now?” His voice was muffled through the door, still sharp, but carrying an edge of confusion.
She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth, silent, praying he wouldn’t push further. The petals kept coming anyway, each one betraying her in bright, damning blue.
The sound of her coughing didn’t stop. It only grew harsher, heavier, ragged breaths tearing out of her chest. On the other side of the door, Satoru’s brows furrowed.
“Y/N.” He knocked once, sharp. No answer. Only more coughing, a wet choke that made his stomach twist.
“Y/N, open the damn door.” His tone was harsher this time, masking the unease curling in his gut.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, then grabbed the handle. The lock didn’t matter—not against him. The door gave way under his push.
The sight on the other side stopped him cold.
Blue petals littered the bathroom floor, staining the tiles in fragile splashes of color. Dark streaks of blood mixed with them, smeared across the edge of the toilet. And Y/N—Y/N was half bent over, coughing violently, her hands shaking as more petals spilled between her lips.
Her eyes flickered up to meet his, wide with horror, but another spasm wracked her body. She gasped weakly, then let herself sink down, curling onto her side on the cold tile. Exhaustion dragged her under, leaving her pale, trembling, and surrounded by flowers that should never have been real.
Satoru’s chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain. For the first time in years, he couldn’t find a single word.
All he could do was stare at her crumpled form, at the petals scattered like confessions around her, as something sharp and unfamiliar twisted deep in his gut.
For a moment, Satoru just stood there, frozen. His brain refused to connect the pieces—the blood, the petals, Y/N lying pale and trembling on the tile.
Then the air in his chest snapped loose.
“Y/N!” His voice cracked, raw and unsteady in a way he hadn’t heard from himself in years. He dropped to his knees beside her, sunglasses slipping down as his hand hovered uselessly over her shoulder, then her face, not sure where to touch, how to help.
Blue petals stuck to her skin, smeared with red. She looked so small, so fragile, nothing like the stubborn, self-sacrificing friend he’d spent the last six years resenting.
His hand shook as he brushed the petals from her mouth. His throat worked, but no words came out. Only a sharp breath, ragged and uneven.
Her breathing was shallow, rattling with every inhale. He pressed two fingers to her pulse—weak, but there. Relief slammed into him, dizzying, almost enough to knock him over.
“...Shit.” The word slipped out low, barely more than a whisper. His grip tightened around her wrist, like he could anchor her in place by force alone.
Satoru didn’t realize his chest was heaving, or that his eyes were wide with fear, stripped bare of their usual calm. He didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t. All he could do was cling to the fact that she was still here, still breathing.
His fingers lingered at her pulse, counting every faint beat like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Then, with a shaky breath, he slid an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back, lifting her from the tile as if she might shatter in his hold.
The petals clung to her clothes and hair, trailing behind as he carried her into the bedroom. Each step felt heavier than the last, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on her pale face.
He lowered her carefully onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. For a moment he just stayed there, leaning close, one hand braced on the sheets beside her shoulder. His chest was still heaving, the panic in his eyes laid bare.
Y/N stirred weakly, her lips parting. “…I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice rasping, fragile.
Satoru’s breath hitched. His hand hovered over hers but didn’t quite touch. He shook his head once, sharply, as though the words cut deeper than her coughing ever could.
Her lashes fluttered, a faint, tired smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t… look so scared.”
He pressed his lips together, saying nothing. The silence stretched between them, but his eyes told a different story—wide, unblinking, panicked.
For the first time in years, Gojo Satoru didn’t look untouchable. He looked human.
Y/N’s eyelids drooped, her body giving in to exhaustion. Satoru fumbled his phone out of his pocket, barely steady enough to hit Shoko’s contact. He stayed at her bedside, his eyes never leaving her pale face as the call rang.
It picked up after two rings. “Gojo? It’s late. What—”
“Did you know?” His voice was sharp, cracking around the edges. “About Y/N?”
A long pause. “…What exactly are you asking me?”
“She’s coughing up blood. And flowers,” he bit out, almost choking on the words. “She can barely breathe, Shoko. Don’t act like you don’t know what this is.”
Another pause. Then a quiet sigh. “…I suspected.”
Satoru’s grip tightened around the phone. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His voice came out rough, stripped bare of its usual bravado. “I don’t care about the name, or why it’s happening. Just—what the hell am I supposed to do right now? She’s in pain, and I—” He broke off, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”
Shoko’s tone softened. “Keep her breathing steady. If she starts choking, tilt her forward so nothing blocks her airway. Warm water helps when the petals cut her throat, so keep some nearby. And… don’t leave her alone, Gojo. Panic makes it worse.”
She hesitated, then added, “She probably has painkillers in her bag. I prescribed them a while ago to dull the worst of the coughing fits. Check for a small bottle—it won’t fix anything, but it’ll take the edge off.”
His gaze flicked to Y/N, her chest rising shallowly under the blankets, her face tight with discomfort even in half-sleep. His throat tightened.
“…Got it,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
He ended the call, set the phone down with a trembling hand, and reached for her bag. Digging through it, he found the small orange bottle, the label with Shoko’s handwriting glaring up at him like a truth he should’ve seen sooner.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at it. Then he placed it on the nightstand next to the glass of water he’d poured, ready for when she woke.
And after that, he stayed right where he was, silent, watching her breathe.
The hours dragged, marked only by the steady tick of the hotel clock and the soft rasp of Y/N’s breathing. Satoru never moved far. He sat slouched in the chair by the bed, sunglasses discarded on the nightstand beside the glass of water and the pill bottle he’d found. Every so often, his eyes drifted shut, but the smallest sound from her had him snapping awake again.
Finally, she stirred. A soft groan slipped from her throat as she shifted under the blankets, her lashes fluttering open. She blinked slowly, the haze of sleep lifting, then winced as the soreness in her chest reminded her of everything she’d tried so hard to keep hidden.
Satoru leaned forward instantly, elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough from hours of silence.
Her gaze moved to him, heavy but aware. “...You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” he muttered. He reached for the glass and the small orange bottle on the nightstand, setting them within her reach. “Shoko said you’ve got these. Painkillers. Take them.”
Y/N blinked at the bottle, recognition flickering across her face. She swallowed, then pushed herself up slowly, her hands trembling. Satoru’s was there in an instant, steadying her shoulder. He didn’t comment on the way her weight leaned into his touch.
She managed to open the bottle, shaking two pills into her palm, and washed them down with a sip of water. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke again. “…Thanks.”
Satoru didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, watching her with an expression caught somewhere between relief and something rawer, more unsettled. When he finally spoke, it was low, almost muttered.
Y/N set the glass back down, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled the blanket tighter around herself. Her throat still burned, but the edge of the pain was duller now, thanks to the pills.
Satoru was still watching her, his expression hard to read, but his words lingered in the air: You should’ve told me.
She looked down at her hands, twisting the blanket between them. Her voice came out soft, almost fragile. “I wanted to.”
His brows furrowed. “Then why didn’t you?”
Y/N hesitated, the silence stretching as she searched for the right words. Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his, even though it hurt to see how cold and sharp they’d been for so long. “…Because I was afraid.”
Satoru’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
Her throat bobbed as she forced the words out. “Afraid that if I told you… you wouldn’t care. That you’d look at me the way you always do and just—shrug. Like me dying wouldn’t matter to you at all. And that would’ve hurt worse than keeping it to myself.”
Her voice cracked at the end, and she quickly looked away, blinking hard. “So I stayed quiet. Because at least then, I could pretend.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock. Satoru sat frozen, the words hitting him harder than he wanted to admit.
Y/N’s words lingered in the room like smoke that refused to clear.
Satoru sat there, hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees. For once, he didn’t have a comeback, didn’t have some cocky retort ready on his tongue.
Her face was pale, still streaked faintly red where petals had stuck earlier, her eyes too tired to keep meeting his for long. She looked… breakable. And the thought of her carrying that fear—that he wouldn’t care if she died—knocked the breath right out of him.
His fingers flexed against his knees. He opened his mouth, closed it again. No words came.
So instead, he leaned back slightly, dragging a hand over his face. His usual wall of confidence, the mask he never let slip, felt flimsy and useless in that moment.
The silence stretched, but he didn’t leave. He couldn’t.
For the first time in years, Satoru Gojo didn’t know what to say.
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Y/N fidgeted with the blanket, her gaze fixed on her hands instead of him. She looked like she was waiting—for him to argue, or dismiss her, or lash out again.
Instead, his voice cut through the stillness, quieter than she’d ever heard it.
Her head lifted slightly, confused.
His eyes met hers, piercing even without the shades to hide behind. “How long do you have left?”
Y/N’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to ask—not like that, not so bluntly stripped of anger. For a second, she considered lying, but his stare pinned her in place.
She exhaled shakily. “Shoko doesn’t know. Could be months… could be weeks. It’s different for everyone.”
Satoru’s jaw clenched, his throat bobbing as he looked away. He leaned back in the chair, one arm draped across his knees, but the tension in his body betrayed him.
“…Weeks,” he muttered under his breath, as if the word alone was enough to split him open.
Satoru sat in silence for a long moment, his jaw tight. He didn’t look at her when he spoke again, his voice low but edged with something raw.
Y/N shifted, her fingers curling into the blanket.
“Who is it?” He turned his head toward her now, his gaze sharp, searching. “The person you love. The one who’s killing you like this.”
Her lips parted, the truth burning at the back of her throat, but fear clenched around her chest like a vice. If she told him, if she let him know it was him… then what? He’d brush it off? Or worse—he’d pity her. She’d seen the way he looked at her these past years, with ice instead of warmth. She couldn’t bear to hear him say outright that he didn’t feel the same.
And more than that—she couldn’t put that guilt on him. Couldn’t let him live with the knowledge that his indifference, his hatred, was slowly killing her from the inside out.
So she forced the words out, quiet and brittle.
Satoru froze. For a long moment, he didn’t breathe, didn’t move. His eyes flickered, sharpness giving way to something softer, more wounded. He looked away almost immediately, leaning back in the chair, his shoulders sinking under a weight he hadn’t carried out loud in years.
“Figures,” he muttered. There was no bite to it, no sarcasm. Just a hollow resignation, like the puzzle pieces had finally clicked into place.
Y/N’s stomach twisted at how easily he believed the lie. But it was better this way. Better for him to think she was dying for Suguru’s ghost than to know the truth—that it was him. That every sharp word, every cold look, every reminder that she no longer mattered was what made her chest ache until she drowned in petals.
She swallowed hard and turned her face into the blanket, hiding the sting in her eyes. If sparing him the guilt meant carrying this burden alone, then so be it.
The room had gone quiet again, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and Y/N’s uneven breaths. She’d curled into herself under the blanket, already slipping back toward an exhausted sleep.
Satoru stayed in the chair for a while, staring at her profile in the dim light. Suguru, he kept repeating in his head, sinking like a stone in his chest. It made sense, didn’t it? She’d loved Suguru, and now she was breaking apart from the inside out because he was gone.
Still… the image of her crumpled on the bathroom floor wouldn’t leave him. The blood, the petals, the way she’d looked so small in his arms. It rattled him in a way no curse, no battle, ever had.
When the silence grew too heavy, he finally stood, stripped off his jacket, and slid onto the other side of the bed. Not too close—just near enough that if something happened again, he’d know right away.
He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts restless.
Hanahaki. Shoko hadn’t said it outright, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d heard of it. A curse of the heart, not the body. And unless the love was returned, it was fatal.
His fists clenched against the sheets.
There had to be something he could do. Some technique, some workaround, some loophole he hadn’t thought of yet. He was Satoru Gojo—he was supposed to be limitless. He refused to accept that he could do nothing but sit here and watch her die.
His gaze slid back to Y/N’s sleeping face. She looked calmer now, the lines of pain softened by sleep.
“…I’ll figure it out,” he whispered to the ceiling, more promise than thought. “I won’t let you go like that.”
Morning crept in through the thin curtains, washing the hotel room in pale gray light. Y/N stirred first, sluggish from the exhaustion that still weighed on her body. Her throat burned dully, but the worst had passed. She blinked toward the other side of the bed and found Satoru already awake, sitting upright with his sunglasses back on, his expression unreadable.
Neither of them said much as they gathered their things. The quiet was different than before—not sharp, not hostile. Just heavy, like they were both carrying more than they could put into words.
By the time they checked out, the awkward silence had followed them into the cab and then onto the train. The trip back to Tokyo stretched on, filled only with the low rumble of the tracks and the occasional announcement over the speakers.
Y/N sat by the window, her cheek resting against the glass, doing her best to steady her breathing and not cough. Satoru sat beside her, arms crossed, outwardly relaxed but with his eyes hidden behind dark lenses so she couldn’t see how often they flicked her way.
When Tokyo’s skyline finally came into view, she felt a knot twist in her stomach. Back to routine. Back to pretending.
But this time, she wasn’t sure either of them could go back to how things were before.
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