❛ The Weight of Coming Home ♡
synopsis. You waited three weeks. You set up the apartment perfectly — candles, dinner, soft music. Three weeks of counting down. Three weeks of missing him. Three weeks of planning the perfect night. And then he walked through the door — and nothing went the way you'd hoped.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, gojo is exhausted and snappy, harsh words, crying, emotional hurt, six eyes detail, soft comfort afterward, happy ending
word count. 1.7k+
A/N. this is for the lovely anon who requested this! love ya <3
You'd been counting down the days.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. You'd marked each one on the calendar, crossing off the numbers with a little more hope every morning.
Today was the last one.
Today, he was coming home.
You'd left work early. You'd gone to the grocery store, wandering the aisles, picking up everything he liked — the expensive soda, the brand of chips he pretended not to care about, the ingredients for his favorite dinner. You'd even found candles. Soft ones. The kind that made the apartment smell like vanilla and cinnamon.
You wanted it to be perfect.
You set the table. You dimmed the lights. You changed into the sweater he liked — the one he always said made you look cozy. You checked your phone. No new messages.
He said he'd be home by eight.
It was seven forty-five.
You lit the candles.
The door opened at eight thirteen.
You heard his keys hit the counter. The familiar sound of his shoes being kicked off. The sigh — heavy, exhausted, the kind that came from somewhere deep.
You stood up from the couch.
"Satoru?"
He was in the doorway. His hair was messier than usual. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck, and the skin under his eyes was dark, bruised-looking. His uniform was rumpled. There was a tear in his sleeve.
He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Hey," you said softly. "Welcome home."
He didn't answer.
You stepped closer. "I made dinner. Your favorite. And I got those chips you like, the ones from—"
"I don't want chips."
The words came out flat. Sharp. Like a door slamming shut.
You stopped.
"I just— I thought—"
"I don't care what you thought." He walked past you into the living room. "I just spent three weeks fighting things you can't imagine. I don't need candles. I don't need dinner. I need to not have to pretend right now."
Your chest tightened.
"I wasn't asking you to pretend," you said quietly.
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was trying to make you feel better."
"Well, you're not."
The words hit like a slap.
You blinked. Your eyes were stinging.
"Satoru..."
"Don't." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "Just— don't."
He was pacing now. Back and forth, back and forth. His hands were shaking.
"You don't understand," he said. "You can't understand. You're not the one who has to—" He stopped. "You're not the one who has to watch people die. You're not the one who has to make choices that get people killed."
"I know," you said.
"You don't know."
"I know I don't know." Your voice was smaller now. "But I'm trying to—"
"Trying to what? Fix me?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Love you."
He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was brittle and sharp and it cut through the room like glass.
"Love isn't going to bring them back."
You flinched.
He saw it.
Of course he saw it. His Six Eyes missed nothing — the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way a tear slipped down your cheek before you could wipe it away. He saw the flinch. He saw the hurt. He saw the exact moment his words pierced through you.
And it broke him.
"You flinched," he said. His voice was barely audible.
You didn't answer.
"I saw you flinch." He wasn't pacing anymore. He was standing still, staring at you like he'd never seen you before. "When I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "When I said those things. You flinched like you were expecting to be hit."
"Satoru—"
"I never wanted to be the reason you flinched."
The room was silent.
The candles flickered. The dinner was getting cold. The apartment smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and something sad.
"I'm going to bed," you said.
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't."
You walked past him. You didn't look back.
You didn't cry right away.
You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, your hands in your lap. The tears came slowly — first a sting in your eyes, then a few drops on your cheeks, then the kind of crying that made your whole body shake.
You pressed your hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds.
You didn't want him to hear.
You didn't want him to know how much it hurt.
But he heard anyway.
The door opened.
"Sweetheart,"
He didn't say anything. He just stood there, in the doorway, looking at you.
Your face was wet. Your eyes were red. Your shoulders were still shaking.
He looked like someone had punched him in the chest.
"I'm sorry," he said.
You didn't answer.
"I'm so sorry."
"You should go." Your voice cracked. "You're tired. You don't need to—"
"I need to be here."
"You just said—"
"I know what I said." He stepped closer. "I know what I said, and I was wrong."
You looked up at him.
He looked terrible. His eyes were red. His jaw was tight. His hands were shaking.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said. "I'm not asking you to pretend it didn't happen. I just—" He stopped. "I need you to know that I didn't mean it."
"You did."
"I meant that I was tired. I meant that I was angry. I didn't mean—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean you."
He knelt in front of you.
"I've been gone for three weeks," he said. "Three weeks of nothing but fighting and blood and darkness. And all I could think about was coming home to you."
"Then why—"
"Because when I walked in and saw the candles and the dinner and the way you looked at me—" He stopped. "I didn't feel like I deserved it."
"Satoru..."
"I don't deserve you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I've never deserved you. And every time I come home and you're still here, I don't know how to handle it."
"You could try saying thank you."
He laughed — a broken, watery sound.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"You already said that."
"I'll say it a hundred more times."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
You looked at him — at his tired eyes, his shaking hands, the way he was kneeling on the floor like he was asking for forgiveness.
"Come here," you said.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, slow, careful, like he was afraid you'd push him away.
You didn't.
You pulled him into your arms.
He buried his face in your shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
"I don't— I don't know why you stay."
"Because I love you too."
He held you tighter.
You lay there for a long time.
His head was on your chest. Your fingers were in his hair. The candles in the other room had burned out. The dinner was cold. The apartment was dark.
"I ruined it," he said quietly.
"You didn't."
"I snapped at you. I said horrible things. You went to all that trouble, and I—"
"You were tired."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "But it's a reason."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I don't want to be that person," he said. "The one who comes home and makes you feel small."
"Then don't."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
He looked up at her.
"How do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Stay. Even when I'm like this."
"Because I know you."
You brushed his hair back from his forehead.
"I know the person you are when you're not exhausted. When you're not carrying the weight of the world. And that person is worth staying for."
His eyes were wet.
"You're going to make me cry," he said.
"Then cry."
"I don't cry."
"You're crying right now."
"I'm not."
"Your face is wet."
"It's allergies."
"It's November."
"I'm allergic to November."
You laughed — soft and tired.
He smiled — small and broken but real.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm going to make it up to you."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Tomorrow. I'm going to make you breakfast. And I'm going to hold your hand. And I'm going to be better."
"You're already better."
"I'm trying."
"That's all I ask."
You woke up to the smell of eggs and toast.
You blinked. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. The bed was empty beside you.
Satoru was in the kitchen. Again.
He was wearing the same apron. There was a smear of butter on his sleeve. The eggs were slightly overcooked. The toast was perfectly golden.
He looked up when you walked in.
"You're up," he said.
"You're making breakfast again."
"I messed up yesterday." He slid an egg onto a plate, his movements careful, deliberate. "I wanted to try again."
You walked over to him.
"Satoru..."
"I know I can't fix it with eggs." He set the plate down and finally looked at you. His eyes were soft. Hopeful. Scared. "But I can try. Every day. Until you believe me."
"Believe what?"
"That I'm sorry." His voice was quiet. "That I love you. That I'm going to do better."
You looked at him — at the butter on his sleeve, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were still shaking just a little.
"Did you sleep?" you asked.
"Not really."
"At all?"
"A little."
"You need to sleep."
He set the spatula down and turned to face you fully.
"I need to take care of you first."
You reached over and took his hand.
"I'm okay," you said.
"Are you?"
"Yeah." You squeezed his fingers. "I am."
He stared at you. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"I don't deserve you," he said.
"Stop saying that."
"But it's true."
"It's not." You stepped closer. "Now sit down. Eat your eggs. And then you're going to sleep."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, softly: "Yes, ma'am."
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't sarcastic. It was quiet and sincere, like a promise he was making to himself as much as to you.
You felt your chest warm.
He sat. He ate. He held your hand across the table.
And when he finally fell asleep on the couch an hour later — his head on the pillow, his breathing slow and even — you covered him with a blanket and kissed his forehead.
He didn't wake up.
But his hand reached for yours in his sleep.
You held it.
A/N. i genuinely cried at this ion wanna talk abt it 😭 i really hope you guys enjoyed this! <3 broke my heart a little writing this bcz of the things im going thru rn 🥹 i hope you guys are all okay and feeling amazing !! 😼💞
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3