Something like a Pulse, 2.
This one's not much, but it will be better next part, I'm writing flashbacks please be patient!
After that evening with Nanami.
It’s 10:37 a.m. The sun’s already biting at your eyes, even through the shade.
You lean against the railing outside the training field, the cold metal brushing through your sleeves. The morning’s quiet—except for some second-years screaming in the distance, probably over who drank all the vending machine milk again.
Yaga had caught you and Nanami just before you left last night, said Toge’s throat had been wrecked after pushing his technique too far again. Nothing permanent—he’d recover. But until then, he’d need one-on-one guidance. Quiet combat, precise movement, minimal verbal instruction. You.
Now you’re staring at your phone. A recent curse in your life—thanks to Gojo Satoru, who insisted you “upgrade from that Nokia brick” and installed a new messaging app “for ease of communication and memes.”
You scroll through your contacts. You don’t have many.
You get Maki’s number from Shoko that morning. She sends Toge’s with zero questions and a thumbs-up emoji.
You open the chat. You type.
You:
Come to the training field at 11:00 a.m.
The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then returns. Then:
Toge Inumaki:
i’ll skibidi ur gyatt lol
You stare. You blink. You lower the phone, check the number again. It’s the right one.
The typing bubble shows for a split second. Then nothing.
You check the time. 10:52. You don’t move.
At 11:00 sharp, you’re standing in the middle of the field, arms folded. The wind rustles your turtleneck. You hear birds. No footsteps.
11:07. Your phone buzzes.
Toge Inumaki:
OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY SENSEI DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS YOU I SWEAR I THOUGHT IT WAS A BOT OR SOMETHING I’M NOT EVEN SURE WHAT A GYATT IS PLEASE DON’T FAIL ME I’M ALREADY IN ENOUGH PAIN I RESPECT YOU SO MUCH PLEASE I’LL BE THERE IN 3 MINUTES I’M RUNNING I BROUGHT WATER TOO
You stare at the wall of text.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
You:
Three minutes. I’m counting.
Then you lower the phone.
But you do believe in suffering.
By the time Inumaki stumbles into the field, he’s half-dead from sprinting. Sweat-soaked, hoodie twisted, backpack dragging like he thought this was a camping trip instead of rehabilitation training. He bows so fast you think he might pass out right there.
And walk toward the target dummies.
He scrambles after you. Doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks his phone with shaking fingers.
Toge Inumaki:
ty senpai 4 not nuking me
Instead, you gesture toward the field. The grass is marked by old blasts. There’s a shattered post still upright. You didn’t have time to fix it.
You toss him a practice knife.
He straightens. Nods. Face serious. The training begins.
Your phone buzzes constantly.
You glance at him. He’s looking at you with the most serious face he can manage.
"You’re getting faster. Adjust your grip. You keep leading with your shoulder."
Toge Inumaki:
ok ok coach
don’t yell at me with ur mind
sorry sensei-sama-dono-god-boss
You ignore that one too. You hand him another knife.
He probably realised you wont fail him whatsoever.
He texts mid-movement, mid-crash. It starts off cautious. Then strange. Then aggressively.
Toge Inumaki:
no bc this technique training bouta make me rizzless
training w u is like fighting a greek statue of judgment
gyatt damn sensei
You raise your eyebrows, but never respond to any of it.
"Your left foot’s lagging. You’re losing momentum on turns. Rotate your hip fully."
He collapses into the grass and doesn’t get up.
Toge Inumaki:
if i die tell maki she can have my limited edition pokemon crocs
sensei this is character development right
am i your favorite now
You tilt your head. Say nothing.
From then on, he starts walking closer. Not to flirt. Not to impress. But to poke the beast. To see if the cold, stoic phantom of a teacher will react to the stupidest slang possible.
Toge Inumaki:
i made u a meme
you’re mid in it tho
jk ur valid ily sensei as a joke as a joke as a joke
You blink once.
“Go run another lap.”
He groans so loud it echoes across the field.
You go back to checking his footwork, like nothing ever happened.
That night you were not allowed to patrol, and you slept in your house, dreamt of Geto Suguru and the night you spent in the shower rooms.
It’s too foggy to see clearly, and that’s probably why you don’t realize someone’s already in the shower room.
You’re sleep-deprived, ribs still sore from a cursed spirit that got a lucky hit. You don’t think twice before tossing your towel onto the nearest bench and stepping in. The water’s scalding but it doesn’t register. You scrub your arms, then your face, until it feels like something might come off. Dirt, maybe. Or skin. Or grief.
All you remember is steam. The thick kind — hot, choking — rising off the tile like fog.
You didn’t notice him until you’d already stepped under the water, stripped down, bruised and aching, hot spray running over your chest like it might peel your bones clean.
You bend backwards to rinse your hair, spine cracking, and—
There he is, across the stall.
Bent the same way. Water falling down his face. Black hair darker with wet.
Who entered the wrong shower room again?
It should be awkward. Naked. Alone.
But you were two people who’d run out of the energy to care about shame.
A hard jolt — cough cough hiss — then the water slows to a pitiful trickle. You slap the faucet, annoyed. It sputters again, sprays sideways, then stops altogether.
You sigh, hand braced against the tile.
Then movement. From your left.
He walks over, still dripping from his own stall, muttering under his breath, and reaches around your faucet. Long fingers, callused palm. He hits something — a valve, maybe — and the pressure jerks back. Water floods the showerhead again.
You step back automatically, not thanking him, not sure if you're supposed to. He doesn't wait.
He just nods once, silent, and walks back to his own stall.
You return to scrubbing. The silence stretches. There’s only the hissing sound of the showers and your breathing, your fatigue, the growing fog.
You blink water from your lashes.
You’re not sure why. Maybe he’s finished. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he’s trying to remember something.
Steam curls around your ankles. A droplet falls from your jaw to your collarbone. The ache in your chest doesn’t go away, but it shifts. Something recognizes itself.
Eventually, he glances down at his hand.
You reach blindly behind you and offer yours over the half-wall between stalls. He takes it without a word.
You’re rinsing your hair again when you catch it, he’s looking at you.
At your face. Your expression.
The blank way you stare into the spray, as if it might melt your face off and you wouldn't care.
You meet his eyes again. They’re tired and red now.
After the showers cut off and the steam begins to settle, neither of you move to get dressed.
You wrap your towel around your chest.
He wraps his around his waist.
You both sit on the bench, damp and silent, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.
The tile floor sweats beneath your feet, water dripping down from your wet legs. The lights buzz. It’s almost 2 AM.
You don’t look at each other.
“Do you think they’ll ever stop sending us out?” you murmur, voice hoarse from the heat.
“No” Suguru replies. “They’ll stop when we die.”
He rubs his hand down his face, slow and heavy. “My last mission,” he says, “the curse cried.”
“It was a mother who’d lost her son. The records said it killed three people, but I think they all deserved it.”
He huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh.
He’s not crying. But you feel like he wanted to.
You rest your elbow on your knee. “Mine was a two-headed child. It kept asking for its father. I crushed its skull with a brick.”
Suguru looks over, finally.
Your eyes meet again. You both look so exhausted.
So disgustingly young, and so impossibly old.
He speaks again, voice barely audible. “Why are we still here?”
You shrug. “Probably ‘cause we’re not brave enough to leave.”
His eyes stay on yours for a beat too long.
Then he chuckles. It’s a bitter, short sound.
There’s a silence. Then another.
It stretches. Unspoken. Hollow.
Then he leans in, and kisses your lips.
It’s just lips at first. Chapped. Cold. Nothing special, yet it was soft. Gentler than you'd expect, it was softer and gentler than anything you've got from this world.
But you’ve both been so starved for something human.
You push your fingers into his hair. He cups your jaw.
It doesn’t feel like affection. It feels like surrender. Like two people giving in to the weight of the world pressing down on their ribs.
You don’t speak, your towels fall, eventually.
You let him touch you, you touch him back.
It’s not passionate. It’s just quiet.
A quiet that fills a silence neither of you could name.
After, you sit beside him on the cool tile, in towels again, back hitting the bench, as he lies with his head against your thigh, and you stroke his damp hair back.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares up at your face with those red-rimmed eyes, holding your wrist.
The next morning, you’re gone before he wakes up.
And when Suguru leaves the school month later, when he kills for the first time, when his name becomes something unspoken, you wonder if he remembers that night.
And when you saw his parents' dead bodies, you remembered how warm his hands had felt.
Gojo broke into your house. Mumbling how he's to make you his and marry you because he couldn't sleep alone all night as he was so worried about your injury. And, according to his calculations he should be dating you since the past 2 years, so you apparantly are. Now he's huffing and watching you sip tea with your ankles crossed.
Toge texts you. You feel the buzz.
Toge Inumaki:
sensei r u having fun or r u funning from having feelings
get it
like running
but FUNNING
pls respond and get well soon
You don’t look up. You text back.
You:
The next lap you run will be vertical
Post recovery. After a few days.
It’s 2:41 a.m. when you finally unlock your door, coming back from your first patrol after recovery.
You’ve just returned from a night patrol and a full day of dragging Toge across the training field while he texted you things.
Toge Inumaki:
not to be dramatic but i’m gonna perish in ur arms if i do one more roll
sensei u could never work at starbucks u could never spell my name right
Your back aches. Your neck is stiff. Your tolerance for idiocy is at its end.
There’s a long, loud thud at your feet.
Gojo Satoru is sprawled dramatically on the floor of your entryway. Face down. Shoes off.
Head turned slightly so he can peer up at you through half-lidded eyes.
“…Step on me,” he whispers.
“I’m not wasting the energy.”
He scrambles to his knees, still inside the threshold like a ghost that hasn’t been invited in. “What do you mean, not wasting? You can’t just ignore a perfectly good offer to assert dominance!”
You drop your bag on the chair. “You’re lucky I didn’t jump directly onto your spine.”
He pouts. “You knew I was here?”
“I knew you were following me. I didn’t think you’d break in again. That was… bold.”
He lifts a finger. “Technically, I just teleported through the wall.”
“Still breaking and entering.”
You sit on the edge of your new sofa—still a novelty—and start unlacing your boots.
Gojo doesn’t move from the floor. “I have a confession.”
“You’re dying?” you say flatly.
He gasps. “How did you know?”
You glance at him. His nose is red. His hoodie’s half-zipped. His voice is clogged like a toddler with allergies.
“This is the end,” he groans, collapsing onto his side. “I don’t have long.”
He looks up again, dramatically. “Will you take me to the rose garden? One last time?”
“There’s no rose garden.”
He props his chin on his hand. “Just imagine. You, me, twilight. A bench under the trellis. Petals floating in the wind. You finally admit you’ve loved me all along.”
You finish unlacing your boots and stand.
He watches with gleaming eyes.
You walk into the kitchen.
He drags himself across the floor after you like a slug in heat. “I can’t die without closure…”
You open the fridge, now full thanks to his unrequested makeover. You grab the water bottle you left this morning. He leans against the doorway.
“I want roses at my funeral.”
You drink slowly. Turn to him.
He pouts harder. “What if I want to be reborn as a rose? In a rose garden you plant?”
You toss him a cold pack from the freezer.
He clutches the ice dramatically to his head. “I’m so brave.”
“I’ll call Nanami to come get you.”
He gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
He scuttles to the couch. “Fine. But I’m not leaving until I feel loved. Or at least pitied.”
“You’ll be here a long time.”
He grins. “Good. I brought snacks.”
You watch him settle in, hoodie bunched at his neck, ridiculous energy radiating from every pore.
And drop a blanket on his lap.
“…Wait” he says quietly. “That’s not rejection.”
“Is it?” he calls after you.
The door to your room closes.
Nestles deeper into the couch.
And dreams of rose gardens he’s never seen.
did he come did he come did he come
You [11:23 PM]
He reorganized my fridge.
Toge
no bc sensei got that NPC behavior fr
You
You’re supposed to defend your other teacher.
Toge
i am defending
he lowkey rizzed u up be honest
You
You’re just typing words now.
Toge
nah bc real talk
sensei got that ✨emotional damage✨
mans saw u blink and thought it was character development
sigma struggle
You
You really hate him huh
Toge
no bro(sry sensei) i respect him
he’s the goat fr
but like
also a ✨Certified Goofy✨
bro got 20/20 vision and still can’t see ur not into him unless they stab him in the face
he’s fighting for his life trying to get u to smile once
You
I never said i wasnt into him?
Toge
not with ur face
with ur aura
i get it
Toge
ur still in denial
gonna bench press my cursed speech limit like a real sigma
gyatt to maintain the grind
You [12:03 AM]
Wait.
You’re not joking, are you?
He really like, actually likes me?
Toge [12:04 AM]
sensei
u bet on that skibidi he does
man's gyatt more emotional bandwidth for u than cursed energy itself
Toge
neither does rearranging someone’s fridge alphabetically
but he did that for u
that’s not fake love
that’s ✨soulmate grindset✨
You
But he flirts with everyone.
Toge
yeah but he don’t memorize nanami-senpai’s tea order
he goes into NPC mode when u walk into the room like a glitching sim
bro(sry sensei) down so astronomical even nasa gave up
You
I thought he was just… being Gojo.
Toge
nah this ain’t “just gojo”
this is “gojo.exe stopped responding”
mans been soft-launching his love since the heian period
he waits for u like ur the update patch that’ll fix his entire life
Toge
love is weird
so is he
so are u
otp behavior tbh
Toge
no u don’t
ur heart doing skibidi in ur ribcage rn
don’t lie
Toge [12:12 AM]
sensei
HELP
nanami-sensei looked at me like I committed tax fraud
Toge
I texted “live laugh slay” to him accidentally when he finished his mission debrief i forgot he isnt u
I was SUPPORTING him
like motivational speaker vibes??
You
He’s going to put you in a casket
Toge
pls save me
you’re like the only human he listens to without judging
help a lil bro out
ill owe u
like
my soul
my crocs
Toge
access to my gojo folder
You
You have a Gojo folder?
Toge
we all do
some of us are just more honest about it
You
Alright.
I’ll fix this.
In exchange.
You tell me all the....weird things he’s said or done this week.
man whispered “i miss her voice” while looking at a pencil
drank soup with a fork “to prolong the experience”
tried to write a poem it started with “roses are cursed, violets are technique”
went quiet for 10 mins after u said goodnight one day. just stared into a mug like it held the meaning of life
Toge
the one he stole from your cabinet
says “world’s okayest sorcerer”
he hugs it sometimes
called it “a totem of her mild affection”
Toge
sensei
he calls ur mug "her relic"
the mans is not okay
like sigma core heartbroken sadboy arc
You
I’ll talk to Nanami.
You’re not off the hook yet.
Toge
ily sensei
ur the GOATest
Toge
update: nanami-sensei said
“ask her why she lets the world revolve around her silence”
Toge
yeah like deadass
real poetic for a salaryman
also
ino is now hiding behind a tree with another cat trying to impress him
idk why u ppl r like this
You don’t know when exactly you made the mistake of letting Gojo Satoru into your life. Maybe it was when you let him walk beside you without telling him to buzz off. Maybe it was when you didn’t immediately ignore his idiotic attempts at flirting. Or maybe it was when, in a rare moment of weakness, you let him kiss your cheek and didn’t deck him afterward.
Now he's fixed you’re dating.
Now he won’t leave you alone, not after that 'incident' which he's so careful while mentioning because he's scared it'll happen again.
“Y/N” Satoru singsongs, leaning dramatically on your shoulder even though you’re standing. He manages to find the exact spot between your shoulder blade and collarbone that makes his weight feel heavier than it is. “Why do you always—mmm—is that leather? Ugh, you're so cool. I’m obsessed.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him.
You’re focused on your mission report, arms crossed, frame bent slightly as you scan over the document.
Satoru calls you his "goddess."
He doesn’t take offense. Of course he doesn’t.
“Hellooooo?” he says again, this time poking your cheek with his gloved finger, stretching your stoic profile as if to mold it into something expressive. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong? Or do you not love me anymore? Be honest. I can take it.”
You slap his hand away—not hard, but not gently either.
“Don’t touch me” you say flatly.
He pouts. “But we’re dating.”
“No” you correct. “You’re dating the idea of dating me.”
He gasps, clutching his chest like you stabbed him. “You wound me. After everything we’ve been through.”
“What, like you clinging to me in bed because you get ‘night terrors’?”
“They’re real! The dark is scary, sweetheart. And you’re my safety blanket.”
“You’re taller than me. And stronger.”
He grins, clearly delighted you acknowledged his height. “Only by a little. It’s hot. We look like a power couple. Like—like assassins-for-hire who kiss after killing a guy.”
“Stop romanticizing everything.”
You start walking, and he follows immediately, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning like a dog off-leash.
He trots beside you now, matching your long stride like an eager puppy.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” you mutter.
Satoru’s grin widens. “You noticed me. That’s basically affection. I should log this in my journal. ‘Day 36712: She acknowledged my existence with mild contempt. My heart fluttered.’”
You stop walking. He nearly slams into you.
“Are you done?” you ask, voice even.
“Never” he replies sweetly. “Not until you’re head over heels in love with me.”
You narrow your eyes at him. They’re cold. Expressionless. They look like they were carved from the same shadows you wear so well. He’s seen those eyes in battle — steel under blood — and he knows you’re not someone to be trifled with.
But God, he loves being trifled.
“I don’t do love,” you say finally. “It’s not real.”
He tilts his head. “That so?”
“It’s chemical. Stupid. It makes people weak.”
Satoru steps into your space. For a moment, the cocky flirt fades, and something quieter passes through his expression. Like fog lifting.
“I’m already weak” he says. “When it comes to you.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“I know” he says brightly. “But you’re still here.”
You are still here. You haven’t left. Haven’t told him to piss off permanently. And you could. You’re one of the only people capable of shutting him down — physically, emotionally, strategically. You’ve beaten him in sparring before. You’ve outmaneuvered him in the field. You’ve resisted every one of his flirtations with terrifying resolve.
That one night. That stupid night when the cold got to your bones, and his arms were warm, and he came willingly to hug you, you let him be something soft in a world that was only ever sharp.
Now he won’t shut up about it.
“I made you breakfast” he says suddenly.
“It’s never too late for pancakes.”
“I made them in the shape of your initials.”
“Yes, my queen of darkness?”
“If you keep talking, I will choke you out and leave your unconscious body in a supply closet.”
He beams. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You do eventually eat the pancakes.
And the next time you’re on a mission, and he won’t stop pacing around you with annoying little remarks like
“Are you sure you don’t wanna hold hands while we exorcise this curse? For morale?”
You let him walk beside you. Shoulder brushing shoulder.
And when he slips his hand into yours under the smoke and ruin of a leveled battlefield, you don’t pull away.
You squeeze once. Only once.
He grins so wide it might split his face.
There’s a muffled thud behind you. Familiar, light-footed, and completely unnecessary, like a child trying to sneak up on someone who already knows they’re there. You don’t turn around. Not yet. You cross your arms instead, eyes focused on the small stack of mission files on your desk. You’re not reading them—just pretending to. You’d rather stare at ink than meet those annoyingly pretty blue eyes.
“You didn’t answer my messages,” comes the exaggerated whine, petulant and thick with dramatic suffering. “Not even a heart emoji. Or a dot. Nothing. You left me to die in the dark…”
You sigh. “You’re literally the strongest.”
“I’m emotionally fragile,” Gojo replies immediately, like he’s been rehearsing the line. You can hear the grin in his voice. “It’s different.”
Still, you don’t turn. You hope the wall of your back will discourage him. It doesn’t. You know better.
“You’re wearing the same black outfit again. You know what that does to me.” There’s a soft shuffle of fabric, and suddenly his chin is perched on your shoulder, like a cat that’s claimed its perch. He’s warm, obnoxiously so, like the sun climbing onto your personal weather system. “You’re not even gonna say hi to your loving, loyal boyfriend? The one who fought three curses last night and didn’t even brag about it?”
You tilt your head just slightly, enough to side-eye him. “Go away.”
He gasps, clutching his chest like you stabbed him. “You’re so cruel. I bring joy and sunshine into your dreary, colorless life, and you tell me to go away?”
You lift an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Okay, but like… what if I don’t?” he counters, looping his arms around your waist from behind and hanging off you. “Let me stay here forever. You’re my emotional support monolith.”
You roll your eyes and shake him off, which is harder than you’d like to admit. He’s clingy and deceptively heavy when he wants to be. Like a weighted blanket of pure chaos. You turn finally, looming over him, your expression unreadable, arms crossed again like a shield.
“I’m in love,” he says, dead serious for once. “With a terrifying woman who wears black like she’s allergic to joy. I think that says more about me than you.”
You grunt. You’ve heard it all before. He thrives off reactions, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you pivot back to your desk, ignoring how his eyes practically sparkle as he trails after you like a kicked puppy.
“Why don’t you ever text me first?” he tries again, plopping down on your couch like he owns it. “Or compliment me? I wore the cologne you said didn’t give you a headache. That’s relationship growth. That’s commitment.”
You snort. “It’s basic decency.”
He groans, flopping dramatically. “Why won’t you just say you love me already? Or like me. Or tolerate me. Give me crumbs. Please.”
“I’ll take anything,” he interrupts. “An elbow touch. A blink in my direction. A silent nod that might mean you thought about me once for 0.2 seconds—”
He sits up, eyes wide. “Oh my god. You’re gonna kill me. You are the curse.”
You narrow your eyes. “You done?”
“Emotionally? Never. Mentally? Rarely. But I’ll shut up if—” he leans forward, propping his chin in his hand with a shameless grin “—you give me one nice word. Just one. Like, ‘I appreciate you’ or ‘You’re marginally tolerable.’ I’ll take a grunt that could be affection.”
You stare at him. He stares back. You hate how pretty he is. It’s infuriating. Like his whole existence is designed to test your patience. His white hair is a mess, and his blindfold is pushed up so his eyes are visible—dangerous, glittering, and wholly fixated on you like you’re the only thing in the room.
He beams. “That’s flirty when you say it.”
You groan, leaning your forehead on the desk. “Why me?”
“Because you’re cool, emotionally constipated, and make my heart go boom boom even when you look like you’d rather set me on fire.” His voice softens. “And because no one else makes me feel like being this clingy is worth it.”
You pause, just a beat too long. He notices. Of course he does.
“…You’re lucky I tolerate you,” you mutter.
He gasps again. “Wait—wait—hold on. Did you just—? That was a compliment. A literal compliment.”
You flick a pen at his forehead.
“God, I love you.” he whispers, grinning as it bounces off his skull.
You ignore the sudden warmth in your chest and reach for the mission files again. If you look at him too long, you’ll actually smile, and that’s not allowed. Not when he’s already so insufferably pleased with himself.
Still, when he settles back onto the couch, humming some ridiculous love song and watching you like you’re his favorite show, you don’t tell him to leave again.
The knock on your door is too quiet. That’s how you know something’s wrong.
Gojo doesn’t knock. He bursts in like the world revolves around him—which, in his mind, it does. He usually makes his presence known with the sound of his obnoxious voice echoing down the hall, whining your name like it’s a song, demanding snacks, attention, or affection in that order.
But tonight, it’s just a soft knock.
You pause, halfway through pulling on a hoodie over your training top, and frown. You cross the room and open the door.
The white of his hair is matted with streaks of red. His blindfold is hanging from his neck, useless. There’s a cut over his brow, another deeper one across his side, staining the hem of his jacket. One arm is limp at his side, shoulder clearly dislocated. And yet, he’s smiling.
That same stupid, bright smile.
“Hi” he says. “You’re gonna be mad at me.”
Your fingers twitch at your sides. “Satoru—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have gone in alone. It wasn’t even a special grade, I just—well, okay, it became one. Surprise! Anyway, I handled it, but… yeah. Kinda got roughed up.”
You just grab him by the front of his bloodied jacket and drag him inside.
It takes fifteen minutes to clean him up. Mostly in silence.
He hisses when you reset his shoulder, muttering a quiet “ow, ow, ow” like a child trying not to cry during a shot. But he doesn’t complain beyond that. You wish he would, honestly. You’d know what to do with that. Jokes. Whining. The usual Gojo toolkit.
But instead, he’s subdued. Watchful. Studying you like he’s waiting for you to snap.
You finish wrapping his ribs and set the med kit aside.
“I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly. “I know you don’t like all the emotional crap, but if you hadn’t answered the door—”
You can’t look at him like this. Not when his smile is dimmer. Not when his hair’s stained and his body’s wrecked and he still said hi like it was just another tuesday. Like he wasn’t two minutes from passing out on your porch.
“You’re an idiot” you mutter. It comes out hoarse.
He perks up. “There it is. There’s my girl. C’mon, yell at me more. Scold me. Tell me I’m reckless and immature.”
You clench your jaw. “You are.”
He nods enthusiastically. “Right?”
Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. You hate how it cracks. How the word lingers.
He looks at you for a long time. Then he does something worse than cracking a joke.
He leans forward, gently, rests his head against your shoulder, and wraps both arms around your waist. He holds you like you’re the thing keeping him grounded. You stiffen.
“…Don’t” you murmur, voice low, but you don’t push him away.
“'M sorry” he whispers into your hoodie. “I didn’t mean to.”
You stay silent. But your hands twitch. You should pull back. Tell him this is too much. You don’t do this—this closeness. You don’t do soft things.
But his breathing is shaky, uneven against your chest. The fabric of his jacket smells like blood and smoke and something vaguely like—his cologne. The one you said didn’t suck. Of course he remembered.
“Fine,” you grumble. “Come here.”
You guide him down onto your bed, muttering curses the entire way, scolding him for being heavy, dramatic, a damn child. He grins the whole time.
“I’m taking care of you. That’s all this is,” you say stiffly, pulling a blanket over both of you. “It’s not romantic.”
“Sure” he says, smug and slurred with exhaustion, already curling into your side like a human octopus. “Totally not romantic. Just let me borrow your warmth, o’ monolith of stoicism.”
“You’re injured” you snap.
“Love you too, very much.”
You stiffen at that, then sigh. Again. Somehow he always wins.
But you let your arm settle around him.
You stare at the small bag in your hand like it personally offended you.
It crinkles loudly when you shift your grip. You hate the sound. Hate how bright the packaging is. Hate how the cashier looked at you like you were picking up candy for a child—“they must really love sweets!” she’d said, smiling. You grunted something noncommittal and left before you had to explain that no, they weren’t for a child.
They were for an emotionally volatile adult man with godlike power and a clinginess problem.
He’d been laying low for a few days after the injury. Mostly in your apartment. Not that you invited him. He just never left.
He’d complained once or twice about being “sweet-deprived,” in that dramatic, wounded-bird way of his—“how am I supposed to heal without sugar? You’re literally starving me of serotonin.” You’d rolled your eyes and ignored it. At least out loud.
But you remembered. And now here you are, standing outside your own door like a fool, with a bag of hand-picked lollipops clutched in your fist like it’s a bomb you’re about to throw.
You hate this. You hate him.
You open the door anyway.
He’s on your couch, of course. Draped across it like a Victorian ghost, arm over his eyes, long legs taking up the whole damn thing.
“Welcome home, dearest” he says without looking up. “I made myself at home. As usual.”
“You were gone forever. I almost perished. Where were you last night—some silent mission? An underground cage match?”
You walk past him and drop the bag on his chest.
He squawks. Like a literal bird. “What is—?”
You sit down next to him, arms crossed, eyes on the wall. “Lollipops. For your… thing. Your sweet tooth or whatever.”
Gojo lifts the bag slowly, reverently, like it’s sacred. He peeks inside. His eyes go wide. “You got the strawberry milk swirl ones. And the peach rings. And—oh my god, is this the sour cherry kind I like that only that weird little convenience store carries? Are you kidding me?”
You grunt. “It’s just candy.”
“This is a declaration of love,” he says seriously, shaking the bag at you. “This is intimate. This is so hot. You are wooing me. This is level 6 seduction.”
You finally glance at him and immediately regret it. He’s glowing. Practically levitating with joy. He’s holding one of the lollipops like it’s a bouquet of roses. His smile is so bright it makes your teeth hurt.
“Don’t read into it” you mutter. “I was already out. You kept whining. I didn’t want to hear about it anymore.”
“Oh no” he gasps, leaning closer. “Did the ice queen bring me candy to shut me up? Is this how you show affection? I love this for us. Please keep threatening me while giving me sweets. I’ve never been more emotionally stimulated.”
You cover your face with one hand. “I should’ve left you bleeding on the porch.”
“You didn’t, though, and now you’re bringing me snacks like a 7-foot tsundere care package.”
“I’m not seven feet tall—”
“You’re taller than me when I’m slouching, and that’s emotionally significant.”
You turn toward him finally, expression sharp. “If you say one more word—”
He cuts you off by leaning over and planting a loud, obnoxious kiss on your cheek.
He pulls back, grinning so hard it’s a miracle his face doesn’t break in half. “Thanks, sweetcheeks.”
Your fists clench. Your eye twitches. Your whole face burns.
But you don’t shove him away.
And when he cracks open the lollipops and offers you the first one—“you get first pick, sugar supplier’s rights”—you grumble something and take it.
He leans his head on your shoulder after that, humming as he unwraps one for himself.
Gojo’s been quiet all morning.
Which, in Gojo terms, means only two full monologues about dream scenarios where you finally “give in and marry him” and exactly one dramatic sigh every ten minutes instead of three. But for him? Practically mute.
He’s curled up at the far end of the couch, hoodie swallowing his lanky frame, hair sticking up like he lost a fight with a pillow. He has a lemon lollipop in his mouth and is very, very busy staring at the ceiling.
You narrow your eyes. “What are you sulking about?”
His head lolls to the side. He blinks at you. “Me? Sulk? Nooo. Not me. I’m just sitting here, thinking about the fact that I’ve laid my entire heart bare before you, multiple times, and yet…” He gestures vaguely toward you. “The mysterious, shadow queen remains emotionally unavailable.”
You roll your eyes. “I literally brought you lollipops two days ago.”
“And I treasure them. I’ve named them. I made them a shrine in your kitchen. But,” he says, dramatically flopping backward, “a man needs words, darling. I can only read so much from aggressive gift-giving and emotionally stunted cuddling.”
You stare. Then go back to sharpening your knife. There's a blade in your lap, a cloth in your hand, and irritation running deep through your veins.
“I’m dying of affection deficiency.”
“I’m fading,” he whimpers, sinking lower into the couch. “You’re watching your beautiful, loving boyfriend wither in the prime of his life. And all I want is—oh, I don’t know—a whisper of affection. A stray pet name. A single sentence that proves you don’t just tolerate me like a flea-ridden cat who won’t leave your doorstep.”
You wipe the blade clean.
Gojo watches you like he’s expecting to be stabbed. Which, to be fair, wouldn’t be that far out of character.
But instead, you walk over, towering and glowering, until you’re standing right over him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He blinks up at you. “Baby?”
You sigh. Loudly. Aggressively.
“I don’t do soft,” you mutter.
“I don’t like romantic crap. I don’t like saying things I don’t mean. So if I say something—if I ever do—then you better not make it a thing. Don’t drag it out. Don’t ruin it.”
“Because I swear to god, if I give you one real moment and you turn it into some weird dramatic musical number, I will disappear. I will evaporate. You will never find me again.”
“So,” you continue, each word sharp and reluctant like they’re being ripped out of you, “if I say—hypothetically—that I like having you around. That you’re not entirely insufferable. That sometimes, I think about you when you’re not here, and it doesn’t make me want to punch a wall…”
“…If I say those things,” you finish, voice low, “it means something.”
Long. Tense. Emotionally dangerous.
Gojo stares at you like he’s just been struck by lightning in the middle of a flower field.
And then—predictably—he melts.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, grabbing your wrist and pulling you down into his lap like you don’t weigh more than a loaded war machine, and wraps his hands around you. “You love me.”
“I heard it! My ears are trained! That was your version of ‘I love you’ and I accept it and I love you more, I win!”
“Say it again. I’ll be normal this time, I swear.”
“You just proved you won’t.”
“Please, babe. Please. Just grunt in a tone that suggests affection. That’s all I need.”
You groan and press your forehead to his shoulder in pure, defeated exasperation.
He makes the most obnoxious squealing noise you’ve ever heard.
And then he kisses the top of your head. Gently. Quietly.
And doesn’t say anything else for a while.
Which is good because you don’t hate being in his arms as much as you probably should.
