Chapter Text
The apartment was warm that afternoon, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains in lazy rectangles. Utahime had pushed them open earlier to give the monstrous monstera in the corner what she solemnly referred to as its daily blessing.
“Monstera-sama,” she murmured, misting its leaves with the concentration of someone performing a tea ceremony, “you and I are the only stable things in this apartment. Please continue to live.”
The plant, regal and unbothered, rustled in the faint draft, like accepting its role of the responsible living creature in the apartment.
Her phone buzzed on the table as Utahime cleaned the glossy leaves.
Caller ID: Mei Mei.
Of course.
Utahime wiped her hands on her oversized, frumpy tee and tucked a stray lock behind her ear before answering the video call.
“Hey—”
“Utahime.” Mei Mei’s voice was velvety and smug, the kind of tone born from a life where credit limits didn’t exist. The background was offensively serene—some kind of luxury spa or private villa, probably with staff she pretended not to have.
“What’s the state of my apartment? Has it burned down? Flooded? Did you accidentally kill the neighbor’s dog? Not that I would blame you, there’s a particularly Chinese Crested on the 8th floor that’s not fond of me.”
Utahime grimaced, trying not to think about the previous week. “Why is ‘burned down’ always your first concern?”
“Because you’re clumsy. And dramatic.” Mei Mei dismissed the topic with a flick of her manicured hand.
Utahime coughed—twice, for good measure. “Everything’s fine.”
She carefully did not mention the recent near-fire incident—failed stir-fry, cursed soy sauce, a pan left on the stove, and Gojo’s horrified face when the fire alarm went off. No, thank you.
“Good,” Mei Mei said. “And how are you? Living alone again. Broken heart. Creative meltdown. Impending financial collapse. The usual.”
Utahime closed her eyes in despair. “Mei Mei…”
“Oh, relax. You’re in a free apartment. You’re welcome.”
Utahime sighed, gently stroking one of Monstera-sama’s leaves. “I’m doing fine. I’m writing again.”
“Excellent. And the plant?”
“Alive.”
“I suppose that counts as a win for you.”
Utahime rolled her eyes. Monstera-sama seemed to sigh in solidarity.
They talked about deliveries and maintenance for a few minutes—boring but safe—until Utahime, against all self-preservation instincts, let slip:
“The neighbor’s certainly something. Polite, but chaotic. He talks like he’s always in a courtroom.”
Mei Mei perked up like a cat hearing a tuna can open.
“Oh? Neighbor? Which one?”
Utahime attempted the world’s worst nonchalance. “Next door. He’s just… around.”
“Mhm.” Mei Mei’s hum was too knowing, too delighted. “Is he attractive?”
Utahime froze. “I didn’t say that.” She spoke slowly, trying to gauge Mei Mei’s reaction.
“He is. I know so. I asked whether you think so. Well?”
“No!”
“So very attractive,” Mei Mei concluded, sipping from a drink that seemed to have puff out of thin air as if it were a magic trick.
Utahime spluttered. “It’s not—Mei Mei, seriously—”
“If you’re into the tall, goofily charming type, anyway. Are you?”
Utahime’s silence answered for her.
“Oooh, I knew it.” Mei Mei sounded delighted. “Good. I was hoping you’d get your spirits up boinking a man.”
“MEI MEI!” Utahime slapped a hand over her face so fast the camera shook. “I’m not—why would you—?!”
“The breakup left you dreary. You could use a hobby.”
“What kind of hobby is THAT?!”
“The restorative kind.” She waved the question away. “Besides, I told you: no strays. But if this one lives in my building, he has money. Approved.”
Utahime’s face turned red from forehead to collarbone. “It’s not like that. We barely talk!”
Her landlady only laughed—bright, cruel, and fond. “You’re adorable when you lie. Send pictures later.”
“No!”
“Take care of the monstera,” Mei Mei said cheerfully. “And your libido.”
“GOODBYE.” Utahime hung up so fast she nearly threw the phone.
She stood there, mortified, cheeks burning.
Monstera-sama swayed gently, mocking her.
Utahime glared. “Don’t look at me like that.”
She pressed both palms to her face, groaning.
“Boinking. I can’t believe her…”
But when she thought of Gojo—his ridiculous smile, how he always looked too crisp even at home, the warmth beneath his teasing, his soft-looking sweatshirt, the wild white hair—
Her stomach flipped.
And she absolutely hated that Mei Mei might not be entirely wrong.
Utahime was not proud of it, but she had spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing completely normal, mature lines such as:
“Thank you for the pastries.”
Or:
“Do you want to order dinner? As a neighborly gesture. Not because Mei Mei said anything horrifying.”
She told herself she was not flustered.
She was simply being polite. Gracious.
And cautious.
Because cooking again was absolutely out of the question.
She had even changed out of her frumpy clothes into a properly fitted shirt—clean, mercifully stain-free. Lounge pants but flattering. Her hair was in a cute ponytail, she had put on lip gloss, and—
Kami above.
Was Mei Mei right?
Did she want to boink?
Horrifying. Absolutely unacceptable. She was merely being polite. She shook her head fervently. Applying mascara was only so her eyes would look more lively instead of the constant sleep deprived expression.
Armed with this lie, she marched the few steps to his door and knocked.
The door opened almost instantly.
“What—oh.” Gojo blinked at her, momentarily thrown. “You’re… here.”
His eyes narrowed, probably noticing the effort she’d put into not looking like a depressed swamp creature.
He looked different today, too. Hair pushed back. White dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Not quite formal, not quite casual—an absurdly attractive in-between that made Utahime’s stomach perform a small, treacherous somersault.
Before she could speak, another voice drifted from inside—warm, deep, unhurried.
“Who is it?”
A second figure appeared behind Gojo, and Utahime straightened instinctively.
Tall. Long dark hair tied loosely at the nape. Soft, dark, simple street clothes that made elegance look effortless. A gentle expression; open, unreadable, steady.
If Gojo was a live wire, this man was calm water.
He even smelled like sea salt and sun.
Gojo stepped aside with minimal enthusiasm. “Utahime, this is Getou Suguru. Getou, this is Iori Utahime—my neighbor. She’s house-sitting for Mei Mei, my interesting neighbor.” The way he said interesting let slip that he had probably complained about Mei Mei at one point or another, and very likely thought about several other adjectives and labels he refused to name now—Utahime knew Mei Mei, and she knew what people thought of her.
Getou’s smile was polite and warm. “Ah. The legendary house-sitter. Gojo’s mentioned you.”
Utahime tensed. “I—I hope… in a neutral way?” She wrung her fingers and her gaze flicked to Gojo before returning to Getou.
“Oh, certainly.” His eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.
Gojo coughed and looked away.
Utahime turned back to him, clutching her dignity. “I, um, wanted to thank you for the pastries. And maybe order dinner? As… thanks.”
Gojo leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, smirking. “Look at that, Getou. She’s inviting me to dinner. I feel like the most desirable girl in high school.”
“It’s not like that,” Utahime blurted, mortified. “You brought food and sent pastries. I’m returning the favor. That’s all.”
“Of course,” Getou murmured—a kind, gentle tone that somehow made her blush hotter. “She’s being gracious, Satoru.”
Then he lifted a folder.
“By the way, I came to drop off another case for my dear friend. And Gojo told me you helped with the last one.”
“Helped me,” Gojo corrected under his breath, as if the accuracy of the statement mattered deeply.
Ignoring him with divine grace, Getou continued, “Would you mind helping again? Us. As a ‘civilian consultant’, so to speak.”
Gojo’s head snapped toward him. “Why are you asking her like that?”
“It’s called politeness,” Getou replied, serene. “You should try it.”
Utahime nearly choked on air.
She looked between them—electric white, calm black—and swallowed. Even if she had put some thought into her looks tonight, she felt shabby in front of two impossibly gorgeous men.
“I… don’t know if I helped much.”
But Getou’s eyes held a quiet reassurance that made deflection impossible.
“You did,” he said simply. “You see motives clearly. That’s valuable.”
The praise hit something tender inside her. She felt needed and useful for the first time in a long time.
“I… I guess I can take a look,” she whispered.
“Excellent.” Getou handed her the file, smiling warmly. “We’d appreciate it.”
Gojo’s answering smile was a little too bright, a little too sharp—the smile of someone pretending not to be jealous.
Utahime didn’t notice.
Getou very much did.
“Should we all go through it?” Getou suggested. “Have dinner together?”
Gojo cut in immediately. “Actually, Utahime and I can handle the case. You’re busy, right?”
Getou lifted a brow. “Oh? Am I?”
“Yes,” Gojo said forcefully. “Very busy.”
Utahime blinked. “I don’t mind if Getou-san—”
“No, really,” Gojo barreled on. “He has places to be. Work. Meetings. Hair routines to follow. Very full schedule.”
Getou clasped his hands behind his back, saintly. “I’m free.”
Gojo’s eye twitched.
Utahime politely pretended not to notice the territorial aura radiating off her neighbor.
“Just let me know if you have questions,” Getou said. “And thank you.” He turned, grabbed a pen from the auxiliary table, took the folder back briefly, and scribbled something inside. Then he handed it to her. “My number. In case you need it.”
His smile remained warm, but something mischievous glinted in his eyes.
He nodded to Gojo. “Don’t scare her off.”
Gojo bared his teeth in an innocent grin. “Me? Never.”
Utahime tried not to laugh.
Getou looked between them with a knowing tilt of the head, then asked lightly, “So, what are we ordering?” He placed a gentle hand on Utahime’s shoulder—warm, steady—and added, “My treat, as thanks for your help.”
Gojo scoffed. “You’re a public defender. You’re basically poor.”
“Gojo!” Utahime gasped.
“Don’t mind him, Iori-san,” Getou said calmly. “He has the emotional maturity of a jellyfish.”
Utahime chuckled.
“Oi!” Gojo frowned. “Stop teaming up on me. You should be leaving, not… playing white knight with your shampoo-commercial hair.”
“Satoru,” Getou said with a serene smile, “green is not your color.”
Gojo scowled and grabbed his phone. “Fine. So. Curry?”
Utahime noticed the tension—something she couldn’t name yet—but she wasn’t in a hurry to unravel it.
The curry containers were still warm when they settled into the living room. Gojo nudged aside a drift of papers on the small coffee table, muttering something about “organized chaos,” while Getou folded himself onto the floor with the quiet poise of someone who had learned to survive on cramped break rooms and half-sized couches.
Utahime knelt across from them, the folder open between the three like a shared secret.
“Alright,” Gojo said, tapping his chopsticks against his container. “Before Getou baptizes the evidence with curry, basics first.”
“I don’t spill things,” Getou murmured, assembling his chopsticks with movements almost too elegant for takeout.
“You spilled coffee on my couch last month.”
“It survived.” Getou’s smile had the weary tenderness of a mother humoring a dramatic toddler.
“It’s beige.”
“Not anymore,” Getou replied serenely.
Utahime bit back a laugh as she skimmed the first page of the case file.
A labor dispute. A client refusing to settle. A woman on the opposing end threatening escalation.
The usual human mess—ego, fear, pride all tangled up like loose wires.
She read in silence, fingertips tracing down the page, pausing where sentences felt weighted by things unsaid.
Finally, she murmured, “He’s… not trying to hurt her.”
Both men looked up.
Utahime blinked, suddenly aware she’d spoken aloud. “I mean—the client. He’s digging his heels in, but it doesn’t read like spite. More like… pride. He doesn’t want to look weak in front of her.” She hesitated, then added softly, “They were close once, weren’t they?”
Gojo froze mid-bite.
His gaze snapped to her like she’d just cracked open a safe he’d been prying at all afternoon.
“…Yes,” he said slowly. “They dated. Briefly. That wasn’t in the main file.” He leaned forward. “How did you—?”
“It’s obvious,” she mumbled, cheeks warming. “His wording. The way he insists he’s being ‘reasonable’ but refuses to budge. And the way she argues back… she’s not cold. She’s frustrated. Hurt.”
Getou let out a soft huff of laughter, tinged with quiet melancholy.
“You see people clearly,” he murmured.
Gojo hadn’t stopped staring.
Utahime shifted under the weight of both gazes, pretending to reread the file to hide her face. “I just… write fiction. It’s part of the job.”
“Most people write fiction by projecting themselves,” Getou said. “You’re reading other people instead. That’s a skill.”
Her ears burned hotter.
Gojo leaned back, crossing his long legs under the table, eyes still on her—curious, impressed, and something sharper she couldn’t name.
“You’re wasted on fiction, y’know?”
Her head snapped up. “I like fiction.”
“I didn’t mean it like it’s bad,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Just—your brain works like a cross-examination. You see motives before the evidence.”
“And you see law before humanity,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
Getou choked on his curry. Gojo stared at her.
Utahime slapped both hands over her mouth. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right,” Getou said, wiping his mouth and looking indecently pleased. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”
Gojo pointed a chopstick at her, squinting in theatrical accusation. “This is because you like his whole ‘I’m too zen for this shit’ act, isn’t it?”
“No!” Utahime waved her hands frantically. “I just—said what I saw—”
Gojo’s grin softened—real, warm, unguarded for once.
“Relax,” he said. “You might be right. I look at pain first—because pain has a price.”
Utahime frowned. “That sounds… depressing.”
“That’s law.” He pointed the chopstick at her again, gentler this time. “But you see the emotional root. Which makes the pain make sense.”
A hush fell over the room.
Not awkward—just warm, dense with thought, something new sparking at the edges.
Getou watched them like someone observing a natural phenomenon: lightning searching for a place to strike, and a quiet sky deciding whether to let it.
Finally, he rose and stretched. “I’ll let you two handle the rest. Utahime-san—thank you.” His smile softened. “Your insight helps more than you think.”
Then he turned to Gojo. “Don’t be a dick.”
Gojo gaped. Utahime giggled.
Getou saw himself out with the quiet care of someone who knew the mood was delicate.
The door clicked shut.
Utahime exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath.
Across from her, Gojo nudged the curry closer to her side of the table, wearing a lopsided smile.
“So,” he said, “ready to ruin another legal document with your people-reading superpower?”
She rolled her eyes, trying—and failing—to steady her heartbeat.
“Hand me the next page,” she said.
They leaned in together.
The next few days slipped into a rhythm neither Gojo nor Utahime ever discussed, but both quietly protected.
It always started with a knock.
Always his.
Around eight-thirty or nine, when the hallway was dim and the building had gone quiet enough that footsteps echoed. Utahime no longer flinched at the sound. She still pretended she hadn’t been listening for it.
(She might’ve taken extra time choosing her shirts in the morning. She might’ve even made sure her socks matched. A coat of mascara sometimes. Not that she’d admit it.)
Gojo arrived each time with a bag of takeout—Indian tonight (“the naan looked spongy enough to eat on the way home”), crispy tonkatsu the night before, and once, impossibly, pizza from a tiny Italian place tucked somewhere in a luxury alley he refused to disclose.
Utahime let him in with a small sigh that wasn’t truly annoyed, and he drifted to the balcony like it belonged to him.
Their balcony sessions became… a phenomenon. Not planned. Not formal. More like weather patterns as spring settled in.
Gojo always stole the chair with the best wind, legs stretched out carelessly, sleeves pushed up, looking like he’d been poured into the evening. Utahime claimed she didn’t mind and sat to his right, beer cold and comforting in her hand. The city lights glittered beyond the railing, noisy and familiar like Christmas lights left up too long.
Most nights they talked about the pro bono cases, dissecting motives and strategy. But some nights the conversation shifted—usually when he nudged her about her new draft, wearing that sly, knowing tilt of his head. In retaliation, she demanded courtroom stories. He lied at least half the time. She knew. That might’ve been why she liked hearing them.
Little domestic habits crept in, subtle and uninvited.
One night her pen snapped while she scribbled notes. Without looking away from his laptop, Gojo offered his own—a dark blue lacquer fountain pen, undoubtedly expensive, possibly limited edition. She tried to refuse. He nudged it into her hand anyway.
“It’s just a pen, not my firstborn.”
She blushed harder than a pen ever deserved.
Twice she caught him reading pages of her draft she’d left out on the table. He claimed he was “protecting them from a gust of wind,” despite all the windows being shut when a light spring rain prevented them from sitting outside. She pretended to scold him, but secretly she liked the way he read—curious, intent, almost reverent. Like her words were worth something.
Once, he fell asleep on her sofa, sprawled out like an oversized, unruly cat, one arm thrown over his eyes. She covered him with a cashmere blanket Mei Mei had given her—because even unruly men deserved softness. When he woke, he insisted he “wasn’t asleep, just resting his forensic-processing muscles.” She didn’t argue; she was too busy hiding her smile.
Getou dropped by occasionally and watched them with the expression of someone witnessing a constellation form—slowly, faintly, but unmistakably.
And then there was the moment with the dessert.
He handed her a small box with cake, their fingers brushing. A millisecond. A static spark. Nothing of note.
But Utahime pulled her hand back too quickly, and Gojo stared a second too long.
Warmth pooled in the silence between them. Awkward, unspoken, fragile. Neither found words for it. Neither tried.
Routine settled over the moment like a blanket.
They didn’t mention how they now leaned toward each other instead of away. They didn’t name the thing growing in the quiet spaces—between her sip of beer and his smug bite of pastries, between her shy glances and his steady, lingering ones.
But it grew all the same, nestled in the unremarkable, everyday moments.
And neither of them wanted it to stop.
Utahime had always written best at night.
It was the way things were.
It was past midnight, the balcony door cracked open just enough to let the cool air brush past her ankles and rustle Mostera-sama gently. An empty pastry box was still on the counter from earlier—Gojo had sent some matcha cream buns this time, and she’d pretended she didn’t like them, even though she ate two.
The quiet after he left when they finished “working” always felt too quiet.
She sat at the kitchen counter, opened her laptop, and tried to sink back into her story. The old draft sat on the right side of the screen, the new blank page on the left. She’d meant to revise a chapter she’d already written, maybe tweak a few lines.
Instead, she stared at the cursor blinking, blinking, blinking. A rhythmic move she could almost hear in the back of her head.
Her mind kept drifting back to the way Gojo had leaned over her coffee table tonight, reading the case file she annotated. His hair had fallen into his eyes, and before she could think, her hand reached out to brush it aside—
Except she stopped herself halfway, fingers curling back in.
He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
Utahime groaned, dropped her forehead onto the keyboard, and let the shame turn her ears hot. Why was he equal parts annoying and irresistible?
When she finally straightened, trying to shake the image of him from her mind, her fingers moved on their own. She started typing, anything just to write something.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Her fingers kept moving like they hadn’t in months.
She didn’t look at what she was writing until she stopped to think of a verb. Then she scrolled up.
Her stomach dropped.
There on the screen, in embarrassingly vivid detail, was a new character she’d never planned—a man she described as:
“A presence like electricity—bright but unpredictable, as if you never knew whether he meant to illuminate or burn you. Careless posture, expensive taste, a laugh he pretended not to want to share. Someone who carried warmth the way others carried knives: dangerous, hidden, but irresistible to the foolish. It was his decision whether to burn you to ashes or keep you in the cozy warmth of his presence.”
Utahime froze.
“Oh no.”
She stared at the paragraph like it personally betrayed her.
Like it marched out of her subconscious wearing Gojo’s stupid face.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
She scrolled down—each line worse than the last. A description of how his eyes weren’t cold, just… searching. A note about his hands. A metaphor about storms she would never admit to writing under sane circumstances.
Utahime slammed the laptop shut so quickly the sound startled Monstera-sama.
She stood up, pacing, mortified to her bones.
“I am not— No. I am not writing about him.” She shot at her leafy companion but she could feel the silent judgement.
She opened the laptop again.
Deleted the entire new file.
Opened a fresh document.
Stared at the blank page, cheeks burning.
She glanced toward the balcony, where he had sat just a couple hours earlier, feet up on the railing like he owned the view. She could still hear the smug little hum he made after she admitted one of his legal theories was actually clever.
Utahime closed her eyes.
It didn’t matter. It meant nothing. She had crushes all the time—they just didn’t usually wear expensive coats and eat pastries like they were flirting with them.
“It was just a flustered feeling,” she mumbled to herself firmly. “Just inspiration. Nothing more.”
She took a deep breath, cracked her knuckles, and started typing a brand-new first chapter of her novel—determined, focused, definitely not thinking of him.
Except…
A tiny part of her wondered if he would’ve liked the description.
If he would have teased her for it.
If he would’ve recognized himself immediately.
She slammed her hands on the desk and groaned in despair.
“NO.”
A beat of silence. Then she added, very quietly:
“…Maybe.”
Getou knew something was off the moment Gojo opened the door.
Not curse in the drywall off.
No—Gojo Satoru was smiling. With his whole face. Soft around the eyes, lazy at the mouth, suspiciously… pleased.
A very specific kind of pleased. Relaxed, even. Had Gojo Satoru ever been truly serene in his entire adult life?
Getou narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
Gojo blinked, too quickly. “Like what?”
“Like someone who’s discovered a new source of serotonin. And then purchased the entire inventory.”
“I don’t—what—Suguru, I look perfectly normal.”
“You were humming.”
Gojo froze. “…No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes,” Getou said gently—the exact tone one uses when telling a relative they’ve begun chatting with the houseplants—“you were. And you’ve been rearranging your hair every ten seconds. Which means you’re nervous. Which you don’t do.”
“I’m just… energized.” Gojo huffed. “I went for a run.”
“You hate running.”
“I went for a walk.”
“You hate walking.”
Gojo scowled, which only confirmed everything.
Getou stepped inside, scanning the apartment like clues might be taped to the walls. The slightly reorganized shoes. The faint smell of fresh takeout. And—ah. There it was. A strategically placed pastry box on the counter. Red ribbon, tiny card attached to it.
He set the case file he’d brought down beside it. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Pastries?” he asked.
Gojo did not answer fast enough.
Getou nodded. “Interesting.”
“Don’t say ‘interesting’ like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re diagnosing me.”
Getou folded his arms. “These are for your neighbor, aren’t they? You never got me pastries.”
Gojo sputtered. “Why would I get you pastries?”
“I don’t know,” Getou said calmly. “Maybe because we’ve been friends for twenty years. Maybe because I helped you move. Twice. And once we only had a scooter.”
Gojo threw his arms up. “Suguru, I’m not courting you!”
“Ah,” Getou said, delight blooming across his face. “So you are courting her.”
Gojo went rigid. “No. No! That’s not— It was neighborly! She helped with the case! She almost died in a stir-fry accident, she needed—”
Getou raised a hand. “Satoru. You got her emergency pastries? You willingly saved her?”
“Yes—I mean—No—Ugh!”
Getou’s smile softened, the teasing gentled without disappearing. “You like her.”
Gojo recoiled like he’d been struck by a divine revelation he despised. “I DO NOT.” He stabbed a finger in Getou’s direction like he’d been gravely insulted.
“You do,” Getou repeated, strolling toward the kitchen. “You’ve been smiling since I walked in. And humming. And—oh, look—your apartment is clean. That’s the most damning evidence of all.”
Gojo gasped. “My apartment is always clean.”
“No,” Getou said, opening a cupboard, “your apartment is a minimalist cry for help. This is tidy. This is curated. This is—” he held up a stack of mismatched plates “—you pretending to be a functional adult.” He spotted a lit candle. His sigh was both judgment and affection. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
Gojo snatched the candle and tossed it away like a cat batting a cup off a counter. “Can you stop psychoanalyzing me in my own home?”
“No,” Getou said brightly. “It’s my hobby.”
Gojo groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I just… I like talking to her. She’s funny. And she doesn’t treat me like—” he gestured vaguely to the air “—this.”
“Ah,” Getou murmured, and this time the teasing melted into something warmer. “She treats you like a person.”
Gojo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Getou clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You could do worse.”
“Could I?”
“Oh, definitely. You could date someone who thinks your entire personality is sunglasses.”
Gojo snorted, tension leaking out of him. “You’re an ass.”
“And you,” Getou said, heading for the door, “are in denial. But it’s fine. I’ll wait for your next stage.”
“What stage?”
Getou paused with his hand on the doorknob.
“The one where you pretend you’re not jealous when she talks to literally anyone.”
Gojo went pale. “I’m not jealous!”
“You wouldn’t care if I went to visit her?” Getou wondered, wearing his most obnoxiously serene smile.
“Getou,” Gojo warned.
Which only made Getou chuckle as he stepped out, leisurely and satisfied.
The door shut behind him.
Gojo stood alone in the quiet, staring at the pastry box like it had betrayed him.
“…I do not like her.”
The pastry box disagreed.
Gojo groaned, dragging both hands through his hair until it stood in chaotic white tufts.