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“good morning,” gojo’s voice is gruff, those aloof, blinded eyes still managing to see right through you despite the cloth that keeps his swirling blue irises hidden from view. this morning he sounds slightly irritated, his tone more clipped than any other day, and you have the audacity to wonder if maybe he hasn’t had his early morning cup of coffee, or perhaps he’s slept in past his alarm.
you chew on the inner corner of your lip as your fingers brush the top of a creased, white paper bag upon his approach. when your eyes seek him out, slowly soaking in every inch of his languid form, you can’t help the grin that tugs at the corners of your shy mouth. your knuckles pale as you grip the bag, praying to whomever might listen that you won’t drop it like you did the last time.
gojo leans over the counter, his loitering height still prevalent even across the glass case that beholds all of his favorite sweets. his palm encases yours and you feel your pulse thudding obnoxiously in your ears. somehow, you manage to stutter out a brief, “good morning, sensei. your usual?”
even though you phrase it as a question, it isn’t one. gojo has been coming to your cafe for over eight weeks now, making it his new favorite stop for morning pastries or afternoon treats. his first order of the day is the one you are keen to intercept, given your consistent shifts that start before the sunrise peeks out over the horizon and bleeds the valley a peachy orange hue.
and in this repetitious streak, you’ve seared his order into your frontal lobe along with the standard time his boot clad feet grace your threshold. there is not a day that goes by where he does not request the same set of items at the same time of day, beckoning your footsteps closer to the counter to fulfill his craving. it does not take long for you to learn him inside and out, if only because you makes sure that you are the one stood behind the register when his lanky frame shadows the counter, a pale set of fingers rubbing at his jawline indecisively.
gojo clicks his tongue against the back of his incisors, pink muscle tutting soundly, loud enough to make your knees wobble, “am i that predictable, princess?”
you wish so desperately that you could blame the enflamed skin of your cheeks on the heat from the oven, or the early rising sun, but you know that he’d see right through you. the start of a giggle parts your lips and you blink slowly, praying your lashes look as ethereal as you project them. your lower lip disappears once more between the bite of your canines on the left side, words slurring on your tongue until you cannot make sense of the syllables begging to be free of your throat.
“gonna have to put that back, though,” he saves you with his words, however patronizing they may seem. your head tilts and your eyes never leave his gaze, lower lip parted as your tongue hangs heavy against your teeth. gojo licks his lips and his voice reminds you of the batch of buttercream frosting that you started earlier this morning — smooth and sweet.
he reaches a hand across the glass to ghost over the curve of your wrist, thumbprint finding your pulse point with mastered accuracy. the calloused ridges of his finger squeeze just enough for you to question his intentions, “this morning i’d like a chocolate croissant.”
a gasp escapes your lips in a huff, feet stuttering backwards as you clutch the bag like he’s offended your honor, “y-you said—”
“i know what i said,” the smirk on his lips is doing little to quell the fire in your belly. his tongue rolls over the bow of his mouth, the veined underside of the muscle tempting you further, as if he were the proverbial last piece of chocolate that your insatiable appetite just cannot seem to forget. he reels back regardless of the way you follow him, “but i’m changing my mind.”
gojo cannot let you know the real reason why he’s going against those words he first told you when he entered your shop all those months ago. he cannot let you know that he’s a liar, either then or now, just to spend another moment with you. to start, it was cute that you’d memorized his order and had it ready on the days that you were working, but eventually he grew tired of the fondness and begged for something more attentive than your momentary pass of knuckles as he pays for his breakfast. and still, the teasing lilt to his words does not give way to the softening of his heart, not that it were in his wishes for his feelings to be known.
no, gojo knows better than to fall in love.
his job is dangerous, and he is a necessity to the survival of mankind should something evil truly be afoot in the following days. his stomach sours at the thought, but he pushes it aside in favor of watching your face morph into a dozen different expressions prior to settling on something akin to suspicion.
your narrowed eyes hide your glimmering irises from him, only your pupils at liberty for him to see from between your lashes, “gojo, are you—”
“chocolate. croissant. please.”
there is another pause before you throw your hands up in defeat, dragging the crinkled bag away from the counter to reopen it and drop an additional pastry in the bag. you worry your lip as you slide the treat down into the bag, wondering if he has truly changed his mind, or if the sorcerer only lives to watch you squirm. and so your hands shake in the in between, your curious mind and weak heart stuck at a standstill, begging for the truth but too shy to ask for it.
and in the struggle, gojo has a moment to wonder if the white paper has been wrinkled because you fret over it, waiting for him to arrive. he was late this morning, later than he has ever been, and for the first time since he’s stepped boots first into your bakery, he allows his heart to speak louder than his logic and he is perplexed —
are you just as expectant and nervous? does your heart beat wildly in your chest when you see him, as his does for you? is this part of your day that you look forward to, in anticipation?
could this be his chance?
“here you are, sensei,” your voice is meek, eyes slowly reaching his piercing turquoise gaze, a gasp parting your mouth when his blindfold is upturned just enough for you to get a glimpse. the thousands of shades that make up his beautiful orbs do not assist you in pushing him out of your heart, but rather have the opposite effect. now all you want to do is earn the privilege of seeing beneath the black fabric again and again, and maybe forever if he’ll let you.
gojo’s fingers graze your knuckles as he plucks the bag from the counter, lingering seconds longer than what could be considered platonic. and he feels like there is a small sliver of space and time that begs him to tilt his head downward and press a kiss to your hand, to bare his heart in the form of his mouth on your wrist. he’s never been good with vulnerability — he’s not named the strongest sorcerer for nothing — but as the sun rises in the window and gojo’s soul burns a little brighter, he knows that love can’t be as bad as all of the others claim it to be.
for how could this buzzing in his chest mean anything other than something wonderful? and how could the saccharine drip of honey down his spine to pool in his belly have anything to do with something evil? gojo has met curses, faced them in domains and on earthen soil alike, and he knows that you are nothing close to those depths of despair and darkness.
you could never come close.
and so he goes to open his mouth, to beg you for this first chance in the form of a suave set of words strung together with good intentions, but he can barely part his lips before he hears—
“i get off at three.”
his hand closes around yours instead of the paper bag, and the promise of something sweet sits on his lips, poured like powdered sugar snow when he speaks, “i can work with that.”