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She is still asleep on his chest, her long dark hair slipping down over both of them. Gojo strokes it softly, careful not to disturb her rest. Her cheek is tucked against his sternum and he can feel her soft breaths tickling him. They are warm and rhythmic, and he thinks, with a wry smile, that every part of her is metronomically accurate. There's an integral musicality to her, woven in like she’s made of a special thread. She is, of course, by definition, made of something special. She is a songbird, golden, blessed.
But she doesn't look peaceful now. Instead, even in sleep, there is a curious little frown between her eyebrows. She was like that last night, too, thwarting an expectation and feeling more deeply than Gojo expected. Her eyes filled with tears, even at the peak of it, and it was a marvel to realise he wasn’t out on this limb by himself. She’s so attuned to the thrumming percussion of the world that Gojo is continually surprised that she can't feel his heart beating when he’s around her, the rapid pace a result of her nearness.
Because he has wanted her for a long time.
She knew about it, of course, but some paths are too deeply tread to diverge from. But Utahime knew what his teasing meant, she knew what his attention signified, and she knew, of course, what his deep trust in her was worth. She chose to ignore it, as he half-heartedly did, until last night.
What shifted?
Now, as she lies on his chest, her naked body highlighting his own nakedness wherever they touched, he can't bring himself to care. The past few weeks had been concentrated with her laden proximity while he trained, but they’d not spoken about the flickering desire between them—but then again, they never have. And then, like something unfolding naturally as a bud, it had all changed in the same tacit manner. Last night had been a slow build of touches, an agonising, beautiful shift, where they took their time, learning and appreciating each other's bodies, discovering what brought the most pleasure, the most pain. The most joy.
Her breathing is still regular and deep.
It was a miracle that they had found the time, a gap in the gruelling preparation, for this. The world's orbit had shifted, and they'd stepped off the regular spin of the whole thing. Gojo had followed Utahime along the long hallway, watching her hips sway in her scarlet hakama, knowing what she meant.
Her room, their first kiss, his hands pulling her tight against him, the feel of her body moulded to his, the sweet, sweet taste of her tongue against his, the way her hair had slipped through his fingers when she pulled her ribbon loose, the way she'd whispered his name.
A small gap in the burden of it all.
Gojo traces his finger down the gentle slope of her nose, smiling because she's cute when she frowns. Her makeup is smudged; her lips are softly parted.
She is perfect. A blessing.
Gojo's hand slides up the curve of her waist, and she shifts against him, making a small, contented noise in her throat. He freezes. If she wakes now, he will be forced to face the day, to return to the reality of the task at hand. He imagines a different life where he gets to see her sit up sleepily in bed every morning, a sheet clutched to her front, grumbling at him with the sun in her eyes. He doesn't doubt she's a grouch when she wakes up, the most rumpled little bird, sweet-voiced but rough-tempered.
But he'll never actually know.
His hands continue tracing over her skin, indulgently feeling the warmth of her. Her skin is so smooth, and her body is a soft landscape, a terrain he wants to explore again and again, with his hands and his tongue. He's glad he got to visit once.
Utahime hums something incoherent against his shoulder, and he can't help but smirk. She's cute. She is the most adorable thing he has ever seen, and the way her arms tighten around his torso makes him feel a strange kind of fullness in his chest, something akin to happiness.
Gojo is not used to waking up happy. He is used to waking up in a cold, empty bed, having dreamt of her. He is used to the ache inside his chest when he sees her. It will probably be enough to know she feels something of the same for him.
Because both of them know that this isn't a hello.
Gojo supposes that it might be a thank you, if nothing else. Thank you for being his, just for a moment. Thank you for being someone to come home to in his mind for all these years, for letting him have the fantasy of a future together.
His hands slide down her back, caressing, and he takes a deep breath of her. He has to go. No matter how much he wants to, he can't linger here anymore because he can't let the others wait.
They have a world to save.
With one last kiss to her forehead, Gojo gently slides his way out from underneath her. She frowns, but she doesn't wake. She slips into the warm space he's left.
He watches her sleep while he dresses, wondering if she ever thinks of the same things as he does. When this is finished, maybe he’ll ask her. She’ll have to be up soon, too. They’ll meet again, this time as colleagues, when they go to face the battle they’ve been preparing for. She’ll be with him then, not as his lover, but as his comrade, as she always has been.
Gojo walks towards the door, then turns back impulsively and goes to the bed. He tugs the sheets up, tucking her in, then leans over and leaves a final kiss on her mouth. She is so velvety and warm he can hardly believe she's flesh and blood. He buries his face in her hair one last time.
"Goodbye," he says softly, and then, because he might as well, "I love you."
Then he turns and leaves.
Outside, the sky is brightening, a beautiful pink. There are birds in the ancient shrine trees, songbirds like his own one that he’s left in a cosy bed—the dawn chorus. Gojo watches the sunrise as he walks down the long pathway back to his quarters, his steps sure, his posture relaxed. The plan is set.
He'll win.
And if he doesn't, at least he said goodbye to Utahime.