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Maki’s bed is warm.
The dark blue comforter rested against her clothed legs, allowing her zone out. Even though it was spring, it was still cold outside. At least for Maki. She considered whether or not she was iron-deficient. She briefly remembered Mai having mentioned that to her before. She didn’t remember if it was to her or about her.
She picked at her nails, dried blood making them look dirty. She used her opposite hand to dig at the other, letting the blood flakes fall onto her white fitted sheet. She pretended that she’d clean it properly, but knowing herself, she might just fall asleep like that, picking at her nails to remove the blood until new blood came out.
She considered that for a moment, the idea of sleeping soon. She glanced over at the annoyingly bright red digital clock, showing that it was close to 8 pm. She’d missed dinner. She momentarily scratched her head at that, realizing more blood flakes were falling onto her bed. Gross.
She rubbed her thumb against the comforter, smearing a faint rust-coloured smudge into the fabric before she realized what she was doing. She stopped, stared at it, then pulled her hand back. She thought about how stupid that was. The Zen’in compound was worse. It was just a sheet. She didn’t get why she was so shocked.
Her jacket was still on. She hadn’t taken off her glasses either. They sat crooked on her face, pressing into the bridge of her nose when she leaned back against the headboard. The strap of her cursed tool bag dug into her shoulder. She knew she should put it away. She didn’t. She’d kept it on as she crept into bed, weirdly enough.
The room smelt faintly of antiseptic and dust, like it always did. Jujutsu High never quite shook the feeling of being halfway between a school and a hospital. She wondered, distantly, if that was on purpose.
Her hands ached now that she’d stopped moving. The kind of ache that came after adrenaline wore off, as if her body suddenly remembered it had been pushed too far. She flexed her fingers once, twice. Something tugged uncomfortably in her wrist.
She pulled her knees closer to her chest, letting the comforter fall off her legs, and stared at the wall opposite her bed. There was a small crack near the corner, one she’d never noticed before. She traced it with her eyes, following it up and down like a path. Her breathing slowed.
For a second, just a second, she thought she heard Mai’s voice, sharp and annoyed, telling her she was tracking blood everywhere. The thought hit like a misstep on a staircase. Her chest tightened. She swallowed and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth until the feeling passed.
The clock changed to 8:01.
Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed that were familiar. She recognized the rhythm without thinking about it, the way someone might recognize the weight of someone’s cursed energy even when they were trying to keep it light. They slowed as they passed her door.
Maki didn’t look away from the wall. She didn’t move to lock the door, either.
And so, the door slid open.
“Y’know,” Gojo said, voice light, “there are way more subtle ways to announce you’ve wiped out a whole dang clan.”
Maki didn’t look away from the wall. She could practically hear the smile in the idiot’s voice.
“That being said, you accidentally tracked blood into the building… so,”
Oh.
There was a pause behind her. The door slid shut.
“Wow,” he continued, undeterred as per usual (unfortunately). “Cold shoulder and radio silence. Guess the Zen’in reaaallly took the fun out of you.” He pretended to wipe away a tear, pouting and sniffling dramatically.
She thought, distantly, that if anyone else had said it, she might have thrown something. Or done worse.
Footsteps crossed the room. He wasn’t pretending to not know where she was looking, or what state she was in.
She could feel his presence even without turning, deliberately light, like he’d folded himself smaller so he wouldn’t take up all the air in the room. It was the same way he’d stood in front of the elders when he’d told them the Zen’in didn’t get to decide her fate anymore.
He’d smiled then, too.
Gojo dropped into the chair by her desk, which was right next to her bed, where she sat. He let the chair tip back before catching it lazily. The sound annoyed her, pulled her just enough into the moment that her fingers stopped picking at her nails.
“You missed dinner,” he said with a tsk. “Nanami is taking it very personally. Said something about ‘youths these days’ and sighed so hard I thought he might give himself a stroke, the poor old man.” He finished with a sigh probably as loud as Nanami’s.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the crack in the wall.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
She wondered if he could tell how tired she was. The kind that lived under her skin like her bones had been packed with lead. He probably could. He probably knew as soon as he heard her enter the school, or saw the apparent bloody footprints across Jujutsu High. He was perceptive like that. A weird part of her wondered if Utahime was like that with her students… If Mai ever experienced what she does with Gojo.
Gojo’s head tilted slightly, blindfold angled toward her hands.
“…You’re shedding,” he oh-so helpfully pointed out. “Like a stressed-out lizard.”
Her fingers curled into the comforter before she could stop herself. The fabric bunched under her grip. She felt the dried blood flake free.
Gojo chuckled to himself. “Kidding,” he said, softer. “Bad joke. Sorry, I know, I know.”
The chair legs settled back onto the floor. He leaned forward, forearm resting on his knee. Maki saw in her peripheral view as he scratched his head for a bit. She convinced herself she saw bits of dandruff fall out of his hair. He was wearing his casual clothes. Maki noticed the knees of his grey sweatpants were tinted a reddish-pink.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he went on, pursing his lips slightly. “I already know how it went.” He paused for a bit, nodding to himself, “You’re strong anyway.”
That did it. Her chest tightened, not with pain exactly, but with something hollow. He said it like it was obvious. Like, there never could have been another ending. She wondered if she should feel worse than she did. Because she didn’t.
She wondered if that made her a monster.
Gojo reached out, not touching her, and hooked a finger into the strap of her cursed tool bag. He slid it off her shoulder carefully and set it on the floor against the wooden bed frame.
“There,” he murmured, wiping his hands and sitting back. “You don’t need that right now.”
The pressure lifting from her shoulder made her realize how tense she’d been. Her posture sagged, just slightly; she felt like a building losing a pillar.
He noticed. (Of course he did.)
Gojo exhaled, tapping his fingers against his thighs because the bastard couldn’t stop moving for more than a second. “Okay,” he said. “Next step!”
She waited. Her body felt heavy. The idea of moving seemed… foreign, almost.
“We stand up,” he said cheerfully, holding his hands out like he was speaking to a wild animal. “Very new concept, I know. Feet on the floor. Gravity. All that fun stuff.”
She didn’t move.
Part of her wanted him to stop. Another part was relieved he hadn’t.
“That’s fine,” he added easily. “We’re gonna take it super-duper slow. I’m talking snail pace.”
Snail pace.
Snail pace, Gojo had said.
Something almost like a laugh stirred in her chest. The idea of going slow now, of being careful, felt absurd in a way that didn’t hurt. After everything that had required speed, slowness felt… strange.
Maybe even a little funny?
Gojo still stood and held out his hand, palm up.
Her eyes flicked down to it.
She thought about how many times those hands had pulled her out of things: training, meetings, bloodlines that wanted to own and destroy her. How he’d stood in front of the Zen’in and said, smiling, She’s mine, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She wondered if Mai would have laughed at that. Or rolled her eyes. Or told her she was stupid for trusting him. She wondered if Utahime had said something similar to her when Gojo brought her to Kyoto.
“We’re gonna shower,” Gojo said lightly, bobbing from side to side. “Because you smell like, disgusting, and Shoko will absolutely beat me to death if I let you sleep like this.”
A beat.
“And,” he added, quieter, “‘cause you’re cold.”
She hadn’t realized she was shaking until he said it. She slowly lifted her hand to graze over her other bicep, feeling the not-so-dry blood stick to her uncomfortably. She already had goosebumps.
Slowly, she leaned forward. Her bloodied hand settled into his. Gojo closed his fingers around hers gently, like he was afraid of hurting her.
“That’s my girl,” he said, low and warm.
He helped her to her feet, steadying her when she swayed without commenting on it. He didn’t rush her, didn’t let go until she was fully upright, solid again.
“One step at a time,” he murmured. “I didn’t steal you from a clan just to let you fall apart alone.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t pull her hand away, either.
The bathwater steamed faintly as Maki lowered herself into it.
Shoko guided her down with one hand at her shoulder until the bubbles crept up to Maki’s chest and lapped against her collarbones. Foam clung to her skin in uneven patches, sliding slowly as she settled.
“God,” Shoko said immediately, reaching for a bottle on the counter. “This tub alone is obscene.”
She crouched beside the bath and unscrewed the cap with a sharp twist.
“Do you know how long it took me to clean this place?” She went on, pouring a generous amount of liquid into her palm. “Because someone—” she gestured vaguely, “—decided the infirmary bathroom needed to be ‘vibes-focused’… Whatever the hell that means.” She sighed to herself.
She rubbed her hands together briskly, then reached in and took Maki’s arm, lifting it just enough to scrub along the forearm.
“Bubbles,” Shoko muttered. “Candles. A stupid little wooden stool that serves no medical purpose whatsoever.” She worked methodically, thumbs pressing lightly as she cleaned dried blood from Maki’s skin. “This is a school. For children. Not a spa.”
She dipped her hands back into the water, rinsed them, and reached for Maki’s other arm.
“And the bath products?” Shoko scoffed. “Don’t even get me started.” She groaned at the thought while turning Maki’s wrist gently, angling it to wash around the tender skin without pressing too hard. “There are too many. There is no reason for one man to own this much eucalyptus.”
The bubbles shifted as Shoko leaned closer, scrubbing at a dark smear near Maki’s elbow until it dissolved into pink-tinged foam.
“I found three different kinds of bath salts,” she continued. “Three. And one of them just said ‘Focus’ on the label.” She snorted.
She rinsed the cloth again, wrung it out, and wiped along Maki’s shoulder, then her collarbone, careful around bruises she didn’t comment on.
“And towels,” Shoko said, exasperated. “Why are there so many towels?” She shook her head as she worked. “Big ones. Small ones. Ones that are apparently ‘not for drying.’”
She reached over to the side, grabbed another bottle, and squinted at it.
“Ah, yes,” she read flatly. “‘Midnight Ocean.’” She popped the cap. “He hates the ocean. He complains every time we’re near it.”
She poured a bit into the water anyway, swirling it around Maki’s knees with one hand.
The bubbles multiplied, climbing higher.
Shoko sighed and leaned back on her heels. “I swear, if I ever find the receipt for this shit, I’m billing him.” She reached back in, steadying Maki’s chin with two fingers so she could wipe beneath it. “With interest.”
She rinsed the cloth, then moved behind Maki.
“Hold still,” Shoko said, not unkindly.
She poured water over Maki’s head slowly, fingers combing through to loosen dried blood near her scalp. The foam slid down her back in thin streams.
“You know,” Shoko went on, conversationally, “when I started working here, the only thing in this bathroom was a cracked mirror and a bar of soap.” She scrubbed gently at the base of Maki’s neck. “Now look at it.”
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Luxury. Absolute excess.”
She reached for shampoo, working it between her palms before pressing her fingers into Maki’s hair. Her touch was firm, but careful not to pull.
“He doesn’t even use half of this,” Shoko said. “Just buys it. Hoards it. Like a dragon.” She chuckled at the thought.
She rinsed, then reapplied, massaging in slow circles.
“And the tray,” she added suddenly. “The bath tray is what really gets me.” She leaned back to rinse again. “A tray. For books. Candles. Drinks.”
She huffed a laugh. “Who reads in the bath? That’s how you ruin books.”
She shielded Maki’s eyes as she poured water over her head again, warm streams washing the suds away.
“Honestly,” Shoko sighed, setting the cup aside. “I blame his influence. Someone had to enable this.”
She reached for a towel and pressed it gently against Maki’s shoulders, blotting excess water to prepare for another deep clean of her skin.
“…Geto-sensei,” Maki said quietly, voice steady, “likes baths.”
Shoko stopped. The towel stilled in her hands.
Then she laughed, somewhat short and surprised, the sound breaking free before she could rein it in. She leaned back against the counter, rubbing a hand over her face.
“Of course he does,” she said, exhaling. “That explains everything.”
She looked back at Maki, eyes soft, amused. “You’re a funny kid,” she added, nodding once.
Then she picked the towel back up and went on bathing her, still smiling.
Maki felt her mouth curve upward, just a little.
The kitchen lights were dimmer than the infirmary’s, softer around the edges.
Maki sat on the counter near the sink, legs dangling, freshly changed clothes clinging faintly to her damp skin. Her hair was still smelling like soap. The warmth from the bath lingered, heavy and pleasant in her muscles.
Nanami stood by the microwave across the kitchen, arms crossed as it hummed quietly. He’d traded his usual suit jacket for a soft knit black sweater, the collar of a crisp blue button-down still visible at the neckline. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, watch resting where it always did. Somehow, he still looked like he’d stepped out of a meeting rather than out of his evening.
“You disappeared in the morning, missed dinner,” he said without looking at her. “That tends to worry people.”
The microwave beeped once. He ignored it.
Maki shifted slightly on the counter, palms resting against the cool surface. “Sorry.” She said. She didn’t know what else she could add.
Nanami glanced over to look at her, briefly, before turning back to the machine. He pressed a button. The humming resumed.
“I assumed,” he said evenly, “that if Satoru hadn’t already made a scene, you were either asleep or being forcibly cleaned.”
A pause.
“…I’m guessing it was the latter,” he added.
Maki huffed a short breath through her nose at that.
Nanami opened the microwave and carefully stirred the contents of the bowl before putting it back in. Steam curled upward. Maki could smell the curry even from where she was seated.
“You need to eat,” he continued, tone matter-of-fact. “Not because it will… fix anything. But because your body requires it.”
She nodded once. “Okay.” She didn’t like how curt she was being to him. She also didn’t know how else to respond.
The microwave beeped again after a bit. This time, Nanami took the bowl out, setting it on the table between them. He retrieved a pair of chopsticks from a drawer, paused, then grabbed a spoon as well.
He held it out to her.
Maki accepted it without comment.
“It’s still hot,” Nanami warned.
She took a bite anyway. The warmth spread through her chest, settling somewhere just below her ribs. She hadn’t realized how empty her stomach was until then.
Nanami watched her for half a second, then looked away, picking up a mug from where he was before, and taking a measured sip.
“This wasn’t what I hoped to give you for dinner.” He said, “But the others ate everything I’d made.”
Maki swallowed. “It’s good.”
Nanami nodded, as if that confirmed something. “I’m glad.”
They stood there in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint noise of the spoon scraping against the cardboard bowl.
Nanami set his mug aside and leaned back against the opposite counter, arms loosely folded. His expression was calm but intent, brow faintly furrowed. He spoke again, quieter. “You did what you needed to do.”
She stiffened, just slightly.
He didn’t look at her when he continued. “That does not mean you’re obligated to feel any particular way about it.”
Maki stared into the bowl. The food was simple.
“…Okay,” she said.
Nanami’s gaze softened then, the harshness easing from his features. The lines at the corner of his eyes deepened as he exhaled, something thoughtful and steady settling into his posture.
“Gojo will pretend this is over,” he added dryly. “It is not. That’s fine. Things don’t have to be resolved immediately. You’ll be alright.”
Her grip on the spoon tightened for a moment.
She nodded again, slower this time.
Nanami turned back toward the counter, already beginning to tidy up, but he didn’t tell her to move. Didn’t rush her off the counter or comment on how she sat.
She kept eating.
And for the first time that evening, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.