Archive of Our Own

Collection of the really cool fanart that inspired this fic: https://losingcomposurebynada.carrd.co/

I’ve always hated mornings.

The sun is too bright. The birds are too loud. There are too many people smiling like they mean it, wandering around like the day owes them something. Maybe that’s just part of being seventeen—resenting the world for waking you up in the first place.

Still, I hate mornings a little less when I wake up with Itadori beside me.

He’s still asleep, curled into my side like he hasn’t let go all night. His lips are parted slightly, breath warm against my collarbone, lashes resting soft against his cheek. His hair is a mess in a way that feels distinctly him—untamed, stubborn, impossible to smooth down no matter how many times he tries.

My arm is looped around him, numb from the weight of his big ass head having claimed it sometime in the middle of the night. I should move. I don’t.

When I shift, careful and slow, he responds immediately—arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer like it’s instinct. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I let it happen. I always do.

“For the most powerful curse vessel,” I murmur quietly, more to myself than him, “you’re awfully cuddly in the morning.”

There’s no bite to it. No real teasing.

Not when his warmth is pressed flush against me, not when I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm—strong, alive, undeniable.

Ever since Sukuna ripped it out of his chest, a part of me refuses to forget that sound.

Sometimes the memory replays in my nightmares: the shock, the blood, the way the world went quiet around his body. Every time, it ends the same—with me frozen in place and Itadori buried in the dirt like it’s already over.

Just thinking about it makes my stomach twist.

On the nights we don’t end up in the same bed, I find myself drifting down the hall without meaning to. Checking. Listening. Once, he caught me—half-awake, ear pressed to his chest like I needed proof. He didn’t tease me. Didn’t ask questions. Just shifted to make room and wrapped his arms around me until my breathing slowed.

It’s stupid.

I know it is.

I shouldn’t worry like this. Shouldn’t want to hold him close every night like I can keep the world from taking him again just by staying within reach. Feelings like that aren’t practical. They’re dangerous. They’re not part of being a jujutsu sorcerer.

They’re not something I’m good at.

Which is exactly why whatever this is—whatever keeps me here, counting his breaths, memorizing the weight of him against me—feels like a warning siren going off in my chest.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when he shifts again, finally loosening his grip and rolling onto his other side, facing the wall. The absence hits immediately. The space he leaves behind is colder than it should be.

I don’t reach for him.

Instead, I grab my phone and check the time. Almost ten. We’re supposed to meet Kugisaki in an hour.

Damn it.

I glance back at Itadori, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He looks peaceful like this, unguarded in a way he never lets himself be when he’s awake. I don’t want to ruin it.

But I also don’t want to hear Kugisaki’s mouth when we’re late.

With a quiet sigh, I reach out and shake his shoulder gently. “Wake up,” I whisper. “We have to go.”

He grumbles something incoherent and swats my hand away. I try again, a little firmer this time.

“’Gumi, stop,” he mumbles, burrowing under the covers.

That nickname makes my pulse stutter every single time.

“We have to go, Itadori.” I peel the blanket back just enough—and my fingers brush his cheek.

It’s barely there. An accident. Something he probably doesn’t even feel.

I do.

The urge to touch him again—on purpose—hits fast and sharp, like muscle memory I don’t remember forming.

No.
I’m not going there.

I sit up with a quiet grunt and swing my legs over the side of the bed, putting distance between us before I lose my nerve. Barefoot, I pad toward the bathroom.

If Itadori wants to sleep, fine.

I just need to get out of this room before I do something I won’t be able to take back.

Eventually, he wakes up and gets dressed.

By then, I’ve retreated to my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and tugging my sneakers on when the door creaks open. Itadori doesn’t bother knocking; he never does. He just walks in and immediately flops down on my bed, face-first, like he owns the place.

I turn to tell him to get up—

And stop.

He’s wearing one of my crewnecks.

Heavy fabric. Faded black. The white sword graphic stretched across his back as he moves. It’s unmistakably mine—something he would never pick out for himself, something I didn’t even realize was missing until now.

It fits him a little too well. Snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up his forearms like he did it without thinking. He looks… wrong in it. Or maybe I do.

My brain short-circuits.

Why that one?
Did he grab it at random—or did he choose it because it was mine?
Because it smells like me?

I don’t know why that thought hits as hard as it does. I don’t know why my chest tightens around it.

I tear my gaze away before he can catch me staring.

“Come on,” I say, voice level, like nothing’s wrong. “Kugisaki’s going to rip us a new one if we’re not downtown in—” I glance at my watch and grimace. “—twenty minutes ago.”

He groans and waves a lazy hand in the air. “She can wait five minutes.”

“You know damn well wait isn’t in her vocabulary.”

He rolls onto his back, scrubbing both hands down his face and muttering something under his breath that I don’t bother correcting. For a split second, I consider letting it happen—letting him stay there, stretched out in my bed, wearing my clothes like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The thought is dangerous.

So I stand instead.

I grab his hand and pull him up without warning. He comes easily, no resistance, just a dramatic sigh and an eye roll so exaggerated I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt.

“She’s lucky we like her,” he grumbles.

The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “I like her. You are afraid of her.”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then stops. Thinks better of it. He flicks me in the forehead instead.

“Shut up.”

I don’t respond. I just shake my head and follow him toward the door, the image of him in my crewneck burned behind my eyes.

I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
That it’s just a shirt.
That he could’ve grabbed anything.

But my pulse hasn’t slowed, and I can still feel the weight of his hand in mine—easy, familiar, like he never questioned it.

I hope whatever shopping hell Kugisaki has planned for us doesn’t take long.

Not because I’m in a hurry.

But because I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesn’t matter.

I think I hate shopping more than I hate mornings.

We’ve been in this store for over an hour now, watching Kugisaki model what feels like half the inventory. She emerges from the fitting room again and again like it’s a runway, changing outfits with the confidence of someone who knows she looks good in anything she puts on.

Itadori, of course, is completely on board.

He hovers near the fitting room door, passing her clothes, offering accessories, nodding along enthusiastically at everything she says. If she asks for a belt, he’s already holding two options. If she complains about a zipper, he’s there, ready to help. He agrees with her so easily it’s almost impressive.

I hang back, arms crossed at first—until she decides something is a definite yes and hands it to me.

Then another.

And another.

Now my arms are full, the pile of clothes stacked so high it’s nearly brushing my chin. Fabric slips under my fingers, tags scratching against my wrists. I adjust my grip, already resigned to my fate.

“Alright, boys,” Nobara announces, ducking back behind the curtain. “Last one.”

I don’t believe her for a second.

She steps out a moment later in a navy-blue dress—thin straps, fitted just enough to show off her curves, hem hitting mid-thigh. She turns slowly, arms spread, expectant.

Itadori reacts instantly, like always.

“It looks good,” he says, stepping closer. He reaches out without hesitation, adjusting one of the straps, careful fingers brushing the dip of her waist. “Material’s kinda weird, and it’s a little short, but yeah. You look nice.”

Nobara groans, throwing her head back. “I’m not trying to look nice,” she says. “I want to look hot.”

“You do,” I say flatly.

She whips toward me, delighted. “Thank you.”

Itadori rubs the back of his neck, already retreating a step, eyes dropping out of what I know is pure reflex—respectful, careful. And then, just for a second, his gaze lifts.

It lands on me.

There’s no teasing in it. No nerves, either. Just something soft and unfocused, like he’d been looking without realizing it, like his body noticed me before his brain caught up.

The world narrows to that moment.

I don’t look away.

Then the door slides shut behind Nobara with a sharp clack, and whatever it was breaks. Itadori blinks, clears his throat, and turns away like nothing happened.

Except I see it.

The pink dusting the tips of his ears. The way his shoulders tense, just slightly.

My stomach flips, traitorous and warm.

Get a grip, damn it...

Eventually, Nobara emerges for the last time and heads straight for the register, empty-handed like always. We follow behind her, weighed down with bags and folded clothes and things she absolutely does not need.

When the total flashes on the screen, Itadori doesn’t even hesitate.

“Here,” he says easily, already pulling out his wallet. He hands over a hundred like this is routine, like it doesn’t matter.

Something about that—his certainty, his quiet generosity—hits me square in the chest. Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling out my own wallet and covering the rest.

Nobara’s face lights up.

She hooks her arms around both of us in a quick, fierce hug. “Thank you, boys.”

“Of course,” Itadori and I say in unison.

I glance at him—and he’s already looking at me.

This time, he notices. His eyes widen a fraction before he looks away too quickly, reaching for the bags like they’ve suddenly become very important.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t, with Nobara already looping her arm through mine and steering me out of the store, chattering excitedly about some celebrity scandal I couldn’t care less about.

But even as I walk, I’m acutely aware of him beside me.

Of the space he keeps just close enough to brush my arm.

Of the feeling settling in my chest, quiet, steady, and impossible to ignore.

I don’t think I’m imagining it anymore.

And that thought stays with me as we step out into the afternoon light.

For a while, the three of us just drift down the sidewalk—Nobara on my left, Itadori on my right.

She keeps talking, animated as ever, launching into a rant about something Jennifer Lawrence did in a recent commercial. I only half listen. Itadori doesn’t even try to hide his interest; his eyes light up immediately, full attention on her, nodding along like this is the most fascinating thing he’s heard all day.

Something sharp and irrational twists in my chest.

I grit my teeth and shove my hands deeper into my pockets, focusing on the rhythm of my steps instead.

We turn a corner, and the air shifts—warm, fragrant, heavy with spices. The smell hits all of us at once, unmistakable.

Our favorite food truck.

As if on cue, all three of our stomachs growl loud enough to be embarrassing. None of us comments on it. We just exchange looks and veer toward the window like it was always the plan.

The elderly couple inside recognizes us immediately.

“Fushiguro! Kugisaki! Itadori!” the woman calls out, beaming. “It’s been a while! How have you been?”

“We’re doing alright,” Itadori answers easily, smiling back.

Kugisaki and I echo it, polite and familiar. The woman turns to shout our orders to her husband without even asking. We used to come here so often they memorized everything—still have, apparently. I’m not sure why that surprises me.

The food comes fast. We settle onto a nearby bench, bowls steaming in our hands, slipping back into comfortable silence as we eat.

It should be normal.

It almost is.

Except I can feel it.

Feel him. 

He’s watching me. Not staring, not exactly. Not in the obvious ways. Just glances, quick and careful, like he thinks I won’t notice. Like he’s looking without meaning to.

But I do notice.

Because I’m doing the same thing.

His grip on the bowl is too tight. His knee bounces faintly, barely enough to see. His ears are pink, cheeks flushed, eyes wide whenever they flick up—only to dart away again the second I catch them.

He looks… embarrassed. Like he’s ashamed of being caught looking. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that someone noticed.

I want to ask him why. What he’s looking at. Why he won’t meet my eyes. Why my chest feels too tight when he looks away.

But I don’t. Because asking would make it worse. He’d deflect, crack a joke, pretend it’s nothing.

And it’s not nothing.

We both know it.

Apparently, Nobara does too.

She sets her bowl aside with a soft clack and stands, stepping directly in front of us.

“What is with you two?”

The question lands heavy.

Yuji freezes instantly, throat bobbing when he swallows. “What…?” His voice comes out quieter than usual, unsure. “What are you talking about?”

“You keep looking at each other,” she says bluntly, eyes flicking between us. “You have been all day. So what’s up?”

For one awful second, Itadori and I look at each other.

Really look.

My face burns. My pulse stutters. The air feels too thick to breathe through.

I force myself to look away first, back to Nobara, who’s standing there with her hands on her hips and that smug little smirk, like we just confirmed everything.

I shrug, aiming for casual. Missing it entirely. “Nothing’s up.”

She snorts. “Bullshit.”

“Nothing’s. Up,” I repeat, sharper now. “Is it illegal to look at each other?”

“No, but he—” She points at Itadori. He drops his gaze immediately, shoulders curling inward, eyes fixed on his bowl like it personally betrayed him. “—has been giving you the most obvious, sweet, flirty eyes since the first shoe store,” she finishes. “Hours ago.”

My jaw locks, tight enough that I might crack a tooth.

I hate that she noticed. Hate that she dragged it into the open, ripped it out of whatever quiet, unspoken place it belonged. Because what if it wasn’t about me? What if he was just staring into space, or at someone behind me, or literally anything else?

What if I’m wrong?

Before I can tell her to drop it—to stop before she makes it worse—Itadori speaks.

“He’s right,” he says. “Nothing’s up.”

We both turn to him.

It’s like watching him flip a switch. His easy smile is back, eyes bright, posture relaxed. The flush on his skin could be blamed on the weather, the food, anything.

Nobara’s eye twitches. She looks like she wants to push, to interrogate us until one of us cracks. Instead, she exhales slowly and sits back down, pulling her phone from her purse.

“You two are ridiculous,” she mutters.

Yuji laughs, soft and easy, like the moment never happened.

I roll my eyes, swallowing the curse lodged in my throat.

But her words echo anyway.

Every glance. Every moment. Every time I caught him looking when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

She’s right. He’s been watching me for hours. And the worst part?

I don’t think he even realizes it.

…God, I hate when she’s right.

By the time we make it back to campus, the sky is washed in soft streaks of pink and violet, the last warmth of the day bleeding out of the air. The chill settles in slow and deliberate, like it’s reminding us that evening has arrived whether we’re ready for it or not.

Kugisaki marches ahead of us like royalty, arms empty, chin high, while Itadori and I trail behind her, each weighed down with shopping bags. She makes a show of directing us toward her dorm—pointing, ordering, completely unashamed—and Itadori just laughs and goes along with it like this is exactly where he wants to be.

He never complains.
Never hesitates.

He’ll carry her bags, hold doors open, walk at the pace of whoever’s slowest without even thinking about it. He does it for all of us. Quietly. Reliably. Like it’s instinct.

It’s one of the things I like about him.

The thought hits too easily, slips into place without resistance, and I have to blink hard to shake it loose. He’s already taken up enough space in my head today. I don’t need to invite him back in when I’m supposed to be focused on shoving Kugisaki’s new clothes into an already overstuffed closet.

I turn toward the wardrobe, doing exactly that—folding, stacking, hanging—anything to keep my hands busy. The last three shirts end up on hangers, and I lift them toward the top rack, immediately realizing it’s a mistake. The bar sits just out of reach. I stretch up onto my toes, arms starting to burn as I try to angle the hooks just right.

Almost.
Just a little—

Warm fingers brush against mine, steady and sure, and the hangers are gently taken from my grasp.

My breath stutters before I can stop it.

I nearly step back into him as Itadori reaches past me, effortlessly lifting the shirts and hanging them where I couldn’t. He’s close—too close—and for a split second, all I can register is heat and the solid presence at my back. 

“What are you—” I start, glancing over my shoulder.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just makes sure the shirts are secure, that nothing’s slipped or fallen, before he steps back and gives me space again. Like he knew exactly when to retreat.

“I finished with the shoes,” he says easily, like it’s nothing. “And it looked like you needed help.”

Casual.

He sounds casual.

But nothing about today feels casual.

I can still feel where he was standing, the echo of warmth lingering along my spine. It takes more effort than I’d ever admit to not lean back into that space, to not let myself rest there just for a second longer.

I scrub a hand through my hair and turn away before my thoughts can get worse, directing my attention to Kugisaki instead. She’s sprawled across her bed—compact mirror in one hand, lipstick poised in the other.

“Any other tasks for us, your highness?” I ask dryly.

She doesn’t even bother looking up. “No, Sir Grump. Your service is appreciated.” She caps the lipstick and tosses it aside like punctuation.

Itadori lights up instantly. “Great!”

Before I can brace myself, his arm slings around my shoulders and he leans into me with his full weight, comfortable and unthinking. I don’t push him off, but I do shift my stance so we don’t topple over. My body adjusts automatically, like it’s learned him by heart.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks, hopeful and bright.

We have completely different tastes.

He likes things that are loud, colorful—big emotions, bigger explosions. Sci-fi that doesn’t make sense until the third act. Comedies with too much energy. That bizarre Human Earthworm movie he never shuts up about.

I like things slower. Darker. Stories that sit heavy in your chest and don’t offer easy answers. The kind that makes your pulse spike without warning, that lingers long after the screen goes black.

But when he looks at me like that—eyes wide, smile soft, waiting—I don’t even try to fight it.

I fold like damn laundry.

With a quiet sigh, I nod once, already bracing myself for more time. More proximity. More thinking.

“Sure, Itadori.”

His grin turns triumphant as he steers me toward the door, out into the hallway.

And as the door clicks shut behind us, the day finally slows, leaving me alone with the knowledge that whatever’s been building in my chest isn’t going anywhere.

We make a pit stop in the kitchen first, which immediately turns into Itadori ransacking every cabinet in sight. Popcorn. Chips. Pocky sticks. Soda. Anything with enough sugar or salt to qualify as a health hazard ends up cradled in his arms.

All of it for him.

I grab a single water bottle and press my palm lightly to his back, nudging him toward the door before he can grab more. “That’s enough,” I say. “What are we even watching?”

He adjusts his grip on the pile of snacks and shrugs, trying—and failing—to look casual. “Thought you could pick,” he says. “Since you hate Human Earthworm.”

“I don’t hate it,” I lie automatically. Then, after a beat, “How about Hereditary?”

I glance at him just in time to see his shoulders tense, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He hesitates, just barely, but then he nods anyway, like he’s bracing for impact.

I don’t bother hiding my smile.

I bump his elbow as we step into the darkened common room. “Relax, Itadori. It’s not that scary.”

He dumps the snacks onto the table a little too forcefully and shoots me a look over his shoulder. “That’s what you said when you picked last time. And you were wrong.”

“You screamed first,” I remind him.

“That’s because it was terrifying!”

I just hum and drop onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs. He follows, sitting close enough that our knees almost touch, remote clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Once the movie starts, he sets it aside and offers me the popcorn without looking.

I take it and wedge it into the narrow space between us. “There,” I murmur. “So we both can reach.”

He nods, eyes locked on the screen, jaw already tense.

For a while, we just… exist like that. The movie plays. Snacks disappear. I feel him flinch beside me more than once, his body reacting before he can stop it. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at me, like he’s checking whether it’s okay to be scared.

I don’t react. I’ve seen this movie enough times that nothing surprises me anymore.

Then the tension ramps up—the sound design sharp, the imagery ugly and unrelenting—and Itadori jolts hard enough that he grabs my forearm. His fingers dig in, instinctive and desperate, like he’s anchoring himself to something solid.

I freeze.

Not because I’m startled—but because he chose me.

Something worse flashes across the screen, but I don’t see it. I’m already looking at him.

He’s curled in on himself now, knees tucked up, sweatshirt pulled over half his face. His eyes are wide, breath shallow. He tightens his grip like he might actually fall if he lets go.

When he finally loosens his hold, I don’t move away. Instead, I shift closer, drawing the blanket over both of us. He doesn’t look at me, but his shoulder nudges mine. Then his knee. Inch by inch, like he’s testing the space between us.

A part of me wants to do more. To pull him in fully. To put my arm around him without pretending it’s accidental.

I don’t. Not yet.

I keep my eyes on the screen, even though all I can really feel is the warmth seeping into my side.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. I’m not sure.

Then he leans into me properly, head settling against my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. This time, I don’t hesitate. I wrap an arm around him, drawing him close. He’s still tense, but when I adjust, guiding him just a little closer, his body eases. Not fully. But enough.

Enough that my chest tightens.

The popcorn is in his lap now—I have no idea when that happened—and I reach over to grab a handful.

He does the same.

Our fingers brush, almost lace together, and I don’t pull back. I barely even register it, except for the way my pulse stumbles.

Yuji, on the other hand, jerks away like he’s been shocked.

“Sorry,” he blurts, sitting up too fast. He holds the bag out to me like a peace offering, cheeks already warm. “I—my bad.”

I raise a brow and calmly take some popcorn. “It’s fine.”

But I see it. The flush creeping up his neck, coloring his ears even in the low light. The way he won’t quite look at me.

That’s not just fear.

There’s no way he’s flustered over something like that. He’s just worked up. Adrenaline spiked from the movie.

Right?

The excuse feels thin the second it forms.

Still, I turn back to the screen, letting the horror unfold, even as the memory of his hand lingers—warm, uncertain, real.

And somewhere between the screams and the shadows, something in my chest settles.

This wasn’t an accident.

And I don’t think I want it to be.

I don’t know what it is.

Maybe I’m finally losing it. Maybe it’s the way silence with Itadori never feels heavy, never presses in on my ears or makes me want to escape. Or maybe I’ve just gotten too comfortable, let myself forget what vigilance feels like.

Whatever it is, something warm curls in my chest at the simple fact that I can just… exist with him.

I turn the page in my book, pretending my thoughts aren’t knotting themselves tighter with every passing second. I haven’t absorbed a single word in the last three pages. I doubt he’s noticed.

He’s sprawled across his bed—one arm tucked lazily behind his head, one knee bent, phone held loosely in his other hand as he plays some mindless game. He looks completely at ease, like this is where he’s meant to be.

Usually, our silence is easy. Familiar. Something I look forward to.

Now it feels different.

Not unbearable, but charged. Like the air before a storm I don’t know how to brace for. There’s been a tension coiled in my chest all day, tightening little by little, and it’s all because of him. Because I don’t know what to do with this feeling, or when it started, or how it got this far without me stopping it.

No.
I know exactly where it came from.

I just don’t want to say it. Don’t want to give it a name and make it real. I’d rather take on a hundred cursed spirits than admit I’m in over my head over something this… human.

I glance at him—just once.

He’s already looking at me.

Neither of us says anything. We just hold the moment, suspended, like if either of us breathes too hard it’ll shatter. It stretches long enough to make my pulse pick up, long enough for me to wonder if he can hear it.

Then he looks away, attention returning to his phone like nothing happened.

I blink, thrown, and look back down at my book. I don’t remember closing it. I don’t remember opening it again either.

Time passes strangely after that.

When he finally moves, it’s sudden—sliding off the bed and stepping into my space just to poke me in the forehead, dead center. I swat his hand away on instinct, narrowing my eyes.

“What?” I ask.

He just grins and pokes me again, retreating before I can grab him. “I’m gonna make tea. Want some?”

“Uh, sure.” I close my book and stand, setting it aside on the desk.

He stops me with a hand pressed lightly against my chest.

“I’ll bring it to you,” he says, that lopsided smile soft and familiar and unfair. “Black with one sugar, right?”

The words land heavier than they should.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

I don’t remember telling him that.

He doesn’t wait for me to ask. Just nods to himself and turns on his heel, disappearing down the hall like this is nothing. Like it’s normal. Like taking care of me is just another thing he does without thinking.

I stare at the doorway long after he’s gone.

My chest feels tight. My stomach twists. My thoughts scatter in every direction at once.

He was making tea for himself anyway.
It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

I need to pull it together.

He’s just being a good friend, like always. I shouldn’t be spiraling over something as small as tea. I shouldn’t be cataloguing every look, every touch, every near-miss like they’re evidence in a case I don’t want to solve.

But it’s not just tea.

He’s still wearing my crewneck.
He leaned against me during the movie like it was second nature.
I caught him staring more than once at the mall—quick looks, soft ones, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

I don’t let people wear my clothes. I don’t let them touch me without asking. I don’t even like being looked at for too long. Those are rules I set early and keep religiously.

Except with him.

Itadori has me breaking my own rules, and somehow, I don’t resent it. That realization alone is unsettling.

I sit back down in my chair and pick my book up again, even though I have no idea what page I’m on. The words blur together, meaningless. I force myself to keep my eyes on them anyway, like if I concentrate hard enough, I can drown out the lingering warmth where his hand pressed against my chest.

When he comes back, I hear him before I see him—the soft scuff of his socks against the floor. He sets the mug down in front of me carefully, like it matters where it lands, then perches on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” I say. It comes out quieter than I intend.

“No problem.”

I nod and turn back to my book, pretending the flutter in my stomach has nothing to do with him and everything to do with caffeine.

The silence stretches again, thick and expectant.

“You know what’s funny?” Itadori says.

I hum in response, eyes still on the page. I can’t look at him yet. I’m not sure what I’ll see if I do.

“What Kugisaki said earlier—about us.” He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether to keep going. “She’s not the first person to think that something was up between us.”

That does it.

I look up.

He’s staring into his mug like it might give him the courage he’s missing, shoulders tense despite how casual he’s trying to sound.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder, deliberately careless. “Just… other people have mentioned it. The looks. How close we are. How we’re always together.” A soft laugh slips out—too quick, too practiced. “I heard Maki tell Yuta once that I was basically your house husband.”

My ears feel hot, but I school my expression. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. “Totally ridiculous.”

He takes a long sip, then flicks his eyes up at me before looking away just as fast. I catch it anyway—the flicker of nerves he’s bad at hiding.

“But I don’t really mind,” he adds. “The jokes, I mean. About us being practically married.” Another laugh, louder this time, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I mean—you’re my best friend. Of course we’re always gonna be together… right?”

The way his voice drops on that last word twists something sharp in my chest.

Any other day, I would’ve answered without thinking. Of course. Obviously. It wouldn’t even be a question.

But this isn’t any other day.

His leg is bouncing now, just barely. He only does that when he’s waiting for something he doesn’t want to ask for. Just like he did at the food truck. His hands are wrapped too tightly around the mug, knuckles pale, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He doesn’t say anything else.

The silence stretches thin between us, taut as wire.

And then it clicks.

Oh.

This isn’t about Nobara.

It’s not about the jokes or what anyone else sees.

It’s about the space between us.

About the thing we’ve been orbiting without naming—because naming it would make it real.

He wants to know if he’s imagining it.
If he’s alone in this.

Not directly. Not with words.
Just… confirmation.

He’s not imagining it.

I swallow.

My hands are folded neatly in my lap. I know what I look like from the outside—composed, controlled, steady as ever. Inside, my heart is slamming against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

Because what if I’m wrong?

What if this is just Itadori being Itadori—open, affectionate, too kind for his own good—and I’m about to ruin the one thing we’ve never had to question? What if he laughs it off? What if he lets me, but regrets it afterward?

What if I don’t know how to do this right?

I’ve faced curses that could tear me apart without blinking. This is worse. So much worse.

When he finally looks at me, there’s something hopeful in his eyes he’s trying desperately to hide—like he’s already preparing himself for disappointment.

I realize then that I’ve been answering him all along. Just never in a way he could be sure of.

Sitting too close. Staying over. Memorizing his ridiculous fast-food orders. Letting my shoulder brush his and not pulling away.

I’ve been careful.

Too careful.

I didn’t want anyone questioning my judgment. Didn’t want them thinking I’d grown attached enough to compromise a mission. Didn’t want to admit—to myself or anyone else—that there’s always the possibility he could die again.

And I know I wouldn’t survive it.

But worse than that, I didn’t want to lead him on.

It’s only recently that I’ve let myself be honest about how I feel, and even more recently that I’ve understood how much those feelings terrify me. I tried to keep things neutral before. Professional. Safe.

Now I show up for him in a hundred small ways I can’t seem to stop.

And if I don’t do something now, he’ll keep wondering.

And I’ll keep letting him.

I take a breath—slow, measured. The kind I use before making a decision I can’t take back.

Then I stand.

Yuji stills immediately, like he felt it coming. His shoulders tense, his eyes tracking me as I take a step toward him.

Another step. He straightens his spine without meaning to. One last step, and I’m standing between his knees.

Neither of us says anything.

He looks up at me with wide eyes, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, like he’s afraid this will disappear if he blinks. A faint flush has already crept up his neck, peeking out from the collar of his—no, my—crewneck. The sight tugs something warm loose in my chest, and I don’t bother hiding my smile.

Carefully, I reach out and peel the mug from his hands. His fingers cling to it for half a second longer than necessary before letting go. I set it on the nightstand.

“Megumi—” he starts, voice thin.

“Shh.”

I hook a finger beneath his chin, gentle but sure, tipping his face up toward mine. He goes still, breath hitching.

The first kiss is barely there—a soft brush of lips, tentative, like I’m asking a question without words.

His answer comes instantly.

His fingers curl into the hem of my shirt, like instinct took over before nerves could stop him. The contact makes my chest ease, and I lean in again.

The second kiss is slower. More certain. Still gentle, still restrained, but no longer hesitant. When he tugs at my shirt, I close the distance without thinking, letting the moment settle where it wants to.

For the first time all day—maybe in weeks—my chest feels light. My mind is quiet, my thoughts finally still. Even my pulse has settled, beating in its usual, steady rhythm.

When I pull back and rest my hand against Yuji’s chest, the contrast is immediate.

His heart is racing, fast and uneven, like it’s trying to outrun something.

He keeps his eyes closed a second longer, breath catching on the way out. When he finally looks at me, I see it—blown-out pupils, red creeping up his cheeks, the stunned disbelief he’s not even trying to hide.

The realization hits hard.

Oh.

This is new for him.

Everything about him gives it away—the trembling hands, the way his breathing hasn’t caught up yet, the careful stillness like he’s afraid to move and break something.

And all of it is because of me.

It wasn’t my first kiss. That happened years ago, with someone whose name I barely remember. Same with the two after that. They didn’t mean anything. They were just something to do. Something that passed the time.

This doesn’t feel like that.

This feels… intentional. Like something I chose. Like something I want to keep.

The thought makes my chest tighten.

I fight the urge to lean in again. That would probably send him into cardiac arrest.

“Breathe,” I murmur, thumb brushing gently along his jaw.

“Trying,” he says, voice soft and unsteady.

I don’t laugh. I don’t tease him for it. Instead, I rest my forehead against his, eyes closing as I let the closeness settle.

His hand shifts, loosening its grip on my shirt and hovering for a second before settling at my waist. The touch is careful, hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

It’s… endearing.

I place my hand over his, pressing it more firmly against my side. A quiet reassurance. Permission, without words.

He exhales shakily.

Then he pulls me closer.

He tilts his head and kisses me again. It’s clumsy this time—our noses bump, his grip tightens like he’s bracing himself. I can practically feel the apology forming in his chest.

So I adjust, slow and deliberate, deepening the kiss just enough to steal the thought away. My fingers slip into his hair, not to guide, not to pull. Just to keep him there. Anchored.

He relaxes gradually, tension melting out of him as he settles into the moment. Into me.

Time blurs. I lose track of how long we stay like that—pausing only when we have to breathe, lingering like neither of us wants to be the first to pull away. He tastes faintly of mint, something sweet underneath it that’s unmistakably Yuji. It makes my head spin.

I brace one knee on the bed for balance. His hands slide to my hips, steadying me without thinking. I smile against his mouth and rest my other hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing lightly along his neck.

“Megumi,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at me.

A spark of anxiety flares in my chest.

Is this where he stops me?
Is this where he panics?
Is he worried I expect something more?

I don’t. Not right now. This—holding him, kissing him, choosing this—is more than enough.

I don’t let any of that show. I just meet his gaze and wait, even as my eyes betray me by flicking to his mouth.

Twice.

“Are you sure about this…?” he asks quietly. His throat bobs when he swallows. “Because Gojo and Geto won’t care. And Kugisaki won’t either. But if the admins find out—”

I cup his cheeks, firm enough to stop him mid-spiral.

“Yuji,” I say gently, steady as I feel. “Slow down.”

He freezes, listening.

“We don’t even know what this is yet. We don’t have to label it.” I keep my voice calm, grounding. “And no one else needs to know. We’ll keep doing our jobs. We’ll keep working together. Nothing about that changes. No one gets to decide this for us. Okay?”

He searches my face like he’s looking for cracks. For doubt.

I give him none.

Finally, he nods.

Only then do I let go and take a small step back. The worry flashes across his face immediately—but I soften it with a small, reassuring smile.

“Lay down,” I say.

He does, instantly.

Once he’s settled under the covers, I crawl in beside him and open my arms. He grabs my waist like he was waiting for the invitation, pulling me flush against him and burying his face into the curve of my neck.

“You’re staying, right?” he murmurs, voice already thick with sleep.

“Yeah.” I press a soft kiss to his temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That seems to be all he needs.

He hums quietly and gives me a gentle squeeze. One of my hands comes up to cradle the back of his head, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. The other rests against his back, holding him there.

Time passes. I’m not sure how much.

Gradually, his body loosens completely—breathing evening out, weight settling into me like he finally feels safe enough to rest. It always surprises me how easily he falls asleep.

I press another kiss to his temple. Then his forehead.

Then I close my eyes.

I don’t sleep—not yet.

I just listen to him breathe. Feel his chest rise and fall. Feel his heart steady beneath my hand. The same quiet proof I always look for when night falls.

That he’s here.
Warm.
Alive.

Mine.

Even if I’m not sure what that means yet.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I woke up.

Maybe for yesterday to have been a dream, something my mind had fabricated after too many long days and too little sleep. Or for Sukuna to be standing on the opposite side of the room, wearing Yuji’s face and looking at me like I’d done something unforgivable.

But it wasn’t a dream.
And Yuji’s still Yuji.

And he’s already awake.

My eyes aren’t open yet, but I can tell. I always can. His body is stiff beneath my arm, muscles tense like they’re braced for impact. His breathing is shallow, uneven, too careful. His arm is still hooked around my waist, but there’s distance there now, a few inches he’s deliberately put between us. Like he’s afraid of being seen. Or worse—of wanting this too much.

“…Yuji?” I murmur, voice rough and unpolished with sleep.

He doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. But his fingers tighten in the fabric of my shirt, knuckles pressing briefly into my side before easing again.

“You awake?”

“—Yeah,” he whispers, barely audible.

I hum softly, still halfway under, and tighten my hold on him just a little, enough to be felt. Enough to ground. My lips brush against his hair without me really thinking about it, a light kiss pressed into the crown of his head like it’s already muscle memory.

“You okay?”

The pause that follows is subtle. Anyone else might’ve missed it. I don’t.

“I—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Yeah. I’m just—uh—thinking.”

Of course he is.

“Mmn.” I let my eyes stay closed. “Too early for that.”

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, thin but real, and I feel my mouth curve despite myself. He shifts, pulling back just enough to look at me. I let him go without resistance, even though part of me already misses the weight of him pressed close.

His eyes are wide, bright with something fragile—wonder, disbelief, a little fear. His cheeks are still soft with sleep, a faint crease on the right one where it had been pressed against me for hours. He looks unguarded like this. Open in a way the world doesn’t usually allow him to be.

It’s moments like these that make mornings tolerable. Seeing him before the day can take its first swing.

“You stayed,” he blurts.

That gives me pause. I open my eyes fully and lift a brow. “I said I would.”

“I know, I just—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing into a thin line. My gaze drifts there without permission, lingers longer than it should. “I thought you’d wake up and think it was weird. Or a mistake. Or—”

I exhale slowly and shift closer, resting my forehead against his before he can spiral any further. My hand slides down, settling at the dip of his waist, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded arcs into his side.

He’s going to ruin me if he keeps worrying like this.

“Yuji,” I say quietly. “I don’t do things like that by accident.”

He freezes. Just for a second.

“You don’t… regret it?”

The question hits harder than it should. My brows knit together, a small frown forming before I can stop it. The fact that he even has to ask splinters something in my chest—because I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

“No,” I say simply.

Then, softer, because it matters, “Do you?”

I hold my breath. I don’t mean to, but I do. Because even if we went back to training and missions and our usual rhythm—if we pretended this never happened—it wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be. And I don’t think I could survive pretending otherwise.

Thankfully, his answer comes without hesitation.

“No,” he says. “Never.”

Relief loosens something deep in my chest. A small, genuine smile finds its way to my lips. I press a soft kiss to his forehead—sleepy, unguarded—then another to his temple.

“Good,” I murmur. “Then relax.”

I pull him back against me and close my eyes again, tucking his head beneath my chin, arm firm and steady around him. He settles immediately, like his body’s been waiting for permission, leg hooking with mine, breath warm against my neck.

The tension drains out of him in seconds.

Out of both of us.

I don’t want him questioning this—questioning us. Labels or not. I don’t act on impulse; I never have. I chose this. I chose him. And if it meant walking through hell to make the same choice again, I would.

Because he’s worth it.

All of it.

By the time I wake up again, the late-morning sun has fully claimed the sky, warm light filtering faintly through the blinds. The campus is awake now. I can hear distant footsteps, muffled voices, the low hum of a place that never really rests.

I blink slowly, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

And then I freeze.

Because I shouldn’t be able to move like this. My arm comes away too easily. I roll onto my back without resistance. There’s no weight against me, no warmth tucked under my chin.

My pulse stutters.

I turn my head to the left. The space beside me is empty, sheets rumpled but cold where Yuji had been. I sit up fully, scanning the room. The door is closed. The lights are still off. The blinds haven’t been touched.

Where the hell did he go?

As if summoned by the thought, the door opens.

Yuji walks in with his hair damp, towel-dried but still wild, humming something off-key under his breath. A pink T-shirt is slung over his bare shoulder, and my black crewneck hangs loose in his hand. He doesn’t notice me at all. Just pads across the room, tosses the crewneck into his hamper like it’s second nature, and pulls the shirt on over his head.

Then he turns—and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hey,” I say, unable to hide the faint amusement in my voice.

“Uh—hi.” He laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did I wake you? I tried to get back before you—”

I wave him off. “It’s okay, Itadori. You didn’t wake me.”

He hesitates anyway, like he’s still debating whether he messed up somehow. Then, apparently deciding he hasn’t, he pulls the covers back and climbs onto the bed.

He settles between my legs without asking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s always done this. Like he’s meant to be there.

I don’t stop him.

I tug the blankets back around us and shift slightly so he can rest his head against my chest. He relaxes immediately, a quiet sigh slipping out of him like he didn’t realize how tense he’d been until just now.

He reaches for my hand, threading our palms together loosely. He turns them over, studying them with the same quiet curiosity he’s always had. My hands are slimmer, lighter. His are bigger, rougher, carrying the faint marks of training and battle.

But this time it’s different.

It doesn’t feel like comparison. It feels like reverence.

Then he does something completely unfair.

Yuji laces our fingers together properly, gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and lifts it to his mouth. His lips brush against my knuckles, slow and careful, pressing soft kisses over scarred skin like each one means something.

My face heats instantly.

I’m acutely aware of the fact that he can’t see me right now. Thank every curse in existence for that.

Like he hasn’t just short-circuited me with a single gesture, he lets my hand go and tips his head back to look at me, eyes bright and mischievous.

“Wow,” he says, grinning. “And to think I was the easily flustered one.”

I want to shove him. Or flick his forehead. Or do something to wipe that smug little smile off his face.

Instead, I sigh and cover his mouth with my hand. “Shut up.”

He responds by licking my palm.

I jerk my hand away immediately, scowling as his laugh fills the room. Before I can retaliate, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I shoot him a glare; he just beams and grabs it, handing it over like he’s won something.

I answer without checking the caller.

“There better be a curse actively kicking your ass if you’re calling me—”

“You’re late for training,” Maki says flatly. “Itadori too. Get to the field. Now.”

The line goes dead.

“…Damn it.”

I toss the phone aside and rub my face. Yuji shifts, sitting up to face me properly, concern immediately replacing his teasing.

“What happened?” he asks. “Is someone hurt?”

“No,” I say, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “We’re just late. Maki’s pissed.”

I stand, and he follows. But before I can second-guess myself, I lean in and press a quick kiss to his shoulder—barely there, gone as soon as it happens—and then nudge him toward the door.

His breath hitches. His eyes go wide.

“Megumi—”

I don’t bother hiding my smile. “I have to get ready. I’ll see you on the field.”

I don’t hear whatever he says next. I just usher him out and close the door behind him, leaning back against it once he’s gone.

My heart is still racing. My cheeks are still warm. The ghost of his lips lingers against my hand like a memory I can’t shake.

…Great.

So this is what it feels like to be flustered.

God, I really need to get it together.

I don’t know how, but somehow I managed to survive training.

Not that Itadori made it easy.

In the thirty minutes it took me to shower, change, and meet everyone back on the field, he’d apparently unlocked a brand-new tier of confidence. One that felt… pointed. Intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying watching me unravel.

Maki was paired with Toge, leaving me with Yuji. And at first, I didn’t mind. We spar all the time. It’s no big deal.

But every time he pinned me down or slipped in close enough to strike from behind, he leaned in just a little too close and murmured something in my ear. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing I could call him out on. For someone so loud and shameless, he somehow never crossed that line, never voiced the thoughts I knew were sitting right behind his eyes.

But God, his timing was lethal.

“Fix your stance,” he’d murmur, breath warm against my ear.

“Focus on me, Megumi.”

Simple words. Harmless words.

Except when his voice dropped like that—low, steady, intimate—and my concentration shattered on impact.

More than once, he put me on my ass. And more than once, I caught Maki staring at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle that absolutely did not add up. She knows better than anyone how hard it is to take me down, so watching Yuji do it—without even breaking a sweat—clearly raised some alarms.

Thankfully, she didn’t say anything as we wrapped up. Just clapped a firm, grounding hand on my shoulder and invited us to head into town with her.

Naturally, Itadori said yes immediately. Inumaki did too. And despite my bruised ego—and my lingering irritation—I agreed.

Mostly because it was Maki.

I don’t see her much anymore. She’s graduated, running classified missions with Yuta, always somewhere else, always busy. But I’ll be damned if I tell her I miss her. 

I’d rather lick the pavement. 

Now we’re sitting outside some bubbly café, the kind with pastel signage and absurdly overpriced drinks. Everything smells like sugar and citrus and caffeine.

I tune it out, watching the city instead.

Commuters pack the sidewalks. Cars honk somewhere down the block. Beneath us, I can feel the distant hum of a bullet train tearing through the underground station, the vibration thrumming faintly through the soles of my shoes.

Out of habit, my eyes sweep the street for curses.

There’s a small one draped over a woman’s shoulders across the way—Grade Four at most. It’s barely more than a nuisance, using her like a pillow. She looks tired, weighed down, but not in danger.

Not my problem. No use in causing a scene and exorcising it when there's no real threat. 

A sharp nudge pulls my attention back to the table. 

Maki’s looking at me with that familiar, infuriatingly smug expression—half amused, half sharp as a blade.

“What,” I say flatly.

She tilts her head toward the sidewalk. “Walk with me.” It’s not a request. 

I sigh, already standing. Yuji and Toge don’t even notice us leave—they’re locked in a heated debate over sushi rolls. I’d never tell Yuji, but I’m on Toge’s side. Spicy tuna is a classic for a reason. 

Maki and I walk side by side in silence. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. I keep my gaze forward, hands shoved into my pockets, but I can feel her eyes on me like pressure against my skin.

She’s very perceptive—annoyingly so, just like me. I guess it’s a Zenin thing. But I have to fight the urge to fidget under her gaze. 

“What is it?” I ask eventually, pretending to be overly interested in a billboard. 

“You’re off your game,” she says bluntly, stopping near one of the shops and leaning back against the cool brick. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on me. “You never stumble like that in training. What happened?”

I scoff, but it’s weak. “Nothing happened.”

The look she gives me says bullshit.

I finally meet her gaze. There’s no judgment there, just quiet scrutiny. Like she’s trying to line up pieces that refuse to cooperate.

Then her eyes widen, just a fraction.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re sleeping with Itadori.”

My brain short-circuits.

Heat floods my face, racing from my ears down my neck. “What—Maki, what the hell?!” My voice jumps an octave. “I’m not sleeping with Itadori!”

And then, softer, my eyes dropping to the cracked pavement. “Not like that, anyway.”

She loses it.

Full-on laughter, loud and unrestrained. She bends forward, clutching her stomach like I’ve just told the funniest joke of her life. I drag a hand down my face, ignoring the curious stares from passersby.

This feels like a public execution.

“Are you done?” I mutter once she can breathe again.

She straightens, wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry—shit.” Another laugh slips out. “I’m done.”

Then she hooks an arm around my neck and yanks me in. I stumble, scowling, but she steadies me easily.

“So,” she says, clearly enjoying herself, “you and the pink-haired idiot aren’t a thing?”

I hesitate.

Because… it’s complicated. Because whatever this is doesn’t have a name yet. Because it feels real even without one.

Maki catches it immediately. She always does.

She doesn’t press. Just squeezes my shoulder, firm and grounding, before letting go.

“Figure it out,” she says simply. “Just don’t let it mess with your head out there. Got it?”

I nod, because that’s all I can do, really.

She jerks her chin back toward the café. “C’mon. Before Itadori actually tries to strangle Inumaki.”

“He’s strong,” I say dryly, “but my money’s on Toge.”

She grins. “I’m telling your boyfriend you said that.”

“I hate you.”

The next few days pass in a blur.
And, like always, I spend them with Itadori.

The city has been strangely quiet—no cursed spirits, no emergencies pulling us in opposite directions. Just space. Time. Breathing room I’m not used to having.

Especially not like this.

Yuji is sprawled across me, his head tucked beneath my chin, his weight warm and familiar against my chest. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. An hour. Maybe more. Long enough for his breathing to even out, long enough for his body to relax fully into mine like he trusts me to keep him there.

He looked exhausted when he showed up—dark circles under his eyes, movements a little slower than usual. I didn’t ask questions. I just opened my arms and let him settle in, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I turn a page in my book, though I don’t absorb a single word. All I can focus on is the steady rise and fall of his back beneath my hand. The faint warmth of his breath against my skin. The way his legs rest between mine, heavy and grounding.

I press a quiet kiss into his hair.

His fingers twitch against my side, tightening just a little, like he felt it even in sleep. He murmurs something low and unintelligible, voice thick and soft, and my chest tightens in response.

I set the book aside.

My hand moves on instinct, slow and deliberate as I rub gentle circles along his back, following the line of his spine. It’s calming, maybe more for me than for him.

He stirs after a while. Shifts. His grip tightens again, brow creasing like something’s weighing on him even now. When he lifts his head, blinking sleep from his eyes, I’m already looking at him.

“Hey,” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just drops his head back against my chest and squeezes me once, firm and brief, like reassurance—or maybe a plea.

Yeah. Something’s wrong.

I don’t push. I don’t ask. I just hold him there, letting the quiet stretch between us, letting him decide when he’s ready.

Eventually, he rolls away with a tired groan, landing flat on his back. He rubs his face with both hands, dragging himself awake. I turn onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, and gently pull his hands down. He lets me.

His eyes meet mine—more awake now, more serious.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly. “You’ve been sulking all morning.”

He scoffs weakly, but doesn’t argue. A long moment passes before he exhales and stares up at the ceiling.

“Gojo’s sending you on a solo patrol,” he says. Quiet. Careful. “Near my old high school.”

There it is.

He turns his head away, jaw tightening. “You haven’t done one alone in a while. I know things are calm, but…” He trails off, frustration bleeding through despite his effort to keep it contained.

I don’t interrupt. I just reach for his hand and lace our fingers together, grounding him the way he grounds me.

After a moment, he squeezes back. “I don’t know when you’re leaving,” he says. “Just—be careful, Megumi.”

The words land harder than I expect.

I’m not used to this. To being worried over. To someone caring enough to sit with the fear instead of brushing it aside. It’s unfamiliar—and dangerously precious.

And I sure as hell don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. How to put my feelings—appreciation, care, something far more dangerous—into words. 

So I don’t try. 

I slide my hand along his jaw, thumb gently stroking his cheek. His breath stutters—not from fear, but from surprise. For a moment, everything stills. My eyes trace over the lines of his face, memorizing the softness in his eyes like it's the last time. Then, before he can question it—before I can talk myself out of it—I lean down and kiss him. 

Slowly. Deeply. A wordless promise—that I’d be careful, that I’d come back to him, that he doesn’t have to worry. 

His fingers find my hip, his grip firm and steady. A soft sound leaves his throat when I tilt my head just right, and I immediately feel my pulse trip over itself. 

That sound is fucking music.  

We shift without thinking. I hover above him, settled between his legs, palms braced beside his head. I try to be careful, to keep my weight off him, but he just pulls me closer. Not roughly—never rough—but enough for me to feel his body heat through his clothes. Like he needs the contact to stay grounded. 

Our bodies slot together easily, like we’ve done this a thousand times before. My fingers curl into the pillow beneath his head. One of his hands anchors to my bicep; the other cradles the back of my neck, fingers threading into the short strands at my nape, keeping me close. 

We pause when we need air, but not for long. Foreheads touching, breath mingling in the sliver of space between us. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest. Or maybe it’s mine trying to punch its way out to meet him. It doesn’t matter. We’re both too lost in this to care. 

When our mouths meet again, his tongue swipes across my lower lip—too light to be on purpose, but good enough to pass for testing. I guess it was an accident, because he pulls back almost immediately, as if he crossed some invisible line. 

“Sorry—I, uh—" he stammers, cheeks almost as pink as his hair. 

My gaze locks with his, then drops to his mouth. “Don’t apologize,” I murmur, voice slightly hoarse from the kiss. I lean down again, lips brushing his. “Do it again.”

He hesitates—long enough for me to think he wants to stop—then he settles. His shoulders ease. His hand tightens at my neck, not pulling, just holding.

There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the quiet understanding that this is safe. That we are.

Our mouths connect fully. His tongue swipes across my lip again, faster this time, more sure, and I part my lips in wordless invitation. 

His tongue meets mine, claiming my mouth like he has every right to. I hum into it, tilting my head slightly to chase that perfect angle. 

I could get used to moments like these—feeling each other, learning each other, trusting each other. 

His hands coast up my body slowly, tracing every dip and ridge and curve of my torso before cradling my face. A small shiver shoots up my spine from how gentle his touch is—it’s almost enough to make me melt into him. 

But just as I reach down to grab his thigh, thumb pressing into the firm muscle, someone knocks on the door. 

Shit. 

He freezes immediately, the panic causing his cursed energy to spike. The feeling prickles against my skin. 

“You’re okay,” I whisper gently. “Breathe.” 

Only when he nods do I reluctantly pull away, cursing under my breath, and roll off the bed. I’m halfway to the door when it swings open.  

“Fushiguro, I have a—”

Gojo cuts himself off mid-sentence.

He and Geto stand in the doorway, framed perfectly by the hall light, both of them taking in the scene in one slow, sweeping glance.

They don’t need to say it out loud.

I know exactly what they see.

Me—standing too close to the bed, shirtless, hair a mess, pulse still too fast to hide. 

Yuji—sprawled back on my bed like he forgot how gravity works. Chest rising and falling too quickly. Face flushed. Hands fisted at his sides like he doesn’t know where they’re supposed to go anymore.

He looks guilty. Caught. Overwhelmed.

“Hey, Senseis…” Yuji says, voice pitched just a little too high, trying—and failing—to sound normal.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Gojo snorts.

Geto sighs like he’s already exhausted.

They look at each other—just a glance, quick and familiar—and then Gojo bursts out laughing, loud and unrestrained.

I scowl openly.

“Satoru,” Geto says, nudging him with an elbow, “behave.”

Gojo wipes at his eyes, still grinning like he’s just walked in on the world’s greatest secret. “I am behaving. This is just—wow. I mean, look at you two.”

He points between us like we’re a matching set.

I lean back against the dresser, arms folding over my chest. Mostly to keep my hands from curling into fists. “You came here for a reason,” I say flatly. “Let me guess. The solo patrol.”

Geto’s attention sharpens. He lifts a brow, but doesn’t ask how I knew. “Yes,” he says. “You leave in an hour.”

His gaze shifts past me, landing on Yuji, who’s now standing at my closet mirror—tugging his shirt straight, smoothing his hair, doing everything in his power to look like he hasn’t just been kissed senseless.

Gojo finally composes himself, pushing his sunglasses up to swipe beneath his eyes. “You two,” he says, pointing again, “are adorable.”

Yuji flinches.

Gojo slings an arm around his shoulders without warning, pulling him in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Honestly? I’m just glad to know Nobara wasn’t exaggerating.”

That makes me pause.

I turn toward him slowly. “Exaggerating about what?”

Gojo shrugs, easy, unbothered. Like this is small talk. “Nothing bad.”

Geto shakes his head, lips twitching. “She said you were,” he pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, “‘so obvious it hurt.’”

Yuji’s face goes nuclear.

I feel it immediately—the way his cursed energy spikes again, the way his shoulders draw in. He’s a rule follower down to his bones. He worries about protocol, about lines crossed, about consequences. About whether this—us—is going to get him in trouble.

I don’t care.

I made my choice days ago.

But Yuji still thinks he might’ve done something wrong.

Our eyes meet.

For a split second, I see it all laid bare—the fear, the hesitation, the reflexive guilt. His instinct to apologize for existing too loudly.

But there’s something else there, too.

Certainty.

He doesn’t regret this.

Not the kiss. Not the closeness. Not choosing me.

That’s what steadies me.

“Come on, Itadori,” Gojo says, already steering him toward the door. “You and Nobara are on first-year babysitting duty.”

Yuji doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even try.

But as he passes me, his hand brushes mine—quick, subtle, barely there. The kind of touch you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.

I feel it anyway.

It settles warm and sure in my chest.

The door closes behind them, and the room finally goes quiet.

I don’t realize I’m staring until Geto nudges my arm gently.

“You two remind me of Satoru and me,” he says, voice softer now. “Back then.”

I blink, caught off guard.

He smiles, small, fond. “You’re good together. Cherish that.”

Before I can respond, he steps out and closes the door behind him.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair.

An hour. I need to focus. Clear my head.

But my thoughts keep circling back to Yuji, to the way he looked at me like I was something solid. Something safe.

And as I grab my gear, I make the same quiet promise I’ve been making since this started.

I’ll come back.

No matter what.

Itadori was right.

This area still gets weird.

I’ve exorcised three Grade Three curses so far—nothing impressive, nothing that even slowed me down. They were clinging to the edges of the school grounds, feeding off lingering resentment and fear, but none of them managed to hurt anyone. By the time I found them, they were more nuisance than threat.

The building itself looks better now.

Fresh paint. New windows. Clean walkways. Hard to believe they shut it down for a year after everything that happened here. I remember Yuji mentioning it once, offhand but heavy—how strange it felt seeing the place boarded up, like a piece of his life had been sealed away.

He’d sounded sad.

Not devastated. Just… quietly hollow, like someone talking about a home they couldn’t go back to.

I wonder if he misses it.

His classmates. The routines. The version of himself that didn’t know curses existed—didn’t know his life had an expiration date stamped on it.

If he’d never found Sukuna’s finger.

If he’d never swallowed it.

He never would’ve come to Jujutsu High.
Never would’ve met Gojo. Or me.

We never would’ve ended up tangled together in my bed this morning, breathless and flushed and caught between something terrifying and something inevitable.

The thought lands heavy in my chest.

I shove it aside before it can settle, inhaling slowly as I finish my sweep of the building. The halls are silent now—no screaming, no curses, just faint residual energy fading into nothing. I nod to myself, satisfied, and step outside.

The veil comes down cleanly.

As it dissolves, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I answer without looking. “Fushiguro.”

“How’s it goin’, kid?” Gojo’s voice comes through bright and obnoxious as ever. There’s movement in the background—fabric shifting, footsteps—and then a second voice, lower and unmistakable. “You missed your check-in with Ijichi.”

I glance toward the curb, where the black car is parked far too conspicuously, and spot Ijichi pacing beside it, tablet clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

“Sorry,” I say evenly. “Ran into some low-grade curses. They’re dealt with.”

“Good,” Gojo says. Another shuffle, then a sharp, whispered shh that’s definitely aimed at Geto. “Then your job’s done. Head back to campus.”

“Copy that.”

I hang up before they can say anything else. I’ve walked in on them before—years ago, when I was younger and didn’t fully understand what I was seeing. And this morning, they nearly walked in on me and Itadori.

I really don’t want this to become some kind of cursed cycle.

By the time I reach the car, Ijichi’s already typed up most of the report. He hands me the tablet without looking up.

“Fill in the rest once you’re inside,” he says.

“Sir, yes sir,” I reply dryly as I slide into the backseat.

He sighs, exhausted, and gets behind the wheel. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

I don’t disagree.

As the car pulls away, my body finally registers the dull ache of exertion—but it’s faint, barely there. The mission was easy. I barely broke a sweat.

What lingers instead is the memory of this morning.

Yuji’s weight against me. The steady thrum of his heart under my palm. The way he’d gone so still when I kissed him, like he was afraid to move wrong and break something fragile.

I shift in my seat, staring out the window.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t ready to go back to him.

Back to bed. Back to that quiet space where the world doesn’t feel like it’s constantly demanding something from us.

I’d also be lying if I said thinking about him wasn’t the reason I missed my check-in.

The realization settles easily—no panic, no denial.

Just quiet certainty.

And for once, that feels like enough.

Later that night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.

Itadori and Kugisaki are out watching some ridiculous movie—something about murderous housewives that apparently “gets really good in the third act.” They invited me along. I said I was tired. Said I wanted to sleep.

That part wasn’t a lie.

The part where I can sleep without him, though—that absolutely is.

The room feels wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. My body keeps waiting for something that isn’t there—the warmth at my side, the familiar weight of his arm, the steady presence that’s become impossible to ignore. I shift under the covers, jaw tightening.

It’s stupid. We’ve only been together a few days.

And yet—even before that—it’s been like this. Falling asleep has always been harder without him nearby. Like my body learned him before my mind ever caught up.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall.

After a moment, I grab a pillow and pull it against my chest, squeezing it tight. The fabric’s cool. Lifeless. I close my eyes anyway, pretending, just for a second, that it’s him.

My heart immediately calls bullshit.

“…Whatever,” I mutter, tossing the pillow aside.

I give up.

The decision feels inevitable, like gravity. I peel back the covers and get dressed, not bothering to think too hard about it. By the time I realize what I’m doing, I’m already outside, the door clicking shut behind me.

The rain is steady, soft but unrelenting. It seeps through my jacket almost instantly, dampening my hair, my collar, my skin. I walk anyway—through the courtyard, past the garden, letting the cold bite.

It’s better than lying in bed missing him.

I tilt my head back beneath the open sky, eyes closing as rain streaks down my face. I’ll probably get sick. I know that. I don’t care.

At least out here, my chest doesn’t feel so tight.

Eventually, my feet carry me forward again—through the garden, past the koi pond, toward the archway between the gym and the main building. I step just beyond the shelter—

—and suddenly, a hand grabs my shoulder.

I barely have time to react before I’m pulled back, pressed against cold, rain-slick brick. Warmth crashes into me a heartbeat later—hands at my waist, familiar and sure—and then his lips are on mine.

For a split second, my mind goes completely blank.

Yuji.

My body answers before thought does. I fist the collar of his raincoat and tug him closer, grounding myself in the feel of him—solid, real, here. His hands are warm even through my soaked clothes, thumbs steady at my sides like he’s anchoring me.

I tug him impossibly closer, our chests pressed flush. He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to coax a low sound from my throat, to make my knees weak. This is nothing like the kiss we shared this morning. Here, he's smooth, confident, addictive. 

And I'm the one turning into a puddle. 

He pulls back first, but not far. Never far. His lips hover just shy of mine, breath warm against my cheek.

“Hi,” he whispers, that lopsided grin curling into place like it belongs there.

I can’t stop myself from smiling back. My hands loosen, flattening against his chest. “Hi.”

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, brows knitting as he looks me over.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I was looking for you,” he says. “Panda said he saw you come out here. He didn’t say why.”

Something cracks quietly in my chest.

I’ve mentioned the insomnia before. The nightmares. But not this. Not the walks. I never thought to explain them, never thought it mattered enough.

The fact that he remembered anyway shouldn’t surprise me.

And the way he’s looking at me now—soft, worried, almost protective—makes my throat tighten. I’m not used to this. To being noticed. To being missed. To being looked for.

It’s strange. Uncomfortable.

And somehow… safe.

I exhale slowly and lift a hand, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch without hesitation, eyes softening like it’s instinct.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Only Gojo knows. He used to come with me sometimes.”

The hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it. Quick. Sharp.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “I would’ve—”

“I only walk when I can’t sleep,” I interrupt gently. “It’s fine.”

He studies me for a moment, jaw tight, clearly weighing his options. Whether to argue. Lecture. Worry.

Instead, he steps closer.

One hand braces against the brick beside my head. The other finds my waist again. I guide him in the rest of the way and kiss him—slow, soft, unhurried. An apology. A thank you. A quiet I missed you wrapped into the press of our lips.

He melts into it immediately.

I know I shouldn’t enjoy making him worry, but there’s something almost funny about it. This is the same person who faces curses without flinching, who throws himself into danger without a second thought.

And yet he’s wound tight because I went for a walk in the rain.

When we finally pull apart, he takes two full steps back and starts shrugging out of his jacket.

“Yuji,” I say, already suspicious. “What are you doing?”

The look he gives me could freeze hell over.

Oh. Absolutely not.

“Don’t,” I say flatly. “You're going to get wet. Keep it.”

“You’re going to get sick,” he argues, already lifting the jacket over my head.

“So are you.”

“Then we’ll be sick together.”

I try to dodge him without stepping out from under the archway, but he’s stronger—and annoyingly determined. He settles the jacket around my shoulders, then slips an arm around me, pulling me close as if the argument is already over.

I grit my teeth, shivering despite myself.

…Damn it.

He’s right.

And I hate that almost as much as I love the way he holds me, guiding me back toward the building like this—whatever this is—has always been his place.

By the time we make it inside, the rain has turned heavier, clinging to us like a second skin. Water drips from my hair, from the hem of Yuji’s jacket, pooling quietly on the tile as we walk. We don’t say much, just move together down the hall, his hand steady at my back, guiding me toward his dorm because it’s closest and because neither of us questions it.

We round the corner—and stop.

Gojo’s leaning against the wall like he owns it, blindfold pushed down around his neck. His eyes flick over us once, slow and assessing, lingering just a beat too long on the way Yuji’s arm is still around me, on the jacket draped over my shoulders.

“Why are you two leaking on the floor?” he asks mildly.

I shrug, doing my best to look unaffected, even as my chest tightens with the urge to cough. “Went for a walk.”

For a moment, I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. I brace myself for questions I don’t have the energy to answer. I really hope he lets us pass. Tonight, of all nights, I don’t want to explain myself.

Instead, he steps closer. Stops directly in front of me.

“Get some sleep, Megumi,” he says, voice quieter now. He squeezes my shoulder—gentle, grounding—then turns and walks away like that was all he needed to say.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

If he’d tried to hug me, I think I would’ve short-circuited completely.

Yuji doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask. Just resumes walking, his hand settling back at the small of my back like it belongs there. The casual familiarity of it makes my chest ache in a way that’s almost pleasant.

Inside his room, warmth greets us immediately. Yuji heads to his dresser without hesitation, pulling out clean clothes for both of us. He sets mine neatly on the bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You can change in here,” he says. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I nod, watching him go. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the room quiet again.

I peel off my wet clothes slowly, stacking them near the dresser. We’ll deal with it in the morning. Right now, all I want is heat. Stillness. Something solid.

His hoodie is soft and worn and unmistakably him—warm cotton and detergent and something faintly familiar that makes my shoulders loosen the second I pull it on. It’s far too big. The sleeves swallow my hands. The hem brushes the tops of my thighs. His sweatpants fit a little better, but I still have to double-knot the drawstring.

I don’t mind.

I actually like it. Like being wrapped in him. Like carrying proof that I’m not alone tonight.

I push my damp hair back and tug the hood up, then roll my sleeves and summon Kuro. He appears instantly, hopping onto the bed and curling against my side, head heavy on my lap. His eyes stay fixed on the door.

“He’ll be back soon,” I murmur, scratching behind his ear.

Minutes blur. Kuro nudges my thigh every time I doze, wanting my attention. And I try to give it, really, I do, but my body's begging for rest—even though it can't rest without him.

Eventually, the door opens.

Yuji stumbles in with two steaming mugs and a pack of Oreos clenched between his teeth, eyes bright despite the late hour. I watch as he sets everything down and tosses the cookies onto the bed. Kuro relocates to the foot without complaint, giving Yuji room.

Yuji flops down beside me, nearly landing in my lap.

“It’s too late to have this much energy,” I say dryly.

He laughs, unbothered. That sound—warm, unrestrained—does something to me every time.

“It’s never too late,” he argues, mouth already full of cookies.

I don’t bother responding. I steal one from the pack, eat it, then turn onto my side and curl into him. He adjusts immediately, arms wrapping around me, pulling me close until my forehead rests against his chest. His warmth sinks into my bones. My breathing evens out without me trying.

This—this—is what I’d been missing all night.

I lift my head, fingers sliding along his jaw. He looks down at me, waiting, eyes soft. I kiss his forehead. His nose. Then his lips.

The kiss lingers.

It’s slow and unhurried, drowsy but deep. My tongue brushes his lip by accident; he opens without hesitation, a quiet sound slipping free when our mouths meet properly. I smile against his lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. He pulls me closer, squeezing my hip like he’s reminding me he’s here.

Usually, kissing him makes me feel light.

Tonight, it grounds me.

This is the calmest my mind has been all day. Maybe longer. The rain, the tension, the restless ache—it all fades, replaced by the steady certainty of his presence.

When we pull back, we don’t move far. Just enough to breathe. Our foreheads touch, hands still gripping fabric, breaths in sync.

I kiss him once more—soft, brief—then tuck my face into his neck and exhale. His arm tightens around my waist. His fingers card gently through my hair, slow and reassuring.

“Goodnight, Yuji,” I murmur, already slipping under.

“Goodnight, Megumi.”

And for the first time all night, I sleep.