I wake with my head thick and my body aching in places I don't want to think about yet.
My eyes are barely open. My throat feels dry. My legs feel like they carried me through something I don't remember agreeing to.
I shuffle to the bathroom, slow, one hand sliding along the wall.
When I sit, I suck in a sharp breath. It stings.
"Idiot," I whisper. "I swear I'm going to kill him."
I rinse my face, still fogged, water dripping from my lashes. Then I lift my head.
And stop.
My neck. My shoulders. The soft line of my collarbone.
Marks—all over my body. Darker than my skin, warmer than memory.
I stare at my reflection like it belongs to someone else.
"…You're dead," I whisper.
I walk out of the bathroom slowly, still in his shirt, barefoot, hair a mess.
He's still on the bed, hair a mess. The blindfold lies forgotten somewhere near his pillow. His eyes are half-open, heavy with sleep, blinking slowly like he's just realising the morning exists—far too relaxed for someone who completely wrecked mine.
He smiles when he sees me.
"Morning, sunshi—"
I grab the nearest chair and throw it at him.
He catches it easily, half-smiling. "Wow. You wake up thinking about me this hard?"
I point at my neck. "What is this?"
He tilts his head, pretending to think. "Affection?"
"You look like you lost control," I snap.
He stands up and walks toward me, slow and calm.
"I did," he says easily. "You told me not to hold back."
"That doesn't mean decorate me like this!"
"You act like I did it alone," he says lightly.
"That's not the point."
He gets up from the bed and comes toward me. Both his hands land on my shoulders, guiding me back.
"Sit," he says.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
He walks to the table, picks up the cream, and comes back, crouching in front of me.
"Does it hurt?" he asks.
"A little."
He opens the tube and presses a little onto his fingers.
Then his hand moves—soft, warm—opening my legs. Purposeful. Like he knows exactly what to do without needing any direction.
I swallow. Heat creeps up my neck.
He leans in, gaze focused on my vagina, his thumb brushing lightly in a teasing manner.
I breathe out shakily.
He doesn't look at me. But I know he can feel it—the way my body reacts anyway.
"Stay still," he murmurs, not commanding—asking. I do.
He keeps going, slow and methodical.
"…You bruise too easily."
"That's your fault."
A quiet breath of a laugh leaves him. "Yeah. Probably."
His fingers linger for a moment too long, and I can already predict what he'll do next.
"I will kill you," I warned.
He grins. "Worth it."
****
We're late.
Again.
Because he couldn't control himself—and I didn't stop him.
I walk faster through the hallway, fixing my collar for the third time. The turtleneck feels tighter than it should. I've used too much foundation and too much concealer, like effort alone can hide things.
Gojo walks beside me, unbothered like the world is moving incorrectly around him.
"You're going to rip it if you keep tugging on it," he says.
I glare at him. "You're the reason I'm wearing this."
He smiles. "I know."
"This isn't funny."
He tilts his head, watching me, then shrugs. "It kind of is. You look fine."
"That's not the point."
He leans closer, voice low enough that no one else can hear. "Relax. No one's paying that much attention. And even if they were—"he straightens, hands back in his pockets—"they won't say anything to me."
I scoff. "Because you're Gojo Satoru."
"Exactly."
We stop in front of the classroom.
I inhale, steadying myself.
Gojo doesn't bother.
The door slides open, and he walks in first like he owns the place
Yaga is already there.
Standing. Arms crossed.
"You two are late again," he says.
Gojo grins. "Morning to you too, Principal."
"Don't call me that."
Gojo points at me. "It's her fault."
I turn to him. "You were the one who said five more minutes."
He nods seriously. "And those five minutes were very important."
I felt a rush of warmth flood my cheeks, my ears burning with embarrassment.
Yaga stares at us. "Sit. Both of you."
I slip in behind him, quieter, head slightly down. I move straight to my seat beside Shoko without saying a word. The moment I sit, my body finally remembers how tired it is.
Her eyebrow lifts.
I sit quietly. "Don't."
She grins. "I didn't say a word."
Her foot nudges mine playfully under the desk.
You alive? The pressure asks.
Barely, I reply with a tap.
Suguru leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with mild amusement. When Gojo sits, he turns his head just enough to look at him.
"You're late," Suguru says.
Gojo shrugs. "I know."
"Again."
"Still handsome, though."
Suguru huffs. "You're unbelievable."
Gojo leans sideways, lowering his voice just enough. "You'd miss me if I wasn't."
Yaga clears his throat. Hard.
"Focus," he says. "Both of you."
"Yes, sir," Suguru replies properly.
Gojo salutes. "Aye aye."
The class begins.
I try to listen. I really do. But my body aches in that dull, deep way that doesn't go away just because you sit still. Every movement reminds me of earlier—of heat, of pressure, of his weight on me, half-asleep, eyes barely open, hair a mess.
I don't look at him.
I don't need to.
I can feel him.
****
The afternoon sun sits low, cutting through the training yard in long, lazy lines. Everything smells like dust and old stone. Summer clings to the air, heavy but familiar.
I'm sitting on the steps outside the building, legs stretched out, notebook open on my lap. I'm supposed to be reviewing barrier theory.
I'm not.
Gojo is upside down on the grass in front of me, balanced on his shoulders, legs straight in the air like he's defying gravity out of boredom.
"This is harder than it looks," he says.
"You're literally doing nothing," I reply.
"That's the hard part."
Suguru stands nearby, arms crossed, watching him with the patience of someone who's been dealing with this for years already.
"If you crack your neck," Suguru says calmly, "don't expect sympathy."
Gojo grins, still upside down. "You'd cry."
"I'd laugh," Suguru corrects.
Shoko sits a little away from us, leaning against the wall, cigarette unlit between her fingers because Yaga's still around somewhere. She watches Gojo for a second, then looks at me.
"Why are you with him?" she asks.
I don't even look up. "Because if I don't, he'll follow me around like a dog"
Gojo drops flat onto the grass dramatically. "Wow. Hurtful."
Suguru sighs. "You do follow her around."
"I follow everyone," Gojo says. "I'm social."
"You're annoying," Shoko mutters.
"Same thing," Gojo replies instantly.
I close my notebook and stand, dusting off my skirt. "We're supposed to train."
Gojo sits up, finally right-side up, white hair glowing in the sunlight. "You're supposed to train. I already mastered existence."
Suguru moves closer. "Let's do some pair work," he says, getting ready. "We need to find out who's in charge."
Gojo's face lights up. "Is it Dia and me?"
"No," Suguru says flatly. "You and me."
I can't help but notice the brief flicker of disappointment in Gojo's eyes before he shrugs it off.
"Fine. Prepare to lose."
Shoko lights her second cigarette, the flick of her lighter sharp in the quiet. "I'll keep track of the time," she says, a hint of mischief in her voice. "And if Gojo messes anything up, I'm out of here."
The spar starts easy.
Too easy.
Suguru moves with control, precise and grounded. Gojo fights like he's laughing at the idea of effort—sloppy on purpose, fast when it matters.
I watch, arms crossed, reading their movements the way you read a familiar argument.
Gojo glances at me mid-fight.
Actual glances.
Misses Suguru's strike by a hair.
"Eyes on me," Suguru snaps.
Gojo laughs. "Jealous?"
"Focus."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Shoko exhales smoke. "You're distracting him."
"I'm not doing anything," I say.
"That's the problem."
The match ends in a draw—because it always does.
Gojo drops onto the ground again, staring up at the sky. "I'm starving."
Suguru offers him a hand up. "You're always starving."
"Existence burns calories."
Shoko crushes the cigarette under her shoe. "I'm going to the Chinese restaurant."
"I'm coming," I say.
Gojo sits up instantly. "Me too."
Shoko and Suguru stroll ahead, their playful banter fading into the background.
Gojo intertwines his fingers with mine.
A warmth spreads through me as I feel his gaze.
"You're staring," I say without looking at him.
A soft laugh slips from his lips. "So, you noticed. At last."
I look at him.
"Got something on your mind?" I ask.
"Yeah," he replies casually.
"What is it?"
"Things might get messy."
I raise an eyebrow. "Messy how?"
"They'll start expecting more," he replies. "From me." A pause. "They always do."
We keep walking. Gojo's grip tightens—just enough.
"They'll try to point me somewhere. Tell me what I'm supposed to be." He shrugs, like it's nothing. "I don't really care about that part."
I stop.
He does too.
When he turns, there's no smile this time.
"Please, don't step back," he says. Calm. Certain. "Not when that happens."
I hold his gaze.
"They can take whatever they want," he continues, quieter now. "Titles. Expectations. All of it."
He cups my face and pulls me closer.
His eyes are right there. Blue. Clear. Deep. Not bright like the sky—more soothing than that. Like the ocean when it's calm, where you can't see the end.
"But you stay," he says. "You're not something I walk away from. and I wont even allow you to move alway from me," and then he pressed his lips gently against my forehead