The apartment was thirty square meters of territory, and Gojo Satoru occupied about twenty-nine of them.
It had been three days since the "incident"—the collapse in the library that had nearly fried Miyuki's brain. Three days of enforced bed rest. Three days of drinking vile herbal concoctions, Shoko had overnighted from Tokyo.
Three days of living inside the Infinity of Gojo Satoru.
"Satoru," Miyuki said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "You are blocking the sun."
"I am the sun," Gojo replied cheerfully.
He was standing in the middle of her tiny kitchenette, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a black t-shirt that was tight enough to be considered a felony in several jurisdictions. He was also wearing Miyuki's pink apron, which looked ridiculous on his frame.
"I am making breakfast," he announced, wielding a spatula like a cursed tool. "The Great Gojo Satoru is not only the strongest sorcerer but also a culinary genius."
"I smell burning," Miyuki noted, sitting up on the futon.
"That's the smell of passion!" Gojo retorted, turning back to the stove.
Miyuki rubbed her eyes. The headache was gone. The static that usually plagued her Six Eyes was now a distant, manageable hum. It was working. His presence—his massive, overwhelming cursed energy—was acting as a stabilizer for her own. He was a walking, talking, egg-burning battery.
She watched him move. He had to duck slightly to avoid hitting the pendant light. When he reached for the salt on the top shelf, his shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the defined muscle of his back.
It was domestic. It was terrifying.
"Here!" Gojo declared, turning around with a plate. He marched over to the futon and sat down cross-legged, placing the plate on the low table.
It was tamagoyaki. Or rather, it was a yellow, charred brick that vaguely resembled an egg roll.
"It looks... crunchy," Miyuki said diplomatically.
"It has texture," Gojo corrected. He handed her chopsticks. "Eat. You need protein. Your brain is hungry."
Miyuki took a bite. It was salty. It was burnt. It was surprisingly edible.
"Well?" Gojo leaned in, his blue eyes sparkling with that manic need for validation he tried to hide behind arrogance. "Is it the best thing you've ever tasted? Be honest. I can take it."
"It's..." Miyuki chewed slowly. "It's definitely cooked."
"I knew it!" Gojo beamed. "I'm a natural."
He picked up his own chopsticks and stole a piece from her plate. As he chewed, his expression didn't change, but Miyuki saw his eyebrow twitch. He swallowed hard.
"Okay, maybe a little too much salt," he admitted.
"A little?" Miyuki laughed. It was a rusty sound, but it felt good. "Satoru, you nearly mummified the egg."
"Hey! I'm learning! Do you know how hard it is to cook without Infinity? I have to actually touch the pan handle. It's brutal."
Soseki, the white cat, jumped onto the table. He sniffed the egg, gave a judgmental sneeze, and turned his back on Gojo.
"See?" Gojo pointed his chopsticks at the cat. "Even the demon beast agrees. It's avant-garde cuisine."
Miyuki smiled, leaning back against the wall. The apartment felt small, yes. But for the first time in her life, it didn't feel lonely.
The Rematch
By the afternoon, Miyuki was feeling restless.
Her energy levels were back to normal. The constant proximity to Gojo had recharged her reserves faster than Shoko had predicted. But Gojo was taking his role as "Nursemaid" very seriously.
"No," Gojo said, not looking up from the manga he was reading on the floor.
"I just want to go to the balcony," Miyuki argued, standing by the glass door.
"Too much light," Gojo turned a page. "Your eyes are still sensitive. UV rays are the enemy."
"I have the sunglasses you gave me!"
"And I have the authority," Gojo said, finally looking up. He grinned, that sharp, wolfish grin. "Sit down, Green Eyes. Or do I have to make you?"
Miyuki narrowed her eyes. The old Miyuki—the scared, traumatized librarian—would have sat down. But the Miyuki who had been living with Gojo Satoru for three days, the Miyuki who had survived the Kamo clan and Toji Fushiguro, felt a spark of rebellion.
"You're enjoying this too much," she said.
"I enjoy everything I do," Gojo countered.
He was lying on his stomach on the tatami, looking lazy and dangerous. The manga—a copy of JUMP he had bought at the convenience store—was spread out in front of him.
Miyuki looked at the remote control sitting near his elbow.
"I want to watch the news," she said.
"Boring," Gojo drawled. "We're reading."
"You are reading. I am staring at the wall."
"Staring is good for you. It's meditative."
Miyuki took a step forward. "Give me the remote, Satoru."
Gojo's eyes flickered with amusement. He placed his hand over the remote. "Come and get it."
It was a challenge. A direct echo of a memory that had been playing in her mind since the park.
Move. Or I'll make you.
Miyuki didn't hesitate. She lunged.
She wasn't a strong sorcerer like him. But she had the element of surprise and a month of repressed frustration.
She dove for the remote.
Gojo was faster, of course. He simply shifted his arm, and Miyuki landed chest-first on the tatami mat next to him.
"Too slow," Gojo teased, holding the remote just out of reach.
"You're cheating!" Miyuki gasped, scrambling up. She grabbed his forearm with both hands, trying to pry the remote loose. "You're using Blue!"
"I am using basic mechanics!" Gojo laughed, rolling onto his back effortlessly, despite her entire weight pressing down on his arm. "You need to work on your grip strength, Librarian!"
Miyuki straddled his chest without thinking. She reached up, clawing for his hand.
"Give! It! To! Me!"
"Say the magic word!"
"The magic word is Give me the damn remote!"
She grabbed his wrist. He let her pull his arm down a fraction, playing with her. She was panting now, her hair falling into her face. She pushed against his chest for leverage, her fingers digging into the cotton of his t-shirt.
Gojo looked up at her. His laughter faded.
She was flushed. Her eyes were bright green, burning with determination. She wasn't sick anymore. She was alive. She was fighting.
Just like the tiger in the park.
"Gotcha," Miyuki grunted, managing to snag the remote with her fingertips.
But Gojo didn't let go. Instead, he flipped them.
In a blur of motion, the world spun. Miyuki gasped as her back hit the tatami mat. Gojo was looming over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.
The remote clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Silence descended on the room instantly.
They were frozen. Gojo's body covered hers, his weight supported on his elbows so he wouldn't crush her, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. His legs were tangled with hers.
"I win," Gojo whispered.
Miyuki stared up at him. His face was inches from hers. She could count the white eyelashes framing his eyes. She could see the flecks of crystalline blue in his irises—the infinite sky trapped in a human gaze.
"You always win," Miyuki breathed. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but it wasn't fear.
"Not always," Gojo murmured. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes. "You beat me once. In the park."
"I was six. And you let me."
"Maybe I wanted to be tackled," Gojo said softly.
He shifted his grip on her wrists, loosening it. He didn't let go, but he wasn't pinning her anymore. He was holding her. His thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.
"Do you remember?" Gojo asked. " The mud? The cold?"
"I remember," Miyuki whispered. "You looked like a prince who had fallen into a puddle."
"And you looked like a feral cat."
Gojo lowered his head slowly. The air between them thickened, charged with the static of the Six Eyes resonating between two hosts. It was electric. It was magnetic.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, smelling the soap she used, the scent of the tea they had drunk, the underlying scent of her.
"You're still heavy," Miyuki whispered, her voice trembling.
Gojo chuckled against her skin. The vibration went straight to her core.
"And you're still annoying," he murmured.
He lifted his head. He looked at her with a raw, naked hunger that terrified her. But this time, he didn't pull away. He didn't make a joke.
"Miyuki," he said.
"Yes?"
"If I kiss you now," Gojo said, his voice serious, "I'm not going to stop. Not until we break the furniture."
Miyuki swallowed hard. She looked at his lips. She wanted it. God, she really wanted it. She wanted to be consumed by the fire that had been warming her for three days.
"Satoru..."
She started to lift her head.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was sharp, precise, and polite.
It came from the front door.
Gojo froze.
The hunger in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, metallic void. The "Domestic Gojo" evaporated. The "Strongest Sorcerer" took his place.
He looked at the door.
"Stay here," he ordered. His voice wasn't soft anymore. It was absolute.
He rolled off her and stood up in one fluid motion. He didn't fix his hair. He didn't smooth his shirt. He walked to the door, his posture changing from relaxed to predatory.
Miyuki sat up on the futon, clutching her chest. The loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring.
"Satoru?" she whispered.
"Don't come to the door," Gojo said over his shoulder. He didn't look back.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open.