You never ask about her.

Not when he slips into your bed with the scent of someone else’s perfume faint on his clothes. Not when his phone buzzes at odd hours, her name flashing across the screen. Not when he presses his lips to yours like he’s trying to forget something—someone—else.

Because you know who you are.

Gojo Satoru is not yours to keep. He never promised you forever, never fed you pretty lies about love or loyalty. And you never asked him to.

“I should go,” he murmurs, but his hands are still on your waist, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles.

You hum, dragging your nails down his back, savoring the way he shivers. “Then go.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. Because for all his power, all his strength, you are the only thing that makes him weak.

And that’s enough.

You don’t need a title, don’t need the weight of commitment or the illusion of something real. What you have is simple: stolen nights, whispered secrets, the way he lingers even when he shouldn’t.