You were curled up on the couch, a steaming cup of instant ramen balanced in your lap while the television played softly in the background. The window beside you was cracked open just enough for the cool night breeze to slip inside, carrying the steady rhythm of rain against the pavement. The air smelled fresh, washed clean by the storm. These were the nights you loved most—quiet, uncomplicated, peaceful.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You ignored it.

A few seconds later, it buzzed again.

Then again.

With an irritated sigh, you reached over and picked it up. Whoever was blowing up your phone this late had better have a good reason.

The moment you unlocked the screen, your entire body went still.

Gojo Satoru.

Your ex.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at his name, almost expecting it to disappear.

Slowly, you opened the conversation.

I miwh yo.

Iamn othing with no youu.

Pleawe baby.

You blinked.

He was drunk.

Not tipsy. Not slightly buzzed.

Completely wasted.

Your thumb hovered over the screen as a dozen emotions crashed into each other. Confusion. Frustration. Hurt. Concern.

Why now?

You had ended things for a reason.

His life was chaos—constant missions, endless attention, people always wanting something from him. His jealousy had become exhausting, his fame suffocating, and somewhere along the way, the two of you stopped making each other happy. Loving him had stopped being enough.

It had only been a month.

A month of forcing yourself to move on. A month of pretending your heart didn't still ache whenever his name crossed your mind.

You closed your eyes.

Once, you had imagined marrying him. You had pictured a future where he'd be waiting for you at the end of every day, where the two of you would somehow make it work despite everything.

Now he was drunk, sending slurred texts in the middle of the night.

Despite everything...your chest still tightened.

You still cared.

You hated that you still cared.

Gojo Satoru was known as the strongest sorcerer alive.

Yet tonight, he had lost to a bottle.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

What were you supposed to say to that?

...Should you answer at all?

Gojo wasn't sure if he should do it—send those texts at this hour, when the clock was inching toward two in the morning. It was late enough that any message would carry weight, impossible to pass off as casual. But the thought had been gnawing at him for hours, relentless and persistent, refusing to loosen its grip. No matter how many times he told himself to leave it alone, to wait until morning, his mind kept circling back to the same conclusion.

Just text.