The wind catches his kimono as he walks ahead of you — tall, impossible to miss, even with his back turned.

You’ve always known Gojo would cast a long shadow.

At twenty-eight, he’s still the strongest. Still beautiful in that strange, unreachable way. But now, he’s also a husband. A father of three. A man who made peace with the life he never wanted, and chose it anyway.

You remember when he said yes to the arrangement.

The Zenins needed power.

The Gojos needed obedience. And he… he just looked at you and said, “I don’t mind.”

He meant it.

He never fought the clan politics. Never pushed back when the elders barked orders, when your relatives eyed him with mistrust. He endured it all like someone watching rain hit a window— there, but distant. Untouchable.

But he was different with you.

Never overly affectionate. Never dramatic.

Just constant. Present.

He held you when the babies cried through the night. Three of them now — three little fragments of him. Of you. When your second was born, he didn’t say much. Just pressed his lips briefly to your temple and whispered, “You did good.”

He never says I love you.

Your brain thinks otherwise In the way he holds your youngest against his chest when he thinks no one’s watching. In the rare, precious mornings when he wakes up before you and stays.

Now, watching his back as he stands at the edge of the estate — alone, wind tugging at his collar — you wonder what he’s thinking.

You don’t call out to him.

You just stop a few paces behind, like you’ve done a hundred times before.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move. Only stands there, posture relaxed but closed off, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You look at him for a long time. Quietly.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should— before you awkwardly get beside him. He still doesn’t notice you.

Or maybe he has, and He’s just.. Well, ignoring you.