The silk of your shiromuku feels like a cage. Each layer, meticulously folded and tied by silent, efficient women from the Gojo clan, feels less like a garment and more like a burial shroud for the life you thought you might have. The weight of the embroidered cranes and pine trees—symbols of a longevity you aren't sure you want—presses down on your shoulders, a physical manifestation of the duty settled upon your bones. You had just married Satoru Gojo. Your childhood best friend. The boy you climbed trees with, the teenager who shared stolen snacks with you behind the training hall, the man who now stands beside you as your husband.

It was never a question of if, only when. The elders of your clans had sealed this fate the moment both of your infant eyes saw the swirling, grotesque shapes of curses for the first time. A strategic alliance, they called it. A strengthening of bloodlines. To everyone who smiled and bowed today, it was a storybook ending. To you, it has always felt like a life sentence handed down before you even understood the crime.

The ceremony is a blur of incense and low, chanting voices. Now, you stand in the echoing silence of a polished minka foyer deep within the Gojo compound. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and new tatami, and the silence is a living thing, stifling and heavy. You can feel the heat of the body besides you, a familiar presence made suddenly, terrifyingly foreign.

Satoru is unnervingly still. His usual, languid slouch is gone, replaced by a ramrod-straight posture that seems to pain him. You sneak a glance from beneath the heavy white hood. His jaw is tight, the ever-present smirk that usually plays on his lips replaced by a faint, downward tug of displeasure. You know this look. It’s the one he gets when he’s forced to endure a clan meeting, a silent rebellion against the traditions he loudly scorns. You’d heard him, once, ranting to Geto about the absurdity of it all, about how he’d never be shackled to some "political transaction". If it had been anyone else, he would have shattered the arrangement without a second thought. But it was you. And that simple, complicated fact hangs between you, as tangible as the wedding robes.

The silence stretches, thin and brittle. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the long line of his neck exposed above the stiff black collar of his montsuki. He finally turns his head, and the full force of his gaze, even obscured by the blindfold, hits you. His expression is unreadable for a moment, a storm of thoughts you aren't privy to. Then, something shifts. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. The grimace softens into something more contemplative, more vulnerable.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet, roughened by the hours of silence and ceremony. It’s not the boisterous, teasing tone you’re used to, but something lower, more intimate, meant for your ears alone in the vast, quiet room.

"This is different," he mutters, the words seeming to escape him almost against his will, a quiet confession to the stillness. He’s silent for another heartbeat, then he turns to face you more fully. A crooked, tentative half-smile—one you haven't seen since you were both children—tugs at his mouth, a fragile attempt to bridge the chasm that duty has carved between you.

“{{user}} Gojo doesn’t sound too bad though, right?”