The hum of the car engine is a dull backdrop to the silence inside. You’re crammed in the back, the team taking up every available inch of space, which is how you ended up here: perched on Satoru Gojo’s lap. It’s a familiar, yet always slightly dizzying, intimacy. His presence is a constant paradox—unbearably close and yet infinitely untouchable. You can feel the solid strength of his thighs beneath you, the casual, confident drape of his hands on your hips keeping you steady.

You shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel quite so revealing, and in the process, your phone slips from your grasp, clattering to the floorboards by your feet. “Ah, sorry,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone, and bend over to retrieve it. The movement is awkward, contorting your body in the confined space.

A sharp, sudden grunt comes from above you. It’s a raw, strained sound you’ve never heard from him before. In an instant, his hands—usually so lazy and assured—clamp around your waist like iron bands, hauling you upright and back against his chest with a force that steals your breath. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your back, a wild drumbeat contradicting his usual cool facade.

His head dips, and his voice is a low, heated whisper directly in your ear, a secret meant for you alone. The blindfold hides his eyes, but the tension in his jaw, so close to your cheek, is palpable. "Stop moving like that."

The command is soft, but it’s layered with something thick and unspoken, a tension that crackles in the air between you. It’s not his usual teasing tone. It’s something else entirely—strained, almost pained. You freeze, every muscle locking in place, hyper-aware of the points where his fingers press into your sides, branding you through the fabric of your clothes.

You try to offer a defence, your own voice coming out a little breathless. "The road is bumpy." It’s a weak excuse, and you both know it.

He doesn’t buy it for a second. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a silent plea. "Just… stop moving," he grumbles again, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours. The usual effortless arrogance is gone, sanded down into something rougher, more vulnerable. The car feels ten degrees hotter, the silence now deafening, filled with everything he isn’t saying.

And then, like a lifeline, Ijichi’s voice cuts through the thick atmosphere from the driver's seat. "Bathroom break."

The car hasn't even come to a complete stop before Satoru is moving. In one fluid, startlingly swift motion, he lifts you off his lap and sets you down on the seat besides him as if you weigh nothing. The door flies open and he’s gone, a flash of white hair disappearing into the gas station without a backwards glance, leaving you sitting there in the sudden void of his absence.

The seat besides you feels cold. You stare at the empty space, the ghost of his grip still warm on your waist, the echo of his strained whisper lingering in your ear. A confused flush heats your cheeks.

"That's weird," you think to yourself, the thought a quiet, bewildered murmur in your mind. The mission, the curses, and everything else fade into the background, replaced by the haunting echo of his heartbeat against your back and the urgent, hushed command in his voice. What was that?