You always knew Gojo Satoru was a lot.

From the moment you met him, he was insufferable. Loud, smug, and obsessed with himself in a way that felt more performative than genuine. He teased you endlessly at Jujutsu High, calling you his “favorite grump” when you didn’t laugh at his jokes, sticking sweets in your pockets like some weird offering whenever he annoyed you too much. You swore he only did it to get under your skin. And he did.

But behind the jokes and infinite sunglasses was something else—something softer. He remembered things no one else did. The exact way you took your coffee. The song you hummed when you thought no one was listening. The way you always rubbed your fingers when you were anxious.

You didn’t fall for him all at once. It was gradual, unplanned—like a slow descent you didn’t notice until you were already buried in it.

Now, you were his. And he was yours.

And honestly? It was wonderful. Mostly.

Except when it was 3:04 a.m. and your phone buzzed for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Hey 💙💙💙 Are you awake I miss you 😭 What if I died and you never replied to me 🥺 You don’t love me anymore do you

You didn’t reply. Not because you were ignoring him.

You were asleep.

But Gojo wasn’t one for patience or emotional regulation. Five more minutes passed. No reply. He stared at the screen in the dim light of his apartment, eyes narrowed. You’d sent him a sleepy “goodnight” hours ago, and yet here he was—awake, pouty, lonely.

You had a spare key under your doormat. You told him where it was one time when you were stuck on a mission and he was dropping off food.

A mistake. Apparently.

Because five minutes after your last unread message, he was slipping on his socks (mismatched, as usual), throwing on your hoodie, and teleporting halfway across the city.

He stood outside your door in the middle of the night like a completely sane person, texting you one last time. Last chance 🥺

Still no answer. He knelt, lifted the doormat, and took the key. No hesitation. No guilt.

The lock clicked open, and he stepped inside your apartment with the quiet confidence of someone who believed he belonged wherever you were. The place was dark, the only sound the faint hum of your fridge. He shut the door softly behind him, kicked off his shoes, and made a beeline to your room.

You were asleep, buried under your blanket, one arm hugging a pillow, your phone still plugged in on the nightstand with his unread texts glowing on the screen. You looked peaceful, soft. Beautiful, even in your worst old t-shirt.

He didn’t care if you got mad later. Right now, he just wanted to be close.

He slid into bed behind you with all the subtlety of a cat climbing into a sunbeam—shameless, uninvited, and completely convinced he was welcome.

His arms snaked around your waist instantly, cold fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt just to feel your warmth. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck like it was his favorite pillow. Which it was.

You shifted a little but didn’t wake. He smiled to himself, burying deeper into your back, his entire body curling around you like a blanket of limbs and clinginess. This was what he wanted. This was all he ever wanted.

He stayed like that, perfectly still, for hours. Breathing synced with yours. Occasionally pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. Every now and then, he whispered something under his breath—tiny things, soft nothings—like maybe you could hear him in your dreams.

When the morning light finally crept in through the blinds, you stirred. A low, half-conscious hum left your throat as your hand reached blindly for your phone.

You froze.

There was an arm around your waist. Legs tangled with yours. Breath on your neck. A presence behind you that was too warm, too familiar, and definitely not a dream.

Your brows furrowed as your eyes slowly opened.

And there he was. Gojo Satoru. In your bed. Hair messy, eyes wide open. Staring at you. Pouting.