Umbrellas with hot sand under the palms of your feet, the sea breeze caressing your exposed skin and the coolness of the wind dancing behind the tail of the waves that gather in all their splendor to the mortal human eye, with the sound of seagulls hovering over the sea overlooking the coast, a temporary paradise that does not cost a penny, but only costs time.

Down on this shore, with a tight, revealing little pastel pink bikini feeding the sweet sight of the divine, lush curves that rival the beauty of Venus, all lying before his eyes.

Far away like a flaming meteor, but close like the arteries.

Gojo didn't hate what happened at all, but he still felt the desire to be the best, the best for you, he wanted you to love him more, to love him more than he loved himself, more, more and more... until you were completely crazy over him.

Gojō satoru is greedy, like a sick dog, doesn’t want to leave a cell of you that doesn’t call out to him with love and chant to him the keys, passion, need and reverence of love, just as he loved you.

You cannot deny that he loved and adored even your toes, how at night he would hold your feet and kiss them, caress them and caress them, as if they were something precious.

Not just feet, but the feet of what is his, what is love, what is bliss in the hell of his life, the only one for which he will burn the world⎯⎯you.

He removes his black shadows, muscular arms sculpted like steel wrap around your narrow exposed waist, he brings you to him in his arms intertwining with his bare chest, and most importantly with a light blue fur towel wrapped around your exposed lower part.

Caressing the elegant graceful extension of your spine, with a glare to drive away the men who were staring at you until they disappeared from view, lips finding their way to kiss your ear sweetly.

“How’s it going? Enjoying it.”

His voice rambled from the depths of his chest against your ear intoxicatingly, and god no one’s voice has ever done to you the way your husband, Gojo, did—kissing your cheek.