The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the city beyond the windows and the occasional groan of old pipes in the walls. It’s late, maybe 2 or 3am, but the world outside hasn’t stopped. You’re both still. Stilled by exhaustion, by memory, by something softer now that the war is finally over.

Satoru lies on his back, shirtless on the futon, silver hair tousled and damp from a recent shower. The moonlight spills through the curtains in soft streaks, catching on the curve of his jaw, the pale slope of his collarbone, and all the places where his skin has been broken and mended again.

He’s scarred.

A long, jagged one curls over the left side of his ribcage. Another traces down the inside of his arm like lightning caught beneath skin.

But he’s alive.

Sukuna lost. The world still turns. And Satoru Gojo — the strongest — breathes next to you.

You reach out with a hand you try to keep steady, fingertips ghosting over the uneven terrain of his chest. He flinches. Barely, just a twitch beneath your touch, but you feel it. His muscles tense under your palm. His breathing shifts.

“Satoru,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I’m fine,” Satoru says, voice rougher than usual. Hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in hours — maybe days. “They don’t hurt. Not anymore.”

You don’t stop. Your fingers trace the jagged scar at his ribs, featherlight. Then up, brushing the edge of another that cuts across his shoulder. His skin twitches again under your hand, and his jaw tightens.

“They’re… sensitive,” Satoru admits after a moment, eyes on the ceiling. “Not pain. Just… I don’t know. Like they remember.”

You nod, your hand moving to cup his cheek, thumbing gently over the hollow just below his eye.

His gaze finally meets yours. The usual smugness, the gleam of confidence — all of it is dimmed, dulled. But what’s left is real. Raw. Honest.

“Do they scare you?” he asks, so quietly you almost don’t catch it.

“No,” you answer, immediate. “They remind me that you came back.”

Satoru blinks. His throat works around something unspoken.

You lower yourself so you’re curled half against him, your hand still resting lightly over his ribs. “Can I keep touching you?”

Satoru nods. Barely. So you do. Slowly, carefully, you map every inch of him with your hands, reverent, patient. You kiss the scars as you go. Some he tenses under. Some he sighs into. Some make him press his face into your shoulder and just breathe.