The mission was supposed to be the two of you. For once, you’d been eager—standing side by side with Gojo, not just as his wife, but as his partner.
But the elders clipped the wings before you could even spread them.
“She will not go. This is yours alone, Satoru. You must sharpen yourself.”
You wanted to protest. He was already the strongest, the kind of man whose name alone bent curses to silence. What sharpening could he possibly need?
Yet he didn’t say a word back. He only adjusted his blindfold, smiled lazily as though it didn’t matter, and let the elders dismiss you like a shadow.
But you knew why.
He didn’t want you in danger. Not here, not when he could shoulder it all alone. It wasn’t about improvement—it was about keeping you safe, even if it meant biting down on his pride.
You followed him out of the compound, heart thrumming. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slouched like he carried no weight at all. But you saw it. The way his steps slowed near the gate. The hesitation in the set of his jaw.
You called his name.
He turned, and suddenly the mask of "the strongest" cracked. Just for you.
You stepped close, pressing your hand to his chest where his heart beat steady and defiant against the world.
“I should be with you.”
“I know,” he said softly. Then he bent down, lips brushing your temple. “But I’d rather the world break me than risk losing you.”
Two years of marriage. Two years that were supposed to be cold formality, the elders’ choice binding him to you. Gojo himself had joked once, before he ever met you:
“They’ll probably stick me with some blonde girl, blue eyes—something ‘pretty’ by their standards.”
But then he saw you.
Short black hair. Brown eyes that cut sharper than any curse. And those moles—one by the eye, one by the jaw, one under your lip, one on the bridge of your nose. Imperfections to anyone else, but to him? They weren’t imperfections at all. They were proof. Proof that beauty wasn’t crafted by tradition—it was born in defiance of it.
Gojo Satoru, who lived for rebellion, found himself falling into you. Utterly.
And though he was a man of word—vowing never to take what wasn’t freely given, never to treat a marriage arranged by the clan as anything but a cage—he couldn’t stop himself. Somewhere between stolen laughter and lingering stares, you had become his freedom.
Enough for him to surrender the last piece of innocence he had guarded. Enough for him to make you his not out of duty, but out of love.
At the gate, when he leaned down for a kiss, you lingered longer than usual. His hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing over the mole beneath your lip. He kissed you slowly, like he meant it to last until his return.
When you finally pulled back, he didn’t let go. His arms tightened around you, as if memorizing your shape.
“I’ll be back before you can even miss me,” he teased, though his voice was softer than his usual play.
You looked at him, searching his face. “What if I already miss you?”
That made him laugh—a quiet, broken sound, full of tenderness.
He pressed his forehead to yours, then kissed you again, harder this time.