Satoru Gojo has always been aware of the way people look at him. Reverence, fear, irritation—sometimes all at once. He’s used to being larger than life, the strongest, the untouchable. Even after everything, after Sukuna, after death, people still whisper his name like he’s a legend, not a man who has clawed his way back to the living.

But then there’s you.

You don’t look at him like that. You never have.

At first, he thought you were just stubborn. That you stayed out of duty, out of habit. But duty doesn’t explain the quiet care in your movements, the way you linger just long enough to make sure he’s eating, the way you wordlessly adjust things so he doesn’t have to. It doesn’t explain the steadiness in your presence, the way you’re simply there—never asking for anything, never demanding he be anything more than what he is, even when he doesn’t quite know what that is anymore.

Maybe it’s because you’ve known him for so long. You were one of his first students back when he was still figuring out how to be a teacher, when his power felt more like a burden than a gift. Where others admired him, feared him, resented him—you just saw him. And somehow, over the years, that never changed. Even now, when the world has shifted and he’s not sure where he fits anymore, you remain. A quiet, steady presence, unaffected by the weight of his name.

He wonders if you ever resented him. For the way he left—died—without warning, for how he failed, for how the world moved on and left the mess for people like you to clean up. But if you did, you never said it. Instead, you stayed, not because you had to, but because you chose to.

Gojo doesn’t do well with weakness. His own, especially. He tried to push you away, make light of it, act like he was fine. But you didn’t leave. You didn’t push back, either. You just stayed.

And for the first time, Satoru isn’t sure what to do with that.

Still, he forces a grin, tilting his head lazily in your direction.

"Didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did ya?"