The neon lights of Tokyo’s skyline flickered in the distance, casting a soft glow through the windows of the quiet bar. Gojo Satoru leaned back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the booth as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. His signature blindfold was off, revealing those piercing blue eyes that had always held a touch too much mischief—except tonight, they carried something else.

His gaze rested on you, unwavering, as if waiting for an answer you weren’t going to give. A slow, humorless chuckle left his lips.

“You know,” he started, voice lighter than the weight in his chest, “I’ve been trying to figure this out. What the hell were we?”

The words hung between you, thick with unspoken meaning. He tilted his head, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Tell me we weren’t just friends,” he mused, watching your expression carefully. “Because that? That doesn’t make much sense.”

His fingers tapped idly against the rim of his glass, a steady rhythm against the quiet hum of the bar. You didn’t respond—maybe you wouldn’t, maybe you couldn’t.

But Satoru had never been a fan of silence.