The music is loud. Too loud.
Your friends are laughing, lights flashing across your face in dizzy colors, and your phone keeps vibrating against the sticky table.
You squint at the screen.
Satoru Gojo.
A grin spreads across your face immediately.
“It’s the boss man,” you slur, holding up the phone dramatically before answering. “Satooooru~” you drag out, leaning back into the booth. “What’s up, pretty boy?”
There’s a pause.
Then a low chuckle through the speaker.
“Nice to know you think I’m pretty,” he says smoothly. But then his tone shifts—barely. Sharper. Focused. “Where are you?”
“I’m at a place!” you giggle. “With people! It’s fun. You should be here!”
“…You’re drunk.”
“I am not.”
“You just said ‘at a place.’”
You roll your eyes. “We’re just having drinks. Relax. No curses. No fighting.”
Silence.
Then, firmer
“Send me the location.”
You hesitate at his tone. It’s not playful anymore. It’s that quiet authority he uses in missions.
“Fineee.”
Ten minutes later, the club doors swing open.
Even in the chaos, he stands out.
Tall. Composed. Blindfold in place. That faint smirk.
His head tilts slightly as if scanning the room, and then he finds you.
You swear you see the tension leave his shoulders.
He walks over casually, hands in his pockets. “Sorry to steal them,” he tells your friends with a charming grin that earns instant giggles.
Then he looks at you.
“Let’s go.”
“You’re stealing me?” you pout.
He leans down slightly. “Yes.”
No teasing in his voice this time.
The night air hits you hard once you step outside.
The world spins.
You wobble.
A hand steadies you instantly at your waist.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
You lean into him without thinking. He smells like clean fabric and something faintly sweet. His hand stays firm at your back as he guides you down the street.
You shiver.
Without a word, his jacket is around your shoulders.
You blink up at him. “Are you taking me to your bed?”
He laughs softly. “Tempting. But you’re too drunk to appreciate me properly.”
You hum, resting your head against his shoulder as he walks. His heartbeat is steady. Warm.
“…I want you,” you mumble, barely coherent. “Always want you… love you.”
He stops walking.
Completely.
You blink up at him lazily.
Even without seeing his eyes, you feel the intensity shift.
“…What did you just say?”
“Hm?”
His hands tighten slightly around you—not possessive, just grounding. Real.
“Do you love me?” he asks quietly.
There’s no teasing. No arrogance.
Just… hope.
You sigh sleepily against him. “Yeah… stupid pretty boy…”
You’re half-asleep when you feel him exhale.
Then his forehead presses gently to yours.
He doesn’t grin this time.
He doesn’t joke.
He kisses your forehead softly—longer than usual.
“You don’t get to take that back in the morning,” he whispers. “I love you too.”
And for once
Satoru Gojo isn’t the strongest sorcerer in the world.
He’s just a man holding the person who makes him weak.