After Sukuna, the world celebrated Gojo as the strongest—but in your home, he sat in silence, refusing the mirror. His shirt hung loose, scars crawling over his skin like cruel reminders.

“Don’t look,” he muttered when you entered, pulling the fabric higher.

You knelt before him anyway, gently tugging it down. The scars were deep, jagged—but to you, they weren’t ugly. They were proof.

You kissed the one across his collarbone. He flinched. “Stop—” “Why?” you whispered. “Because… I’m not me anymore. I’m broken.”

You pressed another kiss lower, over the scar near his ribs. “No. You’re alive. You’re mine. That’s all I see.”

His breath hitched, eyes wet, hands clutching you like you were the only thing holding him together. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He let you touch, let you trace every scar like they were holy.

Later, before the mirror, he stood trembling. But with your hand in his, he finally faced his reflection.

And though he still saw the marks, he also saw you—pressed close, eyes steady, lips still tasting of love.

For once, that was enough.