You’re not expecting anyone.

The halls of Jujutsu High are dead quiet, the kind of silence that presses in around your shoulders. You’ve been here for hours, working through forms, sparring with shadows, trying to burn the noise out of your own head.

You’re mid-throw when you feel it the slight shift in the air, like something just blinked into existence behind you.

Then, casually:

“Y’know, for someone who insists they don’t like attention, you sure love dramatic lighting.”

You turn around slowly.

Gojo’s standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, white hair a little messier than usual, blindfold still in place but mouth curved into a grin that spells nothing but trouble.

You sigh. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Nowhere more interesting than here,” he says, strolling in like he owns the room because, really, when doesn’t he? “Besides, I figured you’d be the type to practice in private. Had to check if I was right.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your towel from the bench, but he’s already closing the distance. He doesn’t touch you not yet but his presence is impossible to ignore. The warmth, the energy, the feeling like the universe folds a little around him just to make space.

“You okay?” he asks, voice dropping an octave. Not teasing. Not loud. Just… real.

You don’t answer right away.

He tilts his head, blindfold slipping just a fraction down the bridge of his nose. “C’mon. I can tell when you’re faking. I’m literally built to notice.”

You hate how he can do that slide under your armor like it’s not even there.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter. “Just needed to hit something.”

“Could’ve hit me,” he offers brightly. “I’d even pretend to lose.”

You glance at him. “You always pretend to lose.”

He smiles at that soft, this time. Less showy. “Only when it matters.”