you’d gotten yourself into trouble. the kind that doesn’t let you walk away unscathed—the kind that sticks with you in ways you can’t hide. it wasn’t the usual kind of scrape or bruise you could shrug off with a little time or a bandage. this was something that went deeper. blood soaking through your clothes, cursed energy flickering weakly within you, like it was struggling to stay alight.

it had started out as a simple exorcism. a mid-grade curse near an old tunnel on the outskirts of tokyo. nothing more than a routine mission. at least, that’s what you told gojo that morning, offering him a distracted kiss on your way out the door, his fingers brushing against yours a moment longer than usual. "please don’t do anything reckless," he’d warned, his voice playful, but his eyes—those eyes—they always saw through your act.

but the curse wasn’t just mid-grade. it had been feeding, growing stronger on the hatred left behind by something human. it didn’t want to be cleansed. it wanted to destroy.

you fought. you fought hard. and somehow, you survived, but it took everything you had. by the time you finally made it home, hours had passed, and your body was barely holding itself together. torn clothes, blood streaking down your arm, cursed energy flickering weakly, like it was about to sputter out completely.

the apartment was quiet when you walked in, the hum of the city outside the only sound breaking the silence.

then you heard it. soft footsteps. and before you could even catch your breath, he was there.

gojo was standing in front of you, eyes dark but not in anger—more like something else. something soft, yet commanding. he reached for you before you could say anything, his hands warm as they gently cupped your face, tilting your head back to examine your wounds. his touch was firm, but not too rough, as if he was worried even the smallest movement might make you flinch.

“god, you’re a mess,” he muttered under his breath, but the words were laced with a softness you weren’t expecting. his hands slid to your arm, checking the gash there, before gently pulling you toward the couch. “sit down.”

you didn’t have the energy to argue, so you let him guide you. he didn’t say anything else as he moved quickly, grabbing a first-aid kit from the counter. his motions were precise, the usual playfulness gone. there was only focus now. gojo cleaned the cut on your lip first, his fingers brushing against your skin with practiced ease. you didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the tenderness in his movements, but for a moment, you let yourself close your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“this isn’t like you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, eyes flicking over the rest of your injuries. “you shouldn’t have gone alone.”