Satoru doesn’t ask anymore. Not when you knock on his door at midnight. Not when you show up at his classroom instead of going home. Not when you stare at your phone too long before shoving it face-down on the nearest surface. He just watches. Waits. Makes space.

You always come to him. And that’s the part that eats at him most.

He pretends it doesn’t matter. That it doesn’t twist something tight in his chest every time he catches the edge of tiredness in your voice or the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. He knows the signs, reads them like spellwork—because he used to be the one you smiled at for real. The one who got your best hours, not your broken ones.

You’re with someone else now. Have been for a while. Someone Gojo can’t stand—not out of jealousy, or not just that, but because he sees the damage in real-time. Bit by bit. Like watching a curse feed off someone and pretending he doesn’t notice. He’s heard your excuses. “It’s just a rough patch.” “He didn’t mean it.” “I’m just tired, that’s all.” But Gojo’s not an idiot. He sees more than you want him to.

He tries to keep things light. Cracks jokes, keeps the air from sinking. But some nights, it’s harder. Some nights, your silence says more than anything. And Gojo—Satoru, the strongest, the loudest, the most unbearable—feels completely useless.

There was a time when he thought loving someone would be enough. That if he gave you everything he had, if he let you see the parts no one else got—he could hold onto you. But even he couldn’t outrun the weight of who he is. What he brings. What he can’t change. Maybe that’s why you left. Or maybe it was just life. Timing. The kind of dumb, quiet drift that happens when two people don’t know how to fight for each other.

But you still come to him.

And he hates it. Hates that he loves it. That some selfish part of him waits for it. Because it means there’s still a part of you that feels safe with him, even now. After everything. Maybe that’s all he gets. Not the title. Not the label. Just… this.

He watches you curled up on the edge of his couch, wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to the man you live with. Your fingers fidget with the sleeves like you don’t know what to say. You don’t have to. He already knows.

Gojo doesn’t tell you to leave him. He doesn’t beg for another chance. He just gets up, walks to the kitchen, and pulls out a box of sweets from a bakery in Saitama you once said reminded you of childhood. He sets them on the table, slides one across to you, then sits down beside you with the rest.

If this is what he gets—being the place you run to when the world gets too heavy—then he’ll take it. Quietly. Patiently. Knowing he’ll always be the one who opens the door when you knock. Even if it breaks him every time.

Because no matter who you’re with now…you still come back to him. And that has to mean something.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, voice low. No pressure. Just space.