Footsteps approach down the corridor—steady, unhurried.

Gojo looks up from where he’s leaning against the wall, blindfold low over his eyes, and that familiar grin appears like it’s been waiting for the cue.

“Wow,” he says lightly. “Guess my day’s officially improved.”

He straightens and falls into step beside you without asking, hands tucked into his pockets, stride matching yours with lazy precision. He talks like he always does—easy jokes, half-serious commentary—but his attention doesn’t drift.

“Training run long?” he asks, tone casual. "You’ve got that ‘I survived something annoying’ look.”

A quiet laugh slips out when no immediate response comes. “Tough crowd. Didn’t know third-years were immune to my charm now.”

He tilts his head, fingers hooking under the edge of his blindfold just enough to reveal a flash of blue, bright even in the fading afternoon light.

“You know,” he continues, voice lower but still teasing, “most people start avoiding me after five minutes. You keep walking.”

His grin widens as the end of the hallway comes into view. “I’ll take that as a win.”