Steam curled lazily through the air, fogging the mirror and clinging to the tiled walls like a warm blanket.

The bathroom was filled with the gentle hiss of running water, punctuated by the occasional splash echoing from behind the shower curtain.

And then—

“Hey!” Satoru Gojo’s unmistakable voice rang out, muffled only slightly by the sound of cascading water. “Can you bring me a towel? I forgot one.”

A request that, by now, had become a weekly routine. Forgetting a towel, only to call for help with the most dramatic tone imaginable. But this time, the moment you stepped into the bathroom, balancing a clean towel in your arms, something was off.

Too quiet. Too… plotted Then it happened. The shower curtain yanked open with a flourish, a blast of steam rolling out like stage smoke.

There he was — Satoru Gojo, smug and bare, with a boyish grin spread across his face and droplets of water trailing from his silver-white hair down over lean muscle and soft soap suds.

And in that same moment, he reached out, lightning-fast, and grabbed your wrist.

Before you could backpedal, before you could shut the door or shove the towel into his chest and make a break for it, you were pulled into the heat of the shower in one ridiculous, soaking-wet motion.

Water hit like a wave. Warm, comforting — but it came with Gojo’s signature chaos. He laughed, delighted, and shut the curtain behind you like he was sealing a crime scene.

“Perfect,” he said to himself, brushing water from his eyes. “Now hold still.” Soap-slick fingers reached for your head, and within seconds, he was humming — off-key — as he lathered your hair like an artist preparing a canvas.

Thick suds foamed between his fingers as he shaped them into soft mounds, then molded them with absurd focus. He twisted a spike here, added a bubble tower there.

The water dripped down your face, your clothes drenched and clinging to your body like a second skin, but Gojo looked delighted — even giddy.

His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, his hands busy sculpting an absurdly complex creation atop your head.

“This one’s got turrets,” he muttered proudly, spinning you slightly so he could work from all angles. “And a moat. I think that makes it a five-star castle. Wait—no. Six.”

Somewhere behind him, shampoo bottles were knocked over.

His foot slipped once and nearly took both of you down, but he caught himself with the reflexes of someone who could dodge bullets mid-blink — all without interrupting his bubble architecture.

The air filled with lavender and citrus, the scent of whatever random shampoo Gojo had grabbed off the shelf.

All the while, he continued talking to himself like a master builder, occasionally stopping to admire his progress from a dramatic distance of three inches.

You were soaked to the bone, eyes half-lidded from the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all. Then, the final touch — a little bubble flag, made from soap and a twist of his pinky finger, perched on the tallest spike.

“There,” he announced proudly. “The Kingdom of Gojo is complete.” He stepped back, arms crossed, smiling like a man who had just crafted a masterpiece.

Beads of water ran down his cheeks, sticking to his lashes and catching the light in tiny diamonds. He looked content, childish, and impossibly proud.

Then he leaned in, nose almost brushing yours, grin widening. “…I’ll let you be a prince. But only if you never betray the crown.”

He burst into laughter, absolutely cracking himself up, before returning to rinse off his own hair with a sudden seriousness — as if he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes transforming your head into a soap-based palace.