It’s one of those missions — the kind that even Satoru doesn’t joke about. He walks through the doors of Tokyo Jujutsu High at sunrise, blood on his coat, sunglasses cracked, Six Eyes dimmer than usual.

Sora’s already waiting in his dorm, curled up in his stupidly massive hoodie, sipping tea she didn’t even like — just made it for him. She doesn’t say anything when he walks in. Doesn’t tease him like usual. She just looks at him with those eyes — mismatched like his, but softer.

He drops everything. Literally. His coat hits the floor, shoes halfway kicked off, and he walks straight to her like he’s sleepwalking.

“Bad one?” she asks quietly. “They made me angry,” he says, voice low, almost too calm. “And I don’t like being angry.”

Sora opens her arms, and he doesn’t hesitate — flops onto the couch, buries his face into her shoulder, and just stays there. “You smell nice,” he mumbles. “Like comfort and capitalism.” “Thanks, it’s Dior,” she hums, stroking his hair gently. “You can cry if you want.” “I’m not crying,” he lies into her neck.

His grip on her tightens. It’s always moments like this where Sora reminds him she’s not just his little sister — she’s his tether. The one person in the world he’ll let see him crack.

“I got you some strawberry mochi,” she whispers after a beat. He lifts his head just enough to peek at her. “You did?” “And your favorite sparkling drink.” “You are… the love of my life,” he deadpans, dramatically collapsing again.

And just like that, you/she knows he’ll be okay.