Suguru’s bed was soft beneath you, the familiar scent of incense clinging to the sheets. You lay sprawled out, lazily listening to the back-and-forth between your best friends. Gojo and Suguru sat cross-legged on the floor, faces turned toward each other, locked in yet another pointless argument.

“It’s not even a debate, Suguru,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Obviously, I’m right.”

Suguru exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about, Satoru.”

They had been at this for at least twenty minutes, arguing over something as ridiculous as whether pineapple belonged on pizza or if cursed spirits had personal preferences. You had stopped listening somewhere around Gojo calling Suguru a “pretentious monk” and had instead occupied yourself with the way the dim light cast shadows along the ridges of Suguru’s shoulders and the slope of Gojo’s jaw.

You had tuned them out ages ago, letting their voices blend into something distant and familiar. But what you didn’t tune out was the slow, firm press of Suguru’s fingers against your foot, kneading absentmindedly into the arch before dragging up to your ankle. His touch was easy, unhurried—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, just doing what felt natural.

Then, there was Gojo.

You could feel the weight of his gaze flicking between you and Suguru, something sharp and assessing behind the lenses of his sunglasses. His usual smugness had taken on a competitive edge, his words coming faster, his voice laced with something that almost felt like provocation.

It wasn’t uncommon for things to be close between the three of you. You’d kissed them both before—once, maybe twice. Maybe more. It was never serious, never a big deal. Just something shared in fleeting moments.

But tonight, it felt different. Like neither of them wanted to lose.

You weren’t sure what had changed, but you could feel it. In the air. In the way they looked at you. In the way neither of them was willing to back down.