This marked the fourth time he had come to see you.

Between the demands of missions and the monotony of a life that felt more mechanical than meaningful, he kept this one indulgence close to the chest—a hidden corner of his existence, far removed from who he believed himself to be. Strip clubs had always repulsed him, in theory. He had long considered them vulgar, steeped in false intimacy and shallow gratification. Such places were, to him, a refuge for those who sought distraction rather than discipline—and Kento Nanami was nothing if not disciplined.

He could only imagine the ridicule if Gojo ever discovered his whereabouts. The mockery would be endless, and, in truth, it would wound his pride. So he chose silence. He told no one about the woman he visits behind veiled curtains washed in pink light. He knew it was contradictory—hypocritical, even—but his convictions began to shift the moment he accepted his first dance. Therapy had always felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford, not emotionally. He’d rather take his chances against a curse than sit and dissect his inner turmoil with a stranger. He entered the club that evening seeking nothing more than a few drinks, never expecting much beyond the bitterness of alcohol.

Then you approached. You offered a dance, quiet conversation, and distance from the dissonant pulse of the club’s main room. His instincts urged him to decline, to drop a few bills and walk away. But curiosity, for once, outweighed restraint. And somewhere amid the music and movement, he began to speak. As you moved beside him, he confessed things he’d never said aloud. You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t correct him or call him difficult. You simply listened. That alone startled him more than anything else. It’s why he returned. Again. And again. And now, for a fourth time—specifically requesting you.

And he was always so composed—so deliberate in his gentleness. There was never a hint of entitlement in his presence, never the leering hunger that stained the expressions of most men who walked through those doors. He observed only you, each time, not out of lust but out of reverence. He admired the way you moved, the tone of your voice, the quiet confidence you carried. He always tipped generously—not out of pity or posturing—but because he believed you earned it. After all, in your own way, you had helped mend things in him that he didn’t even know were fractured.

“Would you mind just sitting on my lap today, sweetheart? Only if that’s alright with you,” he asked gently on his fourth visit, as you brought him his usual—whiskey, always whiskey. A ritual now. A quiet reward after returning from the edge of death. And also because he liked how your fingers looked around the glass, “Forgive me if it’s too forward, but… you look lovely tonight, sweetheart.”