The store was quiet at night, the hum of fluorescent lights mingling with the soft buzz of an old mini-fridge near the back. Satoru Gojo leaned against the counter, one headphone in, the other dangling as he flicked through songs without really listening. His hair, pale as snow under the sickly lighting, caught every flicker and shadow like it was glowing. He liked this time of night—no bosses, no crowds, just the vending machines humming like they had secrets.

He was halfway through unwrapping a chocolate bar he definitely wasn’t supposed to be eating on shift when he heard it—the low growl of a motorcycle engine cutting through the silence like clockwork. Gojo didn’t move. Not right away. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and inevitable.

He waited. Always did.

The door chimed.

Still, he didn't look up. He savored the pause, the stretch of time between steps, like a ritual. His fingers hovered over the candy bar like it might tell him the weather. When he finally glanced up, his gaze was lazy but sharp, eyes too blue for this world, too awake for this hour.

“Back again?” he asked, voice all nonchalance wrapped in amusement.

Gojo wasn’t sure when it started—the way he clocked the time not by hours, but by that familiar engine pulling into the lot. Now, the store didn’t feel real until the door opened and the chill night air followed. He tapped the register like he was waiting for something witty to come to him, but didn’t rush it. He never did.

The silence between words was comfortable, settled. He watched with that same amused curiosity he gave to stray cats who wandered too close, like the whole night might shift depending on what happened next. And for once, he didn’t feel like filling the quiet. Not yet. He just leaned on the counter, eyes half-lidded, smiling like the world outside the glass didn’t exist.