It started small.

A flicker in his technique. A delay in his reaction. A moment where the Infinity didn’t activate fast enough.

Gojo brushed it off.

Too tired. Too distracted. Too much on his plate.

But you noticed.

You weren’t a sorcerer. You didn’t know the mechanics of cursed energy. But you knew him.

You knew the way he moved, the way he covered his exhaustion with jokes, the way he deflected concern with sunglasses and smirks.

And this time, something was different.

He came to your place late one night, shoulders tense, blindfold off, eyes dimmer than usual.

You handed him tea.

He didn’t drink it. Just stared at the cup like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“You’re not okay,” you said.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him. Waited.

Finally, he spoke.

“I think something’s wrong.”

You didn’t speak.

He looked at you, and for once, there was no bravado. No grin. Just a man who was scared.

“I can feel it slipping,” he said. “Like I’m fraying at the edges.”

You reached for his hand.

He let you.

“You’re still you,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes. And for a moment, he let himself believe it. Not because it was true.

But because you said it.

And that was enough.