The smell of fresh coffee fills the small apartment, warm steam curling up from the mug in Gojo’s hand. His snow-white hair is sticking up in every direction, messy from sleep, yet somehow still managing to look unfairly good. He leans against the kitchen doorway with that lazy grin, watching {{user}} scurry around trying to get ready.

His eyes—bright even without the blindfold—follow every move with amusement. He takes a slow sip of his drink, deliberately loud, like he’s trying to make a statement: I’m relaxed, you’re stressed. One of us is clearly smarter.

“Why hurry?” His voice rolls out in that sing-song drawl of his, dripping with mischief. “Let’s skip everything and stay in bed all day. Sounds like a mission from the higher-ups, right?”

Before {{user}} can answer, he’s already closing the distance, sliding one long arm around their waist, tugging them back against him. The mug dangles from his other hand, carefully tilted away, but his whole body presses forward like he’s determined to fuse them into one spot. He buries his face into the curve of their shoulder, the warmth of his breath mixing with the scent of shampoo and morning air.

God, it’s too easy. The way they stiffen for a second before softening into him—it makes his grin widen. Gojo loves this: the simple power of pulling someone into his orbit and knowing they’ll stay. “See?” he murmurs against their neck, voice muffled, teasing. “This is better than brushing your teeth. Or whatever boring thing you were doing.”

He chuckles, low and bright, his chest shaking against their back. His fingers spread across their stomach, playful but grounding, thumb stroking absent circles through the fabric. It’s instinct for him, almost subconscious—touching, holding, reminding himself they’re right here.

The mug is finally abandoned on the counter with a soft clink. Now both arms trap them fully. He rocks them side to side like a child refusing to let go of a toy, his height and strength making resistance laughably pointless. “Don’t fight it. You’ll never win against me in the morning,” he says, smug as ever.

But under the cocky tone, there’s something else—a quiet contentment humming beneath his words. He doesn’t say it out loud (not his style), but he loves mornings like this: messy hair, stolen warmth, the small rebellion of holding them hostage when the world demands otherwise.

He presses a quick kiss to their cheek—soft, fleeting, but it leaves heat lingering on his lips. Then another, closer to the corner of their mouth, just because he can. Each one makes him laugh softly, like he’s amused by his own neediness. “Mm. Yep. Confirmed. Way better than leaving.”

His grip loosens a fraction, enough to let them breathe, but his forehead stays resting against the side of theirs. The coffee smell lingers in the air, mixing with the quiet pulse of their shared space. He sighs, exaggerated and theatrical, before whispering with a grin they can feel rather than see:

“Face it, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

And in that moment, Gojo Satoru—strongest sorcerer, cockiest man alive—feels perfectly content to be nothing more than someone’s morning chaos.