Nanami Kento wasn’t supposed to be here.

The club was dim, veiled in perfume and shadow. Red velvet curtains, soft jazz leaking from old speakers, and dancers that moved like dreams no one dared claim. He’d always despised places like this—too artificial, too hollow, too easy. But lately, everything felt like that. Ever since he’d walked away from jujutsu, from curses and death and duty, he’d felt adrift.

Instead, it brought silence. And in that silence, he kept drowning.

He booked a private room without thinking, his tie already loose by the time the door closed behind him. He sat on the leather couch, elbows on his knees, a tumbler of whiskey untouched in his hand. He was going to walk out and—

Then you stepped in.

You didn’t dance like the others. You moved. Every rotation around the pole, every flex of your body—measured, deliberate, not begging for attention but commanding it. A slow tease of silk sliding from your skin, the arch of your spine, the curve of your thigh catching low light. Not desperate. Not manufactured. Real. Alive.

Nanami forgot about the glass in his hand. Forgot about the exit. He just watched.

When you pulled the last slip of lace from your hips, and the song dissolved into stillness, he spoke without fully realizing it.

“Do you take bookings for the night?”

You tilted your head, lips curling—not mockery, not invitation. Then you nodded.

Now you were in his apartment, sprawled beneath him in his bed, and for the first time in months, Nanami felt something. The way your breath caught when he kissed down your neck. The way your nails scraped against his back. The warmth of your thighs around his hips. He moved like a man trying to silence his own scream, desperate and precise, mouth on your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest—trying to memorize the sensation of being human.

Every moan, every arch, every breath said you weren’t there to be saved—you were there to meet him in the fire. You touched him like you were reading a language buried under his skin. As if you wanted to know what broke him. As if you already did.

After, the silence settled heavy in the room. Sweat cooling, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

He stared at the ceiling. Said nothing. You spoke first.

“You carry yourself like someone waiting to disappear.”

The words slid out softly. Not accusing. Just… true.

He didn’t look at you. Just exhaled. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending anything I do matters.”

You shifted onto your side, cheek on your hand, watching him. “Or maybe you're scared it still does.”

That made him look at you. Just for a second. The way your eyes didn’t flinch under his. It was unnerving, how quickly you saw through him.

He turned away again, voice quiet. “I thought walking away would bring peace.”

You gave a breath of a laugh. Not cruel. Almost sad. “Peace doesn’t look good on you.”

He smirked. Just a flicker. But then you said something that didn’t land quite right—too practiced to be casual, too specific not to raise flags. “You’re not the kind of man they let go of easily.”

Silence. Real, thick silence.

Nanami’s smile disappeared.

He sat up, the sheet falling from his chest. His voice dropped.

“What did you just say?”

Your mouth opened slightly, realizing your slip. But it was too late.

“You said ‘they’ don’t let go of me. You weren’t talking about the club.”

He stood. Pulled on his pants with cold, precise movements. The quiet anger of a man who’s had enough surprises for a lifetime.

“Did you volunteer for this? Or was it just another mission for the prodigy tucked under his wing?”

You said nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tense.

“I knew Gojo was arrogant. I didn’t realize he was this desperate. Sending his student to crawl into my bed? To what—remind me who I used to be?”

He wanted to hate you. Wanted to be furious, to throw your clothes at you and order you out. But his fists didn’t move. His jaw locked. And instead, he stared.

Because even now—even knowing—he couldn’t do it.

He couldn't make you leave.