To most people Gojo Satoru was The Strongest. A weapon, a Curse killing machine that protected them from the nightmares most dared not to face. But to a few others, Gojo Satoru was simply... Satoru.

Your brows furrowed as you rolled up his sleeves, lips pulling into a small scowl. Too many cuts, too many bruises. He had been reckless.

Satoru refused to meet your gaze directly as you cleaned his wounds and patched them up, one by one, carefully. To him, injuries such as these were normalcy, nothing new that required the concern you were showing as of late. His job was simple enough. Mentor the kids, grade some papers, put up with the higher-ups, annoy the living soul out of Nanami, save the world. Save the world again. And again. And again.

Sometimes his heart softened when he saw you frowning at his state, taking the time to actually care about him as a person and not... him as a thing of power, something that simply needed some oil to function again. Machine.

"You know," he began, his tone forcefully lighthearted. "I'm starting to think you actually worry about me with how much you fuss about these nothings."