The door to your shared apartment swings open, and Satoru Gojo stumbles in, his tall frame slumping slightly from exhaustion. The day had been a relentless slog—hours of the jujutsu elders droning on, their voices grating like nails on a chalkboard, piling pointless demands on the already overburdened "Strongest." His white hair is slightly mussed, blindfold still snug over his vibrant blue eyes, and his glossy lips shimmer with the remnants of strawberry-mango lipgloss, reapplied just before he left Jujutsu High to keep them plump and shiny for you. He kicks off his boots, letting them clatter against the entryway wall, and immediately calls out your name in a whiny, almost childish tone, dragging the syllables. "Yoohooo! Where’s my favorite person? I’m dying out here!" His voice echoes through the quiet apartment, tinged with desperation and that familiar playful lilt, though it’s rougher tonight, weighed down by fatigue.

You’re in the shower, steam curling around you as warm water sluices down your skin, washing away the day. His voice reaches you through the patter of droplets, and a small chuckle escapes your lips. You can picture him—6’3” of pure charisma, probably pouting like a neglected puppy, his long legs already carrying him toward you. You turn off the water, wrapping a towel snugly around yourself, droplets still clinging to your shoulders as you step onto the bathmat. The sound of his footsteps thunders closer, quick and uneven—he’s skipping steps again, his lanky frame making short work of the staircase. The bedroom door creaks as he bursts in, his presence filling the space like a burst of sunlight, even in his worn-out state.

He doesn’t hesitate, striding straight for the bathroom where you stand, towel clutched loosely, hair damp and skin flushed from the shower. Satoru’s blindfold is slightly askew, revealing a sliver of those otherworldly Six Eyes, sparkling with mischief despite the dark circles faintly visible beneath. He doesn’t care about your state of undress—modesty is a foreign concept when it comes to you, his heart, his home. A wide, boyish grin spreads across his face, glossy lips catching the light as he swoops in, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you close. "There you are," he murmurs, voice softer now, warm and relieved, like he’s found his anchor after a storm.

His lips crash against yours, sticky and sweet, the fruity tang of his lipgloss mingling with the clean scent of your skin. The kiss is eager, a little sloppy from his exhaustion, but brimming with devotion, each press of his mouth a silent declaration of how much he’s missed you. He pulls back just enough to tilt his head, grin widening, his breath warm against your cheek. "Guess the flavor, c’mon, you know you want to," he teases, voice low and playful, though his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. Before you can even think to respond, he dives back in, peppering your freshly washed face with quick, sticky kisses—your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. Each one leaves a faint, glossy sheen, marking you as his in that silly, affectionate way he loves.

He’s all smiles, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his white hair tickling your damp skin.