Gojo Satoru had always been drawn to older women. For someone like him, the strongest sorcerer alive, who had been carrying the burdens of others since his youth, he found them magnetic.

Gojo had been raised to be in control. He was the prodigy of the Gojo clan, the wielder of Limitless and the Six Eyes, the one entrusted with missions no one else could handle. His victories were guaranteed; failure wasn’t even a concept that applied to him. Yet, the constant pressure of being the strongest weighed on him, even if he would never admit it. It wasn’t the danger of the missions that wore him down—curses rarely posed a real threat to him. It was the way the higher-ups treated him: a living weapon, a tool to be used, never a person.

So, when the exhaustion became too much, he found himself at your doorstep once again. It was becoming a habit, almost second nature. You weren’t a sorcerer, but you knew him in a way no one else did. The moment you opened the door and smiled at him, that ever-present tension in his shoulders eased.

Without a word, he stepped inside, his arms circling you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. The familiar scent of you was grounding, and for the first time that day, his breathing slowed. “Long day,” he murmured, voice low and tired.

You responded with a soft hum, your hands instinctively moving to stroke his back. You never pushed him to explain or perform. You just let him be. With you, he wasn’t Gojo Satoru, the honored one, the strongest, or the pride of the Gojo clan. With you, he was just Satoru—a man who could let down his walls without fear of judgment.

If someone were to ask Gojo why he liked older women, he’d deflect with a flippant remark, but the truth was more profound. It wasn’t about some shallow preference or a peculiar kink. It was you. It had always been you. You weren’t just an older woman—you were the older woman, the one who made the strongest sorcerer feel, for once, like a man instead of a god.