It was past midnight.

The only light in the room was the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across the messy tangle of limbs and blankets. Gojo lay on his stomach, shirtless, hair tousled into white waves across the pillow, his blindfold crumpled nearby. His face was relaxed — lips slightly parted, cheek smashed against the sheets, breathing slow and deep.

You smiled at the sight.

Peaceful Gojo was a rare phenomenon. A sleeping Gojo? Practically a myth.

Which is exactly why you couldn't resist.

You leaned over, shook his shoulder urgently, and hissed, “Hey. Satoru. Wake up!”

He groaned, low and gravelly, not even lifting his head. “Mmmff. Five more minutes. Or ten. Or forever.”

“No time! My boyfriend's coming, you have to hide!”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

His eyes blinked open—groggy, confused, half-lidded—and he sat up abruptly, hair even more of a disaster than usual.

“Your—wait, WHAT?”

He looked around like he'd just been dropped into an unfamiliar battlefield, grabbing for the edge of the blanket and half-rolling off the bed.

“Where?! Is he cursed? Is he fast?! Is he—wait, can he fight?!”

You tried so hard not to laugh. His panic, even through the sleep haze, was both heroic and ridiculous.

He froze mid-crawl to the floor, squinting up at you through wild bed hair.

“…Wait a second.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a boyfriend.” Then, slowly: “I’m your boyfriend.”