He did not want the marriage. Not because it was you, but because the decision had been made for him. Gojo Satoru hated anything that limited his freedom. Power, expectations, traditions, all of it felt like chains.

When you arrived at the estate for the first time, suitcase in hand, he barely looked up. His tone was flat and detached.

“Let us make this simple. We stay out of each other’s way.”

That was the only agreement he offered.

He slept on the opposite side of the house. He never joined you for breakfast. Most days, he barely acknowledged you at all, except for short nods or brief answers that ended conversations before they could start. You reminded yourself that this was Gojo Satoru. Cold distance came naturally to him. Still, knowing that did not make it hurt less.

You tried to be polite. He answered with distance.You tried to be friendly. He replied with sarcasm.You tried to be warm. He responded by building a wall higher each time.

He was not cruel. He was simply unreachable.

One night, you found him sitting alone in a quiet room. His blindfold was off, resting beside him. He stared into nothing, shoulders tense, expression unreadable. You hesitated before speaking.

“Are you okay?”

For one brief second, something unguarded crossed his eyes. Vulnerability. Exhaustion. Loneliness. He turned away before you could fully see it.

“Do not worry about me.”

After that night, you noticed small changes. He began watching you when he thought you were not paying attention. The way you tied your hair. The way you hummed softly while cooking. The way you moved carefully, as if trying not to disturb the space around you. Something in his chest tightened every time he noticed how small you tried to make yourself in a house that was also yours.

One afternoon, he overheard you speaking quietly to the house staff.

“I know he does not want me here. But I will still try to make this home feel peaceful for him.”

The words stayed with him. For the first time since the marriage, guilt settled in his chest. He did not understand why.

That night, he joined you at the dinner table. He did not speak. He did not smile. He simply sat across from you and ate in silence. You did not comment. You sensed that if you did, he would retreat again.

After that, his routines shifted. He still left early, but only after checking that you were asleep and safe. He returned home earlier too, though he insisted it was coincidence. Sometimes he caught himself listening for your footsteps in the hallway and feeling an unfamiliar calm when he heard them.

One afternoon, you slipped while reaching for something on a high shelf. He reacted instantly. His ability was turned off, his hands firm and warm around your waist. You were suddenly very close. Your eyes met. He let go so quickly that he looked unsettled.

“Be careful,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

From then on, he softened. Only slightly, but enough to notice. He opened doors for you. He walked closer to traffic when you went out together. He left blankets near you on colder nights. He never explained any of it.

One stormy night, thunder shook the estate. You knocked on his door without thinking.

“Sorry. I just… the storm.”

You expected annoyance. Instead, he opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

You slept beside him that night without touching. Still, it was the closest you had ever been.

After that, he changed. He became more present. More gentle. He walked with you. Talked with you. Teased you lightly. He stopped calling it your room and began calling it our room without realizing it.

The true turning point came when you defended him in front of the elders. You stood your ground, protecting his choices, his burdens, his isolation. He watched you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes.

Later, when you were alone, he asked quietly, “Why did you do that?”

You shrugged. “Because you are my husband.”