The door creaked open slowly, the soft click of the lock disengaging almost swallowed by the hush of the night.

Satoru stepped inside your apartment without a word, without the usual playful announcement or teasing grin. The lights from the television cast a flickering glow across the room, throwing shadows onto the walls and floor — the only light in the quiet space. His gait was heavy, not from injury but from something less visible, less simple to mend.

He kicked off his shoes haphazardly near the door, letting the silence wrap around him. His blindfold was gone, shoved into his coat pocket along with the strain of the night. His snow-white hair was tousled and windblown, the collar of his shirt askew from battle. Though his skin bore no cuts, and his body no bruises, exhaustion hung off him like a second skin.

The fight — with the special grade curse — was long. Vicious. And maybe, for the first time in a while, lonely.

His eyes moved slowly across the apartment until they landed on you.

There you were, curled up on the couch, your chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. The TV still played quietly in the background, some rerun left forgotten. A blanket draped messily over your legs, a half-finished mug of tea left forgotten on the side table.

You must’ve fallen asleep waiting for him.

Satoru’s breath caught for just a second. Something in his chest ached — a strange sort of ache, like a pressure that only eased when he looked at you.

He moved toward you, careful, cautious, like even a whisper too loud might wake you and break the moment. Then, without ceremony but with the gentleness only you ever got to see, he lowered himself on top of you — not crushing, but curling, curling close like he needed to be held. His arms slipped around your waist as he nuzzled into your chest, burying his face in the fabric of your shirt. The scent of you, familiar and grounding, washed over him.

He didn't speak at first.

The world was too loud. His head was too loud. But your heartbeat — your warmth — it was the only quiet he ever really found.

"Hey," he whispered into your shirt, so low you might not even hear. "I'm back."

He paused, swallowing hard. You didn't stir.

"I'm fine," he added, his voice a little tighter, a little more raw. "Don’t worry."

He knew he didn’t need to say that. He knew you’d worry anyway. But the lie helped him settle deeper against you.

Moments passed. Minutes. He just lay there, curled in your arms, letting the weight of his body sag into yours. Letting your warmth remind him that the world didn’t always have to be kept at arm’s length. That he didn’t always have to be strong. That maybe... maybe it was okay to fall apart a little when it was you.

"You smell nice," he murmured against your chest, lips barely moving. "Smells like home."

He let his eyes close. The tension in his shoulders began to ebb. You shifted a little in your sleep, instinctively pulling the blanket up over his back. The way you held him — even unconsciously — made his breath hitch. No one ever held him like that. Not as the strongest. Not as the weapon. Not as the shield. Just... Satoru.

"I wish I could stay like this forever," he whispered.

His fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt as his breathing began to slow. He let the sound of your heartbeat lull him, let the safety of your arms quiet the war still echoing in his head.

And for once — for the first time in days — Satoru Gojo let himself rest.