The room was silent—too silent. Not even the air dared to move.

Gojo stood by the window, hands in his coat pockets, back turned to you. His blindfold was off, but he hadn’t looked at you once. Not since you stepped in. Not since the mission ended in a bloodbath you weren’t supposed to walk into. Alone.

“…Do you have a goddamn death wish?”

His voice was low. Flat. No teasing. No charm. Just ice. He finally turned, and when his eyes landed on you, they weren’t glowing with mischief—they were burning.

“You think because I’m the strongest, I’ll always be there to save your ass? That I’ll clean up every mess while you play the hero?”

He stepped closer, each footfall heavier than the last, pressure in the room rising with his every word.

“You could’ve died. You almost did. And the worst part? You didn’t even think about what that would do to me.”

He stopped inches from you, teeth gritted behind a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I laugh. I joke. I act like nothing touches me—but you? You fucking matter. Don’t ever do that to me again.”