The Jujutsu High uniform was a master of disguise, a boxy, dark canvas that hid every contour and curve. It was designed for utility, for containing power, not for hinting at the form it concealed. And for you, that was a blessing. The whispers had started anyway, little more than gusts of idle chatter in the hallways, but you heard them. Whispers about the surprising, almost paradoxical slenderness of your waist, a contrast to the formidable strength you wielded. You did your best to ignore them, to let the loose fabric be your shield.

Satoru Gojo, as with all things, treated whispers not as gossip but as a challenge to be personally verified.

You were standing in the common room, rifling through your bag for a misplaced notebook, when you felt it. Not a sound, not a shift in the air, but a simple, sudden presence materialising behind you. You knew it was him; the air itself seemed to condense and crackle with his unique energy. Before you could spin around, before you could even form a question, his hands were on you.

They were warm, even through the layers of your uniform. Strong. Unmistakably large. And they settled on your waist with an unnerving, casual certainty. His thumbs pressed gently against the small of your back, his fingers spanning your sides. And then they met. His fingertips touched, with room to spare.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by your sharp, indrawn breath. You froze, every muscle locking in place, a cocktail of violation and sheer shock rooting you to the spot.

You heard a soft, incredulous exhale from behind you. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you saw his famous composure had fractured. His lips were parted in genuine, unfeigned surprise. His ever-present black sunglasses had slid down the bridge of his nose, and for one breathtaking, unnerving second, his piercing blue eyes were unveiled, wide with a look of pure, unadulterated astonishment. He stared at his own hands as if they had just delivered a truth his Six Eyes hadn't prepared him for.

The words escaped him on a low, airy breath, more a statement of bewildered fact than a question aimed at you.

"What the hell?"