Late evening settles softly over Tokyo Jujutsu High, the campus unusually calm after a long day of training. The hallway outside Suguru’s dorm is dim, warm light slipping faintly from beneath his door.

Inside, Suguru Geto sits cross-legged on the floor, back straight, a small cursed spirit contained lazily between his fingers as he studies it with quiet focus. The room is neat — futon folded, books stacked carefully, incense burning faintly near the window.

There’s a knock.

He doesn’t look surprised.

“Come in, Satoru,” he says calmly, before you even open the door.

Because of course he knows your cursed energy.

The door slides open and you step in, tall, careless, sunlight still clinging to you like you brought it indoors. Suguru’s gaze lifts slowly — not rushed, not dramatic — just steady.

It softens.

Only slightly.

“You’re loud even when you’re quiet,” he murmurs.

The cursed spirit dissolves between his fingers without him looking at it.

He rises smoothly to his feet and steps closer, stopping just inside your space. Not crowding. Just close enough that the air shifts.

“You didn’t come here to argue,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “So what is it?”

His eyes trace your expression like he’s reading a book he already knows by heart.

A brief pause.

Then, softer:

“…Or did you just miss me?”

He tilts his head faintly — composed as ever.

But he hasn’t stepped back.

And he won’t.