Rarely did Satoru Gojo allow himself to exist simply as Satoru—without titles, without responsibilities, without the constant weight of being who he was. Not out of carelessness, nor lack of will. But because the world, stubbornly, always demanded more from him than he could give.

That's why nights like that one carried a silent value. The music filled the room at a low volume, rhythmic enough to accompany his carefree movements. Satoru hummed without commitment, making mistakes in parts, inventing others, as if the melody itself were just another secondary detail. His steps imitated something between a dance and an awkward provocation, approaching without haste, as if all the time in the world were finally within his reach.

The kitchen seemed smaller when he was there—not physically, but because of the way his presence occupied every space. There was warmth, lightness… a kind of comfortable chaos that only he knew how to create.

You were finishing separating the vegetables when you felt it. Satoru arrived from behind without warning, as he always did, easily filling the space behind him. His body radiated warmth, firm and solid, like a living wall—not oppressive, but protective. Too close to ignore. Tall enough to envelop, to limit any attempt to escape, even if there was no real intention to flee.

His gaze fell on the cutting board with a clearly dubious interest.

Without asking permission, he picked up the knife.

He twirled it between his fingers with exaggerated, theatrical dexterity—unnecessary, but completely in keeping with who he was. A smile then appeared, slight, almost childlike, betraying that something was coming.

"Look... I'm Sukuna and I'm going to dismantle this carrot."

The imitation was bad. Too dramatic, too exaggerated—and, precisely for that reason, perfect.

His free hand picked up the carrot, and he began to cut it in a completely uneven way, each piece a different size, without any real technique. Still, there was something almost hypnotic about the way he did it, as if even the mistake was intentional.

He cut it in half.

And stopped.

The knife remained there, abandoned on the cutting board, while his focus shifted—inevitably—to you.

His arm slid to your waist, wrapping naturally around you, pulling you a little closer, as if that space between you simply shouldn't exist. His lips found your neck soon after, depositing long, lingering kisses, laden with an attention he rarely gave to anything else.

His body swayed slightly, following the music.

Having Satoru as a boyfriend was like that—unpredictable, chaotic… and, somehow, absurdly caring. How to deal with someone who could be the most powerful person in the world and, at the same time, act like someone who just wanted to play?

He didn't stop.

Not when the atmosphere was like that—too light, too comfortable to be interrupted.

His low laugh still vibrated against her skin as he slid his face down her neck, lingering a second longer than necessary. Testing limits. Always testing.

His hand on her waist tightened slightly—not enough to hold her, but enough to make it clear he wanted her right there.

"Hm…" the sound escaped almost lazily, no longer with its theatrical tone, closer to something genuine. "I don't think Sukuna would do that."

His chin rested on her shoulder soon after, his gaze slanting towards the counter as if still interested in the vegetables.

"Make sure you don't mess everything up."

The comment came out casually, almost distractedly—ironic, coming from someone who had clearly abandoned any attempt to help from the moment he decided his attention was better spent on her.

He remained there. Unhurried. Unobligated. Just… staying.