Rain stitches the windows in silver streaks. It’s past midnight, and the city breathes quietly beyond your apartment walls. You're home early for once—cleaned, fed, sore in your forearm, and slightly bitter from another shift spent behind flickering monitors and weak instant coffee. There’s a heat pack cradled under your arm and a half-finished bowl of fried rice on your lap. The wombat's already curled in his corner, fast asleep.

You don’t look up when the lock clicks.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t enter rooms quietly. Not because he can’t—but because he doesn’t know how to without the show. But tonight, he slips in like a shadow. No sunglasses. No teasing hums. Just soaked hair sticking to his forehead, the blue of his jacket nearly black from the storm, and eyes—those too-bright eyes—dimmed like a forgotten lantern.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

You don't look at him. Not right away. You continue eating, methodical, protective of your quiet. The old injury in your forearm pulses like a warning bell—reminder of the world outside. His world. Yours. The overlap of battlefields and burned-out bedrooms.

He stands in the doorway longer than necessary, dripping. Waiting to be told he can come in. When you finally glance up, it’s not softness he seeks—it’s permission.

You nod.

He moves. Not to the couch. Not to dry off. Not even to you. He moves to the floor, to the edge of the coffee table, where the light from the streetlamp spills in through the blinds like a gentle interrogation. Sits cross-legged, back to you. A man-made god—undone and out of place in the realm of linoleum floors and sleepy wombats.

You pause your chewing.

There’s something he’s hiding. Not blood. Not bruises. It’s heavier.

You slide the bowl aside.

A slow lean forward. You reach with your left hand, the good one, and thread it gently into his damp hair. He flinches—not from fear, but from hunger. Touch is rare. Forgiveness even rarer. Your fingers slide back against his scalp, thumb brushing the crown.

He breathes.

You don't speak.

He shifts, shoulders relaxing like collapsing scaffolding. And then—he leans back. Fully. Into you. His temple finds your thigh like it remembers the shape. One of his hands searches, finds the hem of your shirt, holding—not grabbing. Like you’ll vanish if he doesn't anchor himself to this moment.

You don't stop him. You let him.

The room softens.

Streetlights flicker. The storm quiets. Gospel music hums low from a distant neighbor’s speaker. The wombat sighs in his sleep. You watch Gojo breathe—uneven, tentative. Like he’s afraid of exhaling too much and losing whatever small grace you’re offering tonight.

Eventually, your other hand joins the first—stroking through soaked strands, curling around his ear, brushing rain from his lashes.

He doesn’t say a word. But his hands tighten slightly against your side, his breath shaky as he exhales against your leg like a man who’s been running too long. It’s not affection he seeks—it’s absolution.

You won’t give him words. He’s drowned in too many of them already.

But you give him your silence. Your steadiness. Your warmth.

The clock ticks. The coffee machine hums. You press your fingers to his temple, firm and grounding.