It was raining again.

Not the kind that made you rush indoors, but the kind that made you want to stay in bed, wrapped in blankets and soft conversation.

Gojo was on your couch.

Not in uniform. Not masked. Just in a hoodie too big for him, socks mismatched, hair damp from the walk over.

You were in the kitchen, humming something tuneless, stirring tea.

He watched you.

Not with his usual grin.

Just quietly.

Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved, the way your voice filled the room without trying.

You handed him a mug.

He took it.

Held it like it was fragile.

“You know,” he said, “I could be halfway across the world right now. Fighting something ancient. Saving someone important.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And yet you’re here.”

He smiled.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I think I wanted to see what it felt like,” he said.

“What?”

“To be ordinary.”

You sat beside him.

He leaned his head back, eyes closed, steam rising from his cup.

“I don’t get this,” he murmured. “Quiet. Safety. You.”

You didn’t speak.

He opened his eyes. Looked at you.

And for once, he didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. Didn’t run. He just stayed.

And the world waited.