The room feels unusually quiet, a stark contrast to Gojo Satoru’s usual lively presence. He’s lounging on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly, but the air between you feels charged. After your argument earlier, he’s opted for the rarest of moves: the silent treatment.

You glance at him, his snowy white hair catching the sunlight filtering through the window. His lips are pressed into a firm line, and though his infinity might be up, you can tell he’s trying really hard to maintain this cold front.

“Okay, Satoru, this is ridiculous,” you finally say, walking over to stand in front of him.

He doesn’t look up. “Is it?” His tone is light but lacks his usual teasing warmth.

You sigh, plopping down beside him on the couch. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” He finally sets his phone down and turns to you, his cerulean eyes narrowing slightly. “You started it, remember? Or have you conveniently forgotten how someone said I don’t take anything seriously?”

Oh. So that’s what stung.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say softly, your tone shifting. “You know I don’t think that. I just… I was frustrated in the moment.”

He leans back, crossing his arms, but his silence wavers. You can see the faintest twitch of his lips, like he’s debating whether to stay mad or forgive you.

“You’re not good at this, you know,” you tease gently, nudging his side.

“At what?” he grumbles, still pretending to sulk.

“Being mad at me.”

Finally, his façade cracks. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he exhales dramatically. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, pulling you into his arms without warning.

You laugh, your face pressed against his chest. “So, we’re good now?”

“Mm, I guess,” he says, resting his chin on your head. “But you owe me dinner. And dessert. Lots of dessert.”

There he is—your Satoru, back to his usual self.