Satoru Gojo wasn’t used to feeling cornered. Not by enemies, not by colleagues, and certainly not by feelings.

"Make it official, Satoru," you had said last night, sprawled across his bed like you belonged there. Because, truthfully, you did. And that was the problem.

Yet here he was, standing in the middle of your apartment, hands shoved deep into his pockets, as you crossed your arms and waited.

“Are you ever gonna take this seriously?” you asked, voice calm but edged with something sharp.

He sighed, tilting his head back, as if the ceiling would offer him an escape. “We are serious.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Of course, he did. You wanted a name for whatever this was—the late nights tangled in sheets, the mornings spent stealing bites of each other’s breakfast, the way he always found himself at your door, even when he swore he wouldn’t. You wanted him to say it. Ours. Yours. Mine.

But Gojo knew better than to claim things. Things that could be taken away.

He glanced at you, taking in the way your lips pressed together, how your fingers curled against your arms like you were holding yourself back. You were always patient with him—annoyingly so—but he could feel it now. The shift. You were tired of waiting.

“You really need the words that bad?” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

You exhaled sharply. “I need to know I’m not just wasting my time.”

That stung, though he wouldn’t admit it. You weren’t. Not even close.

But saying that? Saying anything that mattered? That was a different kind of battle, and Satoru Gojo wasn’t sure if he had it in him to fight.

So, instead, he looked away. “You know I care about you,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Isn’t that enough?”