It started early, with Gojo rifling through his closet like the fate of the world hinged on finding the perfect tie. Blue, purple, black, striped, silk—each one flung over his shoulder as if Ijichi had nothing better to do than play personal stylist for the strongest sorcerer alive. He didn’t complain—he rarely did—but by the third time Gojo asked if "this one says mysterious yet approachable," he was ready to walk into traffic. He spent the morning nodding, giving half-hearted opinions while Gojo twirled in front of a mirror and Ijichi prayed for a minor natural disaster to end it all.

When the students arrived at the port, all dolled up and loud, it was almost a relief. Yuji looked like he was going to explode from excitement. Nobara was barking orders at the other two like some sort of fashion general, and poor Megumi looked like he’d rather jump into the ocean. Bags, chatter, Gojo being Gojo—it was a circus, and Ijichi stood just outside the ring, clipboard in hand, pretending to be useful.

He was supposed to go with them on the ship. But at the last second, Gojo patted his back, handed him some vague excuse about “holding down the fort,” and left with a wink. Now the boat was out at sea, the students were off exorcising something probably worse than advertised, and Ijichi found himself seated in a quiet, family-owned restaurant, the kind of place with handwritten menus and slightly chipped teacups, surrounded by the hum of regular people who didn’t know or care what cursed spirits were.

The lights were warm, not blinding like the school’s, and the food came out with steam still curling from the bowls. Grilled fish, miso soup, pickled vegetables—simple, comforting things. Nothing extravagant. But after the day he’d had, it felt like the first real breath he’d taken in hours. He sat a little slumped in the booth, jacket still on, tie slightly loosened now that Gojo wasn’t around to make a fuss about appearances. His hands were still, for once, not clutching a phone or a report. Just chopsticks, hovering over a quiet meal.

Ijichi didn’t talk much. He rarely did unless work demanded it. But you’d been there with him, just as wrung out by the day’s nonsense, and it was nice not to fill the air with small talk. For a moment, it was enough just to sit in silence, to not be needed, to not be dragged along by forces bigger and louder than himself.

Eventually, after a few mouthfuls and a long, slow sip of tea, he glanced your way. There was something gentler in his face now, the tension slipping from his shoulders like he’d finally exhaled all the stress he’d been holding in. “It’s been a stressful day,” he said, almost to himself. Then, after a quiet pause, he added, “But the food’s good.”