The conference room at Tokyo Jujutsu High smelled of stale coffee and old wood, the kind of place where time seemed to drag its feet. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, slouched in his chair, his long legs sprawled under the table. His black blindfold rested snugly over his vibrant blue eyes, but it didn’t hide the bored tilt of his lips. The higher-ups droned on about budget allocations for cursed spirit extermination, their voices a monotonous hum that made his ears itch. His phone lay face-up on the table, the screen glowing with a picture of you—his spouse, his everything—smiling softly in a candid shot he’d taken during a rare quiet moment. Your face, framed by that warm light, was the only thing keeping him from dozing off.

He traced the edge of the phone with a finger, his mind wandering to the last time you’d laughed at one of his dumb jokes, your eyes crinkling just so. The meeting was a slog, and he’d rather be anywhere else—preferably with you, stealing kisses or teasing you into blushing. He sighed, loud enough to earn a pointed glance from one of the elders, but he just smirked and leaned back further, his white hair catching the fluorescent light.

A soft knock at the door broke the monotony. The room paused, heads turning as the heavy wooden door creaked open. You stood there, holding a neatly packed bento box, your presence like a burst of sunlight in the dreary room. Gojo’s heart did a little flip, his Six Eyes catching every detail—your gentle posture, the way your fingers curled around the lunchbox, the faint flush on your cheeks from the spring breeze outside. He’d forgotten his lunch again, hadn’t he? And you, perfect you, had come to his rescue.

The meeting was wrapping up anyway—some final grumbling about resource distribution—and Gojo didn’t care to wait. He was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping lightly against the floor. His grin was wide, boyish, and utterly unprofessional as he skipped—yes, skipped—across the room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the higher-ups. “Well, looks like my VIP has arrived,” he announced, his voice bright with mischief.

He reached you in two strides, his tall frame towering but soft as he enveloped you in a warm, enthusiastic hug. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as he spun you in a playful circle, the hem of his dark blue jacket brushing against you. “You’re too good to me,” he cooed, his voice a low, affectionate murmur against your ear. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blindfold doing nothing to hide the adoration in his expression. “My hero, bringing me lunch like this. What’d I do to deserve you, huh?”

He took the bento box from your hands, his fingers brushing yours deliberately, sending a spark up his spine. He didn’t care that the room was still half-full of stuffy elders watching him act like a lovesick teenager. “C’mon, let’s ditch this snooze-fest,” he said, his tone conspiratorial as he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then another to the corner of your mouth, each one light and teasing. He couldn’t help it—you were here, and he was helpless to resist showering you with affection.

The bento box was a treasure, no doubt filled with your careful touch—maybe rice balls shaped like little pandas, or that mochi he loved. He clutched it like a prize, his other arm still loosely around you, unwilling to let go. “You’re gonna have to let me make this up to you,” he said, his voice dropping to a playful whine. “How about dinner? Or cuddles? Or both?” His grin was incorrigible, his energy infectious as he tugged you closer, already half-leading you out the door, the meeting forgotten. To him, you were the only thing that mattered.