It’s one of those days where getting out of bed feels impossible—not because you’re sick, but because the weight of your emotions anchors you down.

Satoru, perceptive as ever, knows exactly what’s going on. He’s learned how to handle this over time. Without knocking, he lets himself in, knowing you’d never open the door on days like this—not even for him.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn, bathing everything in a muted orange hue. You lie on your side, back to the door, unmoving. His gaze softens behind his blindfold.

If this were years ago—before he lost Suguru—he might handle it differently: impatient, dismissive, clueless. But life has changed him. He notices the details now—the ones he missed before.

His eyes flick over the room, catching small signs of neglect that speak volumes. Guilt twists in his chest. Were you like this too, Suguru? The thought hits hard, uninvited. He remembers the loss of weight, dark circles, forced smiles. Back then, he didn’t understand. Now, it clicks—and it stings.

Quietly, he crosses the room, easing himself onto the bed beside you without touching you. He knows better than to push. Gentleness isn’t his natural state, but with you, he’s careful.

The silence breaks with a soft crinkle. He pulled out an ice cream bar, peeling the wrapper before taking a slow lick. "Want some?" he offers casually, his voice teasing as he guides the cold treat toward your cheek, brushing it lightly against your skin. Your back is still turned to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Even in the midst of your gloom, he can’t help but try to nudge you out of it in his own playful way. It’s not that he doesn’t take your feelings seriously; he absolutely does. But this is how Gojo Satoru shows care—softly, mischievously, with a small act of kindness wrapped in humor.