It was raining.

Not the dramatic kind. Just soft, steady, like the sky was tired.

Satoru Gojo stood outside your apartment, soaked through, blindfold pushed up, hair plastered to his forehead. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t warned you. Just showed up.

You opened the door.

He didn’t speak.

You didn’t ask.

He stepped inside, dripping water onto your floor, and you handed him a towel like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He dried his face. Sat on your couch. Stared at the ceiling. You sat beside him. He didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

Didn’t flash that grin that made people forget how dangerous he was.

He just breathed.

“I lost someone today,” he said finally.

You nodded. He didn’t say who.

Didn’t need to.

You reached for his hand. He let you. And that was rare.

He was always touching people—playfully, casually, like it didn’t mean anything. But this was different. This was stillness. This was weight.

“I keep thinking,” he said, voice low, “that if I let myself feel everything, I’ll break.”

You didn’t speak. He looked at you. And for a moment, he wasn’t Gojo Satoru. He was just Satoru.

Tired. Fractured. Human.

“You make it easier,” he said.

You blinked.

He looked away.

“I don’t know what that means,” he added quickly, like he hadn’t just said something that cracked the air between you.

But you did. You knew. And you stayed. Because he didn’t need answers.

He just needed you.