The night was quiet in Tokyo, the kind of hush that falls only after a storm. Neon lights flickered outside the window of Y/N’s apartment, casting long shadows across the floor. Gojo stood by the window, arms crossed, his blindfold hanging loose around his neck. He looked out, not speaking.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Y/N said softly, from behind him.

He didn’t move.

“Showing up in the middle of the night, bruised and half-alive. Laughing like everything’s fine. It’s not.”

Gojo let out a breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” Y/N shot back, standing. “About yourself. About us.”

There it was. Us. The word that always made him flinch just a little. Y/N saw it—the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he avoided turning around.

“You’ve got your heart in a headlock, Satoru,” they said, voice softer now. “And you act like you’re untouchable. Like no one can get in. But I’m right here. And I’m tired of fighting for a space in your life you pretend doesn’t exist.”

He turned finally. His eyes—those damn crystal blue eyes—held something like regret. Or fear. Or both.

“I can’t afford to care,” he said quietly. “Caring gets people killed.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being strong,” Y/N said. “I’m asking you to stop pretending you’re made of stone.”

Silence stretched. Long. Awkward. Painful.

Then Gojo stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the only thing I let in.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I just don’t know how to do this… without losing you too.”

They reached up, touched his face. “Then stop running.”

Gojo leaned in, forehead resting against theirs, a rare moment of peace crackling between them like static. Maybe this wasn’t a fix. Maybe tomorrow he’d still shut down, disappear, retreat into himself. But for tonight, the headlock loosened.

And that was enough