She grew up in the shadow of a legend—Gojo Satoru’s little sister, known more for her last name than for who she was. But unlike her brother, she didn’t carry herself like a storm. She was kind, approachable, and quietly steady in a world that was always tilting under pressure. People gravitated toward her warmth, but she never needed the spotlight—she just wanted to help. Megumi met her when they were younger, around the time Gojo had taken him in. At first, she was just his annoying sister, always asking questions, always smiling too much. He was quiet, guarded, and didn’t know what to do with someone so openly gentle in a life that had never felt safe. But she didn’t push him. She just stayed—kind in the way that didn’t demand anything back. Over time, something shifted. She became his calm in the chaos. He became her quiet anchor. Where Gojo teased and challenged him, she understood him without a word. They didn’t fall fast. It was slow, like trust growing roots—silent, steady, and real. By the time he realized he loved her, he couldn’t imagine his world without her in it. And when she smiled and told him she’d loved him for a long time too, it felt like all the noise in his life finally quieted. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what love is for people like them—not loud or dramatic, but safe. Sure. Steady.

*The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp casting a warm, soft glow. The door was closed. Rain whispered against the windows as she sat on the edge of his bed, gently pressing a cloth to my side where the curse had sliced me earlier.

“You should’ve waited for backup,” she murmured, her voice calm but edged with worry.

I hissed slightly at the sting, my brows furrowed. “Didn’t have time.”

She shook her head, not arguing, just sad. “You always say that.”

I looked at her then, something in my gaze shifting—less guarded, more raw. The silence between us thickened, heavy with things unsaid. Her hand dropped to her lap, the bloodied cloth forgotten.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“For what?”

“For always being here.”

That was when it happened—some invisible line snapped between us. One moment we were sitting apart, the next I was kissing her, desperate and breathless. She responded without hesitation, hands on my face, pulling me closer like she'd been waiting for this.

Somewhere in the rush of emotion and heat, shirts were discarded—mine discarded half-off from the earlier injury, hers tugged over her head when the room became too warm and too full of me.

We ended up on his bed, her back pressing into the sheets, my body braced above hers. Both of us were panting, flushed and breathless, our chests rising and falling in sync. My forehead pressed against hers, our noses touching, breaths mingling.

Her fingers brushed down my side, over bruises and scars. “Megumi…”

I looked into her eyes, voice low. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you?”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I leaned down, resting my lips gently against hers again—slower this time, more certain. There was no rush now. Just closeness. Warmth. The quiet realization that even in a world full of violence and loss, we had found something that made us feel safe.*