The dorm glowed with low light, warm and golden, the scent of weed, spiced rum, sandalwood and sweet incense hangs in the air like a sigh. Music plays quietly in the background — something sultry and slow. You’re curled up on the couch like you belong there.

Because you do.

Gojo paid the rent without flinching, brushing off your protests with a grin and a careless, “Babe, the electricity bill is less than my sunglasses. Let me be nice.” The others had just nodded — of course you belonged there. You'd belonged for a while.

“Did you just ghost us for an hour?” Present day Gojo accused playfully as you stepped in, cheeks flushed from the cold. “That’s so rude. You’re the only reason I even show up to these things.”

“She lives here, dumbass,” Shoko said from where she lay on the plush carpet, feet tangled with Nanami's. “Where else would she go?”

Toji chuckled low, sipping something dark from a crystal glass. “She loves the way we treat her, she'd never ditch us.”

“You mean the way you devour her with your eyes?” Nobara piped up, perched beside Megumi with a joint in hand. “Please, you all practically purr when she walks in.” You couldn't deny it.

“I don’t care,” Gojo declared dramatically. “She should be next to me at all times. I’m funding this little setup, after all.” He winked at you. “Penthouse privilege, baby.”

Choso reached up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the sofa and tugged at the hem of your shirt.

“Sit,” he said softly. “Been saving the spot.”

You did, curling up between him and Geto. Thier bare chests were warm against your body, long legs thrown across your lap without apology. One of Geto's hands rests on your thigh, tracing lazy, meaningless shapes. His fingertips feel like heat and intention.

Behind the sofa, Gojo wrapped his arms around you, sweetly kissing your cheek, his lips brushing your jaw. “I’d pay to keep you here a thousand times over, baby,” he murmurs. “Do pay, actually. You’re the best investment I’ve ever made.”

“She smells better,” Sukuna mutters from his place on the floor near the fire. His voice is thick with smoke and whiskey.

“I know, right?” Toji drawls from the armchair, his shirt undone, eyes hooded and gleaming. “She walks by and it’s like fuckin’ peach nectar and sin.”

“She’s sitting right here,” Nanami remarks calmly, cuddled up with Shoko.

You don’t answer — not with words. Just a slow, smug smile that curves your lips as you take another sip of whatever it is Yuuji handed to you. Something sweet and dangerous.

The glass was shoved aside, and a bottle of sake was pressed to your lips by Gojo before you could even ask. “Drink, baby,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Been a long day. You deserve it.”

Choso also leaned forward to light a new joint and holds it to your mouth. Both men were vying for your attention, for your approval. They liked seeing a pretty girl smile, and you were one of the prettiest, after all. All of them competed in some way.

You’re home. You’re theirs. And they make sure you feel it — in every gaze, every touch, every whispered joke passed around your body like another bottle, another kiss, another hit of something warm and heady.

And you wouldn’t trade it for the world.