He was sulking. Not the quiet, brooding kind of sulking. No — Satoru Gojo didn’t do quiet anything.

He was the dramatic kind, the type to throw himself backward across your bed like a fainting noblewoman in a tragic play, one arm draped over his eyes, sighing as if the world had truly failed him.

All because his earrings weren’t white.

He had insisted on copying you — of course he had. The moment he noticed your new piercings, he zeroed in like a heat-seeking missile.

“You got your ears pierced?” he had asked, eyebrows lifting behind his blindfold. “Without me?” in And before you could even respond, he was already texting his own piercer. There was no question of if he’d do it — it was only a matter of how quickly.

He wanted them to match. Said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he needed the same piercings as you, same placement, same sparkle.

But somehow — somehow — the piercing studio had handed him blue silver studs. Blue…

Not white like yours. Not even plain silver. But this strange, cool-toned blue-white metal that technically looked fine but wasn’t the same.

“Do they even know who I am?” Gojo groaned from the bed, still dramatically flopped across the sheets, one leg hanging off like he was about to perish. “Do they not realize the tragedy they’ve inflicted on me?”

You stood there in the doorway, watching as he pointed to his ears like he’d been betrayed by the gods.

“Look at them,” he moaned. “Do they scream ‘mysterious and powerful sorcerer?’ No. They scream ‘discount winter-themed accessory from a third-rate jewelry store.’”

He sat up suddenly, hair tousled, white locks sticking in every direction from flopping back and forth so many times on your blanket.

His earrings caught the afternoon light — glinting soft blue — and his frown deepened. “I mean, we were supposed to match. That was the whole point.”

He stood and walked over to your mirror, turning his head this way and that, analyzing them like a detective at a crime scene. “I look like I should be doing a holiday photo shoot, not fighting curses.”

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

He kept pacing.

“And don’t even try to tell me they’re ‘cool’ or ‘unique,’ because you know what’s actually unique? Matching with someone on purpose. That’s romance. This? This is sabotage.”