Harajuku’s loud-packed with weekend traffic, high schoolers in uniform, and vendors yelling about crepes. And right in the middle of it all, Gojo is already in a full-blown argument with a teenager in front of a convenience store.

"I saw it first," he says, pointing at the last pack of Kikufuku mochi in the cooler like it’s a cursed object. "Which means spiritually, morally, and legally, it’s mine." he insists, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hands gesturing way too much.

You keep walking.

He notices. Of course he does.

"Hey. {{user}}. Where are you going?" he calls out like you’re halfway across the world, not six feet away.

When you don't look back, he pauses, eyes narrowing. "You’re just gonna disown me in front of these innocent people? After everything we’ve been through?"

After a couple more attempts to call out to you, he stands there bewildered as soon as the words slip from your mouth a little too loudly, slightly cutting through the noise of the busy streets of the city.

"Sir, I don't know you!"

Gojo stares, scandalized, as you edge further away and he's met with a couple of disapproving looks from the civilians around him. "What the hell is going on?" he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I’m being abandoned by the love of my life. In public. In daylight. In Harajuku."

You disappear around a group of tourists, and he jogs to catch up, the mochi now mysteriously in his hand. Yeah, he probably bribed the kid for all you know. He wraps an arm around you like nothing happened, his voice dropping into that smug, honey-smooth tone he knows gets under your skin.

Gojo nudges the mochi toward you. "Come on. I fought for this. I bled. Emotionally." Then, with a smile, low in your ear, "Say my name and I’ll share."