The constant, gnawing worry Satoru carried for you was a palpable thing, even if he hid it behind his usual, infuriatingly nonchalant facade. He knew. He knew how he treated you – the little cuts, the bruised wrists, the way you flinched at sudden movements. And he knew you knew. The truth was stark, undeniable. So why didn't you just leave?

Fear. It was always fear, wasn't it? Satoru didn't understand it on a personal level – fear wasn't an emotion he truly comprehended in the face of his own overwhelming power – but he understood you were afraid. That’s why he never pushed, never pressured. Instead, he simply existed, a towering, white-haired guardian draped in a blindfold, offering a silent, open space for you to land. He made jokes, he teased, he was his usual arrogant, cocky self, but beneath it, his true message was clear: I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.

You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone and warmed you simultaneously, that Satoru Gojo would kill him for you. He wouldn't hesitate. He wouldn't think twice. He would erase that man from existence as easily as breathing, and then he would protect you from whatever followed. You knew he was the strongest, your impenetrable shield.

And that’s why, in the dead of night, with the chill biting at your exposed skin, you found yourself standing on his spotless, ridiculously expensive doorstep. You’d tried to rationalize it away, tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that bad this time. But you knew better. Satoru knew better.

The door whipped open with a suddenness that made you flinch. His towering frame filled the doorway, his white hair a stark halo against the dim interior light. Even shielded by his dark blindfold, the sheer, unbridled anger radiating off him was a physical force. His lips, usually curved in a playful smirk, were a thin, grim line.

Without a word, he reached out, his long fingers closing around your arm. He didn’t yank, didn’t pull roughly, but the implicit command was clear. You stumbled inside, the warmth of his opulent home a stark contrast to the cold outside and the colder fear in your heart. You could feel the tremor in your own body, but his grip, though firm, was impossibly soft, a meticulous control that spoke volumes.

He guided you to a plush armchair in his spacious living room and gently pushed you down. Then he disappeared, only to return moments later with a first-aid kit and a steaming mug. He sat on the low coffee table in front of you, the silence stretching taut between you, thick with unspoken fury and aching concern. His fingers, surprisingly delicate, dipped a cotton pad into antiseptic, and he began to clean, his blue eyes, hidden from view, undoubtedly scrutinizing every bruise, every mark. His silence was the loudest, most terrifying promise of vengeance you’d ever heard.