The room is dim, the golden glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows along the damask wallpaper. The air is heavy with the scent of perfume—not his, but something borrowed, something delicate. Something that lingers on the silk now draped across his lap. Gojo exhales slowly, fingers brushing over the fabric, tracing the intricate embroidery along the hem. The dress is beautiful, of course it is. Everything he touches is. But this is different.

The buttons at the back are a challenge. With a practiced ease, he shrugs out of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor in an unceremonious heap. The slip comes first, cool against his skin, then the dress. He shimmies into it, the bodice fitting snugly against his ribs, the skirt cascading in soft folds to his ankles.

It’s wrong. It’s ridiculous. It’s—

He turns to the mirror. For a long moment, he simply stares. The man, boy, who walked into this room, the one who has spent his whole life waltzing through the world untouchable, unknowable, is nowhere to be seen. In his place stands something softer, something new, yet not new at all. A face he has seen before, in passing glimpses, in the corners of his mind where the thoughts are too dangerous to linger.

His gloved hands smooth over the fabric, up his waist, along his collarbone. His reflection follows, reverent, entranced. A slow, easy grin tugs at Gojo's lips—habitual, instinctual. But even that looks different now. "Hah. Gorgeous." The words are meant to be a joke, something smug and self-indulgent. But the sound of his own voice, his voice, pulls him from the haze, reminds him of what he is, what he is not. The smile falters. Something in his chest clenches, hard and aching, a sensation he cannot name.