“You don’t think it’s too much?”

Shoko turns around again in the mirror, an old dress of yours fitting a bit too loosely to be pull off-able. Your insistence on sharing clothes has carried on from when you were third years together, and as endearing as it was, maybe it’s time to retire the bit.

Blind dating is the least fun hobby she’s picked up over the years. Shoko had tried crocheting for a few months until Gojo accidentally unraveled her project trying to be funny, and she’d tried journaling (which had, again, been ruined by Gojo’s nosy ass), but nothing had passed the time faster than this. She doesn’t even like more than half of the people she meets, but it’s better than sitting in the coroners office waiting for a student or a co-worker to die.

“Maybe you should go in my place,” Shoko murmurs, attention briefly captured by the buzz of her phone.

It’s the guy again. He’s just some dude she’d met while picking up something for you, but he’s texted her for the tenth time in the past hour asking where she was. Shoko turns her phone off and flops over onto your bed, burying her face into the blankets.

She likes it in here with you. Your room hasn’t changed since you were both fifteen and she doubts it ever will at this point. Your lamp’s always turned down bright enough to see but low enough to ease her headaches, it smells like you and whatever incense you’re burning, and your bed is surprisingly comfortable to have been school issued.

Maybe she should go on a blind date with you instead, you’re certainly more tolerable than the other losers blowing up her inboxes.