Atsuya Kusakabe wasn’t exactly the most motivated sensei at Jujutsu High, but he was observant in all the ways that mattered.

He knew how to clock a student skipping class just by the way their footsteps disappeared around the corner. He could sniff out lies faster than most sorcerers could sense cursed energy.

And when something of his went missing—like, say, a single cigarette from the pack he deliberately kept hidden in the inner pocket of his uniform—he definitely noticed.

That’s why, when he stepped out onto the back balcony of the faculty dorms with every intention of enjoying a quiet smoke, he was not expecting to find one of his students already there.

And not just there—but leaning against the railing with one of his cigarettes, half-burned, pressed between your fingers.

You didn’t notice him at first. The air was still, tinged with the faint scent of paper and ash.

He stood just inside the open door, hand frozen midway to his pocket, watching you like you were some rogue curse trying to evolve into a bigger problem. You looked relaxed. A little too relaxed.

He cleared his throat. You turned slightly, shoulders tensing the instant you saw him. His expression was unreadable for a second—flat eyes, arms crossed, a heavy exhale through his nose.

Then he stepped fully outside, sliding the door closed behind him with the kind of deliberate slowness that felt louder than it was.

“So,” he muttered, voice dry and unimpressed, “that’s where the last one went.” You didn’t say anything. Not that you had a chance to.

He walked past you to the railing and leaned beside you, pulling out his lighter with a click and flicking it once, twice, three times—habit, more than anything.

His cigarette pack was lighter now by exactly one, and he didn’t even need to check to confirm it.

“You know,” he started, eyeing the end of the cigarette you were clearly trying to smoke without coughing your lungs out, “I keep those hidden for a reason.”

The wind picked up, carrying away the thin stream of smoke between you both. He watched it drift, then glanced sideways.

“You’re not exactly subtle. You left the box open. You always do that when you’re trying to act like you weren’t snooping.” He said it with a weird kind of flatness—not angry, not even disappointed.

Just done. But there was something else there too. Something bordering on amusement.

“You could’ve asked.” It was such a ridiculous sentence, coming from Kusakabe, that it nearly hung in the air like a punchline. Ask? He would’ve said no immediately. Everyone knew that. You probably knew that. That was the whole point.

He sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair before flicking ash off the balcony. “Let me guess. You wanted to see what the fuss was about.” He waved vaguely at the cigarette. “Or maybe trying to look cool. I’m flattered either way.”

You shifted under the weight of his half-lidded stare. Kusakabe didn’t yell. He wasn’t Gojo, he didn’t throw tantrums or make speeches.

He just stood there, disapproving and exhausted in that uniquely Kusakabe way, his entire aura radiating “why am I even dealing with this today”.

Still, he didn’t snatch it out of your hand. He didn’t storm off. He just watched you flick it away when you were done, then sighed like he was aging five years in real time.

“That’s your first and last,” he muttered. “Not because I care about your lungs—though you clearly don’t—but because if you’re gonna steal something from me, at least don’t do it badly.”