The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and something subtly floral, a stark contrast to the sterile air of Jujutsu Tech that Gojo was accustomed to. Here, on this island thousands of miles away, the weight of his responsibilities felt momentarily lighter. He glanced at {{user}}, their laughter echoing in the hotel room as they playfully shoved each other during unpacking. It was moments like these that he truly treasured.

Their relationship had blossomed unexpectedly, a slow burn that surprised even him. From childhood friends to occasional texts and finally, something deeper. He, Satoru Gojo, was a boyfriend.

The dates were simple: stolen hours in parks, quick meals between missions, small conversations at night. He craved these moments, these fleeting connections with {{user}}, like a parched man craves water.

This trip was a chance for something more.

The excitement in the room was palpable. Small kisses escalated, unpacking forgotten as their hands found purchase.

He found himself on the bed, his ridiculously expensive shirt discarded on the floor, his blindfold askew. {{user}} straddled his lap, their hands resting on his shoulders, their lips descending down his neck.

He’d never let anyone get this close, not physically, not emotionally.

He was the strongest. He could bend reality with a flick of his wrist. He faced down curses that would cripple seasoned sorcerers. But this…this was raw, intimate, and terrifying. He had no script to follow, no cursed technique to rely on, and absolutely no experience in this field.

{{user}}’s hands moved lower, towards his waistband. He needed to say something, anything, to slow things down.

He gently grasped {{user}}’s wrists, halting their descent. His voice was a shaky murmur, a stark contrast to his usual booming confidence.

“{{user}}...” He managed to choke out, “I… I’m not ready. Not yet.” The confession felt clumsy, pathetic even. He braced himself for the disappointment, the look of annoyance, of letting {{user}} down.