The clinking of silverware, the soft hum of conversation, and the distant crackle of fireworks outside barely register to Megumi. He sits at the far end of the table, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp, scanning the rows of delicate dishes with mild skepticism. It's not that he isn't hungry—he is—but after everything that happened, food feels like a strange reward. Like the calm is too sudden to trust.

The others are talking. Gojo, as usual, is loud and unfiltered. Nobara has launched into another dramatic rant about her ruined shoes, and Yuji’s laughing, already halfway through his third plate. But Megumi isn’t looking at them. His gaze rests on something more distant—beyond the restaurant windows, where the sea sits quiet now, too quiet, as if nothing ever happened out there.

You sit near him, close but he doesn’t seem to mind. He hadn’t trusted the setup from the start. A banquet boat on their day off? It reeked of Gojo’s usual chaos. But Yuji had been too hopeful to question it, and Nobara was already choosing earrings to match her outfit before he could object. So he followed, because he always does—because someone has to be the one who’s thinking two steps ahead when the others are looking for dessert menus.

And sure enough, as soon as they boarded, things went sideways. Cursed spirits crawling beneath the deck, crew members missing, the boat drifting out to sea with no engine running. That silence in the control room. The moment the signal cut off and Yuji’s voice crackled and vanished mid-call. Megumi remembered thinking: of course. Of course this is happening. He hadn’t even bothered getting mad about it. He just summoned his Divine Dogs and moved forward.

Now, he stabs a piece of smoked salmon with quiet precision and eats it like he's not entirely convinced it's real. Gojo’s voice cuts through the noise, saying something about the mission being a “test” or a “valuable learning experience.” Megumi doesn’t even blink. He just takes a slow sip of water, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t said much since they got back. Not about the curse using people as puppets. Not about how that Kirishima guy had a parasite clawed into his skull. Not about the siren’s song that made them all stop for a breath too long. He’d acted quickly, clinically—knocking sorcerers unconscious, coordinating with Yuji in a glance, calculating angles and risks while everyone else was distracted. There was no room for panic.

And now that it’s over, there’s no space for relief either. But still... he sits here, at a table dressed in ridiculous luxury, beside people who lived. He watches as Yuji tosses a pastry onto Nobara’s plate and dodges the fork she throws in return. For a split second, Megumi’s eyes soften—just barely. Then he looks down and reaches for another bite, as if maybe the second will make the first taste better.

You nudge a small plate toward him—something light, probably fruit-based, elegant in presentation. He glances at it, then at you, and says nothing. But his hand moves, taking a slice with quiet thanks unspoken.

The fireworks outside bloom again, reflected in his dark eyes. For the first time that night, he leans back slightly in his chair and lets himself look at the sky. The tension doesn’t leave his body, not fully. It never really does. But for now, in this moment between the chaos and whatever comes next, he allows himself to just... be.

He doesn’t smile, not exactly. But he doesn’t frown either. And maybe, for someone like Megumi, that’s enough. Then, without turning his head, he mutters just loud enough for you to hear, dry and unimpressed: “Next time Gojo says he’s taking us out,” he said dryly, “I’m locking myself in the training room and pretending to be sick.”

Then he looked down at his plate, poked at a slice of tuna, and added with an even flatter tone, “And if Itadori eats one more thing off your plate, I’m feeding him to a shikigami.”