You learned early how to keep your voice even—how to speak in meetings without letting your history leak into the room. That skill was honed years ago, long before the promotion, long before the company trusted you with decisions that affected entire departments. It started when you and Gojo Satoru were still new hires, both too sharp, too ambitious, orbiting the same projects and arguing over ideas that somehow always turned brilliant when combined. You were the one who grounded things. He was the one who broke ceilings just to prove they were fragile. Somewhere between deadlines and midnight coffee, you became something official. Somewhere after that, you became a mistake neither of you regrets admitting, but neither of you learned how to keep.

The breakup wasn’t loud. No slammed doors, no dramatic exits. Just two people realizing that love didn’t know where to stand once pride and timing entered the room. You stayed. He stayed. The company kept you both because talent is hard to replace, and feelings aren’t listed in HR reports. Now you share hallways, meetings, and a past that never learned how to be quiet.

People think working with your ex must be unbearable. They don’t see the discipline it takes. You don’t flinch when his chair rolls too close during meetings. You don’t react when he casually remembers things he shouldn’t, like how you take your coffee or how your pen always runs out during long discussions. You learned to keep it professional. He learned to pretend he already had.

Gojo didn’t change much. Same confidence, same infuriating ease. But there’s restraint now, like a hand constantly gripping the edge of something sharp. He jokes with everyone else. With you, he pauses. He listens too closely. You catch him watching you the way people watch something familiar that they’re no longer allowed to touch.

Today, a report goes wrong. Minor error, easy fix—but it’s enough to trap the two of you in the same room after hours. The lights hum softly. Outside, the office is empty, stripped of its noise and witnesses. You correct the data. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You finally look at him, really look, and realize the distance between you isn’t measured in years or titles, but in everything you both refused to say when it still mattered. You break the silence first, because you always do, because someone has to be responsible.

“This doesn’t have to be awkward,” you say, steady, professional, practiced.

He exhales a laugh that isn’t joking at all, eyes meeting yours with that same unbearable honesty that once ruined you, and he says, “That’s the thing—I don’t think it ever stopped being important to me.”