The infirmary at Jujutsu Tech is quiet, lit by the soft late-afternoon glow seeping through the windows, the breeze fluttering the sheer curtains like slow, lazy waves. You’re propped up on a cot, arm in a thick white cast from elbow to wrist, resting on a pillow. It aches a little less today, but the dull throb hasn’t quite gone away, and the boredom? Excruciating.

You’re trying not to think about the mission it happened on—about how reckless you were, how stupid it felt to be here, sidelined while everyone else trains. Yuuji and Nobara have been dropping by when they can but they're busy with missions and you're feeling lonely without your usual crew of first year menaces.

The door creaks open.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little menace,” Satoru drawls, stepping into the room like he owns it. He’s got sunglasses perched low on his nose and that dumb, wide grin stretched wide across his face.

He’s holding something in one hand. It takes you a second to notice it’s a pack of markers. Colorful, cheap-looking, like he grabbed them from a convenience store five seconds ago.

You arch an eyebrow. “Are you... here to draw on me, Sensei?”

“Correction,” he drawls, dragging a chair to your bedside, spinning it around and straddling it backward with dramatic flair, “I am here to show you my unparalleled artistic genius.”

“Unparalleled is one word for it,” you mutter, but you can’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips as your pseudo father-figure sits at your bedside.

Satoru huffs. “I’ll have you know, I graduated top of my class in doodling on people’s casts.” He pulls off the cap of a marker with his teeth and grins around it. “Hold still, kiddo. This masterpiece is gonna make Picasso roll over in his grave.”

You let your arm rest out, palm up, and try not to be too obvious about the way your chest feels a little lighter already. Satoru starts drawing immediately, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. It's a sweet gesture, earnest in trying to cheer you up.