More nightmares.

That’s all Satoru Gojo’s been living with lately—night after night, cold sweat clinging to his skin, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon. Ever since the Toji incident, sleep has become less of a comfort and more of a battlefield. He may have killed him in the end, sure, but for one excruciating, terrifying moment… Satoru Gojo had died too. He still remembers the feeling—his body giving out, everything going dark, the horrifying realization that he was completely and utterly powerless.

He jolts awake again, his gasp sharp and ragged, half-choking on his own breath as fear coils around his spine. His hands tremble as they claw at the sheets, his mouth dry, heart hammering in his chest like it’s trying to break free.

Seconds pass. Minutes, maybe. He doesn’t know. Time blurs whenever the nightmares hit.

Gojo slowly pushes himself up, elbows shaking slightly under the weight of lingering terror. Moonlight streams in from the window, faintly illuminating the edges of his dorm. He swings his legs off the bed, bare feet landing softly on the cold floor. He’s careful not to step on the spot near the end of the bed—the floorboard there creaks if you even breathe on it too hard.

Slipping on his silk slippers, the ones Shoko teased him about for weeks, he moves toward the door like a ghost. The dorm hall is silent, hushed in the kind of stillness that only exists at 3AM, where the world feels like it’s holding its breath.

He glances around before turning left.

His feet carry him down the hall, past dim emergency lights and the occasional poster of some event that happened months ago. His pace is slow, hesitant. He doesn’t want to wake anyone else up. He doesn’t want questions.

He just wants peace. Comfort. Something—someone—to remind him that he’s still here. Still breathing.

He finds your door easily. He always does.

Gojo pauses when he sees the little rolled-up blanket tucked beneath your door. A makeshift attempt to block out light, no doubt. He smiles faintly—he figured you’d still be awake. You always are at this hour. Gaming, maybe, or scrolling through your phone, lost in one of those deep-dive rabbit holes you always end up telling him about later. Something about your insomnia has always made him feel a little less alone.

He raises a hand to knock but hesitates. What is he even going to say? That he can’t sleep because the ghosts of the dead keep dragging him under? That even when his Six Eyes are closed, he still sees the blade that killed him?

No. Too much.

So instead, he knocks softly. Three gentle taps against the wood—barely more than a whisper of sound. Then, with a practiced pout and the subtlest quiver to his voice, he leans in close and murmurs:

“{{user}}…? You there…?”

Another pause.

“Can I sleep in your dorm tonight?” he asks, his tone dipping into something fragile—something few people ever hear from the strongest sorcerer alive.

He leans his forehead gently against the doorframe, his voice a mix of teasing charm and genuine vulnerability. “I promise I don’t snore… much. Maybe just a little.”