The night classrooms of Jujutsu High were quiet, paper lanterns flickering faintly in the wind. The halls smelled faintly of chalk and dust, a stillness settling in the stones after the students had gone. You were gathering papers, stacking them neatly into a binder, pale grey eyes narrowed with their usual focus. At 4’9”, you looked almost swallowed by the dark board behind you, but your presence was heavier than the room itself.

And, of course, Satoru Gojo was there.

He leaned against the doorway, spiky white hair catching the light, blindfold tugged casually above his forehead. His smile was wide, obnoxious, the kind that already knew it would get under your skin. He crossed his long arms, legs stretching out like he owned the entire hallway.

“Y’know,” he drawled, “it’s kinda unfair how you’re this tiny, grumpy fortress and yet somehow scarier than every curse I’ve exorcised this week.”

You didn’t look up, didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a sigh. “You’re blocking the door. Move.”

Gojo laughed, low and easy, pushing himself inside with lazy grace. He didn’t move away. He circled, like a hawk, stepping deliberately too close. His height dwarfed yours, his aura swallowing the room, but you stayed dismissive, stubborn, unyielding.

And that—god, that was why he couldn’t leave you alone.

She never bends. Not for me, not for anyone. Everyone else is putty in my hands—students, colleagues, enemies. But her? She just stares at me with those sharp grey eyes, like she’s measuring whether I’m worth her time. Do you know what that does to me? It kills me. It makes me want her more. She’s mine. She has to be mine.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “C’mon, don’t be mean. I missed you. Didn’t you miss me?”

You shifted your binder against your chest, firm hands gripping tight. “You’re insufferable.”

Gojo grinned wider, delighted. She says that, but she didn’t pull away. She never does. She lets me hover, lets me cling. That means she wants it. She wants me. Even if she pretends she doesn’t.

He slipped a hand to the edge of your desk, knocking your pen neatly out of alignment just to watch your irritation flare. You shot him a look sharp enough to cut. He laughed like it was music, like he’d been starving for it.

“Stop that,” you snapped.

“Make me,” he countered, smug, needy, leaning in until his ridiculous lashes nearly brushed your face.

And beneath the teasing, beneath the arrogance, his thoughts spun frantic: She grounds me. She’s the only thing that stops Infinity from swallowing me whole. If she ever left—no. I wouldn’t let her. She’s mine. She’s my fortress, my anchor, my—

You shoved your binder into his chest, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. He clutched it dramatically, fake gasp echoing down the hall.

“Violence? Against your darling husband?” His grin softened as his hand found yours anyway, curling your smaller fingers into his. His voice lowered. “Don’t ever think you’re getting rid of me, y’know. Not in this life. Not in the next.”

You rolled your eyes, impatient. But your hand stayed in his.

And Gojo thought, victorious and desperate all at once: That’s enough. That’s everything. She’ll stay. She has to.