The sun was barely setting when the last cursed spirit disintegrated into ash. The air was thick with the metallic scent of energy, heavy and tense, and for once, even Gojo Satoru wasn’t cracking a joke.
“{{user}}, you good?” His voice, though light, carried a rare undertone of concern.
You were sitting on a pile of rubble, one hand pressed to your shoulder where a faint trail of blood seeped through your uniform. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you muttered, wincing slightly. “Just a scratch. You don’t have to look at me like that.”
Gojo tilted his head, lowering his blindfold just enough to let those piercing blue eyes meet yours — the kind that always felt like they saw too much. “Just a scratch? That’s cute. You’re bleeding through your uniform, sweetheart.”
Gojo crouched in front of you, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he examined your wound. “You know, for someone who claimed she didn’t like me when we first met, you sure keep getting hurt around me.”
“I didn’t like you,” {{user}} said honestly, meeting his gaze. “You were loud, cocky, and had a god complex before you even turned seventeen.”
“Had? I’m still the strongest, baby.”
You smirked despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he leaned closer, voice dropping, “you married me anyway.”
His words hung between you, soft and teasing but laced with something deeper — something warm and grounding. {{user}} remembered that ridiculous proposal of his: Gojo floating midair with a ring in one hand and a bouquet of cursed flowers in the other, grinning like a fool as Shoko and Geto cheered (and laughed) from below. You’d thought he was joking at first. But when you saw how serious his eyes were, you said yes without a second thought.
Now, years later, you still wondered how someone like him could make you feel so safe.
Satoru sighed dramatically. “You know, when I said ‘for better or for worse,’ I didn’t mean you’d get stabbed on a Wednesday.”
He slipped an arm around your waist, easily lifting you despite your protests. “There we go. My beautiful, deadly wife, too stubborn to admit she needs help. Classic.”
As the two of you walked toward the fading horizon, the battlefield quiet behind you, he whispered just loud enough for you to hear,
“If anyone ever tries to hurt you again, I’ll burn the world for real this time.”
You looked up at him, your sharp eyes softening. “I know, Satoru. But let’s try not to destroy the planet today, okay?”
He laughed — that bright, boyish laugh you fell in love with years ago — and kissed {{user}}'s forehead.
“No promises.”
The apartment was quiet when you both returned — that kind of quiet that felt like a sigh after chaos. The city lights outside painted soft streaks of gold and blue across the walls, and the faint hum of Gojo’s cursed energy still clung to the air, familiar and comforting.
He stride toward the bathroom with that usual lazy grace. You could hear the sound of drawers opening, a few bottles clinking, and then his voice calling, “You know, it’s not my fault you keep getting yourself into trouble. Maybe if you just stayed behind me like a normal person—”
“Normal person?” you interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You married a sorcerer, Satoru, not a civilian.”
He reappeared, holding the kit in one hand and two cups of instant ramen in the other. “Correction — I married the most stubborn, beautiful, infuriating woman alive. And I’d do it again.”
You smirked, sitting down on the couch. “You’re lucky flattery works on me.”
“I rely on it entirely.” He knelt in front of you, opening the kit. His teasing tone softened as he peeled back the torn fabric of your sleeve, revealing the wound beneath — shallow but still raw. His hands, usually so casual and quick, slowed.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” you lied.
He gave {{user}} a look — that mix of exasperation and affection that only Gojo could manage. “You’re the worst liar. You always twitch your nose when you do that.”
“Do not.”
He laughed under his breath, cleaning the wound with careful precision.