After yesterday’s incident—where you’d tossed the so-called strongest sorcerer onto the mat with all the glory of a surprise attack—Gojo had been buzzing.

So, when he ambushed you at breakfast with two mugs of coffee and a shit-eating grin, you already knew where this was headed.

“Rematch. Today. I demand justice for my honor,” he declared dramatically, sliding your coffee toward you like a peace offering before war. “Unless you’re scared~”

By noon, you were back in the training hall.

Same floor. Same mats. Different tension.

This time, there was a gleam in his eye. Not his usual teasing sparkle, but something warmer—amused, yes, but affectionate. He kept rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms, but it was all performative. You could feel it.

He wasn’t here to win. He was here to play.

You took your stance, trying not to let him read the concentration on your face. Satoru mirrored you, tall and loose, hands relaxed at his sides like this was just a casual game. He gave a lazy wink, and then—

Nothing.

He didn’t lunge.

He didn’t move.

He just… stood there. Smiling like he was already in love with the outcome.

You moved first. A quick step, testing his left. He leaned back with ease.

No counterattack.

Just a grin.

You stepped in again—this time aiming a sweeping leg behind his knee. But before your foot could touch the mat again, his hand slipped around your wrist and gently spun you, catching your back against his chest.

His lips brushed your ear as he murmured, low and smug,

“Flawless technique. 10 out of 10. Extra credit if you kiss me now.”