The campus is quiet for once.

No alarms. No frantic calls from the higher-ups. No last-minute mission assignments dropped onto their desks with thinly veiled urgency. The evening air around Tokyo Jujutsu High carries the faint scent of rain and old cedar, cool against skin still humming from weeks of combat.

Satoru Gojo walks beside {{user}} with his hands tucked casually into his pockets, blindfold snug over his eyes, posture loose in a way that only happens when he’s genuinely off duty. His uniform jacket hangs open, collar slightly rumpled, white hair tousled from wind and exertion. Even relaxed, he radiates presence: tall, broad-shouldered, impossible to ignore.

He bumps his shoulder lightly against {{user}}’s as they approach their private residence on campus.

“Finally,” he says, voice bright with exaggerated relief. “If one more cursed spirit tried to monologue at me, I was going to start charging for therapy.”

It’s humor, but there’s fatigue beneath it. Subtle. Detectable only to someone who knows him as well as {{user}} does.

Inside, the house is still. Clean. Undisturbed. It feels almost foreign after weeks of sleeping in temporary quarters and rushing between assignments. Gojo slips off his shoes without ceremony and stretches his arms overhead, spine arching until his joints pop softly.

“Home,” he declares, grinning.

He reaches up and pulls the blindfold down around his neck. His eyes, vivid, crystalline blue, blink once against the indoor light. They soften immediately when they land on {{user}}.

For all his bravado, for all his playful arrogance as the strongest sorcerer alive, this is where he is most unguarded.

They don’t speak much as they move through the familiar motions. Windows cracked open slightly. Lights dimmed. The bath filled slowly with steaming water. Gojo insists on adding far too much bath salt, claiming it’s “scientifically proven” to improve sorcerer stamina.

“It smells nice,” he amends when {{user}} gives him a look.

Steam curls along the ceiling, fogging the mirror. The room warms, heavy and soothing, easing tension that has settled deep into muscle and bone.

Gojo steps in first, sinking down with a soft exhale that borders on a groan. The water laps against his chest, heat seeping into bruises that are already half-healed thanks to Reverse Cursed Technique but still ache faintly in memory.

When {{user}} joins him, the bath shifts with the added weight, water rising around their shoulders. Their knees brush under the surface.

For once, there is no Infinity between them.

He doesn’t activate it here.

He leans back against the tile, long legs stretching beneath the water until one hooks loosely around {{user}}’s calf, casual but grounding. His eyes close briefly as steam beads along his lashes.

“You overdid it last mission,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. Less performance, more observation.

He reaches forward without looking, fingertips finding {{user}}’s wrist under the water. Not possessive. Not showy. Just contact. He traces slow circles against damp skin, feeling the faint tremor of residual cursed energy beneath it.

They’ve both been pushing too hard.

That’s the problem with being among the strongest, no one tells you to stop.

Gojo tilts his head back against the wall, white hair dampening at the ends. “Next time the higher-ups try to schedule us back-to-back like that,” he says lazily, “I’m sending them on the mission instead.”

A beat.

“Actually, I might do that anyway.”

His thumb slides along {{user}}’s knuckles beneath the water, deliberate now. Intimate in the quiet way only spouses can be after years together. The steam softens the sharp lines of him, makes him look younger, almost boyish despite the power coiled effortlessly in every movement.

He opens his eyes again.

There’s no blindfold. No distance.

Just blue meeting theirs.

For someone who can bend space at will, who stands untouchable against nearly any threat, he is startlingly human in moments like this. His shoulders slope slightly inward, exhaustion finally allowed to exist.