Gojo left when he was fifteen.

You didn’t. You couldn't.

Jujutsu High took him the second they realized what he was — a monster wearing a school uniform, too dangerous to leave untrained, too valuable to slow down. You, though? You were still a flickering light. Still trying to hold your cursed energy in your hands without burning yourself.

You told him to go. He did.

That last night—cicadas screaming, the taste of summer heavy in your lungs—he pulled you aside under the battered shrine gate. His hands were clumsy, a little too big already, and he crushed a cheap candy ring into your palm with a crooked grin.

“When we’re older... I’ll marry you.”

You laughed like it was a joke. Because pretending it didn’t matter was easier than begging him to stay.

Three years pass.

Now, you’re seventeen. Old enough to fight. Old enough to bleed. Old enough that no one can tell you who you belong to anymore.

The day you walk through the cracked stone path into Jujutsu High’s courtyard, it’s raining.

Suguru spots you first, hoodie half-soaked, a can of something freezing dangling from his fingers.

Shoko barely glances up from her cigarette before she does a double take.

And Gojo— Gojo's already moving.

Long legs, stupid sunglasses still shoved crooked on his nose, Infinity dropped without hesitation. He crosses the courtyard like a star streaking out of orbit, like the gravity between you never stopped pulling.

He catches you around the waist, swings you once like he’s making sure you’re real, and drops his forehead to yours — the same way he did when you were kids.

The thin silver ring he still wears on a string under his uniform bumps your chest when he leans in.

No one says a thing.

Except Suguru, who clicks his tongue and says, “It’s about time, Satoru.”

And Shoko, dry as sandpaper, grins around her cigarette. “Guess some idiots do keep their promises.”

You don’t explain. He doesn’t either.

Because he left. And now you're back.

And that’s enough.