The dim light of the bedroom casts long shadows across the walls, the only real glow coming from his phone clutched in your hand. Droplets of water slip from his still-damp hair, trailing down his bare chest, but the chill that settles in the room has nothing to do with the air. It’s coming from you.

Satoru watches you, his usual playfulness nowhere to be found. The way you’re looking at him—it’s different. Accusing. Hurt. And for the first time in a long time, he’s at a loss for words.

“Baby… I can explain.” He steps forward, slow, careful, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. But you don’t back away. You just stare at him, waiting—daring him—to say something that will make this better.

He looks down at the messages again, the words glaring back at him like a curse. He hadn’t even realized how deep he’d let himself sink into the nostalgia of it all. The teasing, the playful what-ifs—it felt harmless at the time. But looking at your face now, he knows better. He should’ve known better.

“It wasn’t—” He exhales sharply, pushing a hand through his wet hair, frustration lacing his tone—not at you, but at himself. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I swear.”

As if that changes what he did.

Your silence is heavy, crushing, and it’s worse than if you’d screamed at him. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, the man who could take on the world without flinching—standing there, completely powerless against the possibility of losing you.

“Say something.” His voice drops, a rare plea slipping through the cracks of his usual confidence. His hand twitches at his side, aching to reach for you, to fix this, to pull you into him and make you believe that you’re the only thing that matters.