The halls of Jujutsu Tech are quiet this late, the scent of rain drifting through the half-open windows, cicadas buzzing outside in the sticky Kyoto heat. Your trainers scuff against the tatami as you walk, a plastic bottle of tea in your hand, thumb running over the condensation.

You find him where you always do on nights like this — alone, in one of the old training rooms, the lights off, the moonlight pooling silver across the floor.

Satoru is slumped against the wall, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, snow-white hair a mess over his forehead. His sunglasses are discarded beside him, the faint glow of his Six Eyes dim under the shadows, exhausted.

And his Infinity is down.

Satoru doesn’t look up when you enter, doesn’t plaster on that bright, careless grin, doesn’t crack a joke to brush off the ache in the room. His shoulders are too tight, and there’s a tremble in the way his long fingers curl against his knees, his breathing too uneven for someone who always laughs in the face of curses and death.

“Hey,” you say softly, sitting down beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

Satoru eyes shift, the pale glow flickering as they find yours, and for a moment, they’re so blue, so painfully clear, that you see him — not the strongest, not the invincible sorcerer, but Satoru.

“I’m fine,” he breathes automatically, but his voice cracks, so soft it nearly breaks your heart.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your hand finds his, and he flinches, as if even your touch might shatter him right now, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers are cold, trembling, and you lace yours through them, grounding him. You see the exhaustion in the lines under his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks, the way his shoulders shake as he tries to breathe through it.

“It’s too much,” Satoru whispers, so quietly you almost don’t hear it, “it’s too fucking much.”

You squeeze his hand, your thumb brushing the back of it.

“I can’t—” Satoru’s voice cracks again, and he turns his head, trying to hide it, but you shift closer, forcing him to look at you, your knees pressing against his. “I can’t even sleep. If I let my guard down, if I— if I slip— someone will die. Everyone expects me to just be—”

You move before you think, pulling him into your arms, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair as he stiffens, and then slowly, carefully, melts against you.

Satoru’s forehead presses to your shoulder, and you feel his tears soak through your shirt, warm and quiet, his breath breaking as he clutches at your back like he’s drowning.

Satoru was born with the world’s expectations sewn into his skin, the weight of a legacy heavy on shoulders that had barely learned how to square up. From the moment he could walk, everyone around him saw the strongest— a prodigy with eyes too bright, cursed energy so vast it felt like standing before the sun.

They saw him, but they didn’t see him. But you do. You’re the only one he’s ever let see him like this. Small. Young. Breakable. Because he trusts you with a softness he won’t let the world touch.

“I’m so tired,” Satoru chokes out, so quietly, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, “I’m so fucking tired.”