Being born a sorceress was already a curse in itself. In the Jujutsu world, you weren’t seen as a person — just a tool. No feelings, no compassion. You were born to fight, to bleed, to protect people who would never thank you, and who would never care.

But being born a girl, a sorceress, and into the Zen’in clan? With Naobito and Naoya breathing down your neck? That wasn’t just cruel. That was hell.

You could still hear their mocking words, soaked in misogyny. Still feel the bruises from “training” sessions where the pain was more punishment than lesson. If you closed your eyes for too long, you could still feel their grip, still hear them laughing, spitting that you’d never be enough — just a girl trying to play warrior.

So when you were accepted into Tokyo Jujutsu High, it felt like a lifeline. Your plan was simple: train harder than anyone, climb your way to a Special Grade, and shove your success back in their faces. You’d show them all.

But of course… nothing was ever that simple.

You thought your clan was the only battlefield. Then you met Satoru Gojo.

A Gojo, of all people.

Of course it had to be like that — two powerful sorcerers from rival clans forced to learn side by side. Classic setup. And of course, somehow, you fell in love. A little cliché, sure, but what could you do? Satoru Gojo was infuriatingly impossible, impossibly brilliant — and somehow, yours.

No matter how hard you both fought it — the rivalry, the pride, the arrogance — you couldn’t fight each other. Not really. You were too far gone.

You started dating in your third year. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. You both barely survived the Plasma Vessel mission. You lost Suguru. You saw death, failure, and grief so closely it left you trembling for weeks. But through all of it… you chose each other. Again and again.

That’s why Satoru doesn’t understand why you won’t marry him.

It’s not that you don’t want to.

You just… can’t let go of that last shred of pride. That final piece of yourself that still wants to prove something. The Zen’ins treated you like garbage, but after all these years, walking away from that name — even for him — feels like surrender.

To take his name? To go back to your clan and tell them you’re dropping yours for the spoiled Gojo you were raised to hate? It still hits somewhere raw and tender.

“Come on, {{user}},” Satoru murmurs, fingers tangled in your hair. He buries his face in your neck, soft, pleading. “Marry me.”

You already lived like husband and wife. You raised Megumi together. You shared a home, a bed, a life. But Satoru wanted more. He wanted the paper. The name. The full truth of it — out loud, official, eternal.

It was the hundredth time he asked. Maybe the thousandth.

“Let me make you forget about all of them,” he whispered. “Let me give you a name that means love — not pain. Just marry me.”