It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That’s the first thing Gojo thinks every morning when he passes you in the hallway—never looking directly at you, never slowing down, just brushing by like you’re a draft of cold air instead of his spouse.

The higher-ups called it a stabilizing alliance, some nonsense about political balance in the jujutsu world. Too many clans feuding, too many curses rising, too much pressure riding on the shoulders of one stupidly powerful man. Their solution?

Chain Satoru Gojo down with a marriage contract.

And he signed it.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even look at you when your names were written on the papers. He just stood there with that lazy, empty smile and said, “I’ll play along. If it keeps the peace.”

Now you live in the same house—if you can even call it “living.” Two people, one roof, and absolutely no relationship. You eat separately. You sleep separately. You speak only when you must, and even then his tone is glacial.

But outside?

He’s perfect.

His hand finds the small of your back with practiced ease. His voice softens like you’re the center of his world. “My wife,” he introduces you with a proud little smirk. “Isn’t she adorable?” He plays the loving husband flawlessly, and everyone eats it up.

The second the door closes, he drops the act so hard the room temperature changes.

Tonight, it’s the same.

A clan gathering. Dozens of eyes watching. Gojo leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, voice honey-sweet for the crowd:

“Smile for them. You’re supposed to love me.”

His grip around your waist is warm.

His eyes above the blindfold are ice.

And as soon as you step back into the house, the warmth evaporates. He shrugs off his coat, walks past you, and says nothing. Like you’re invisible.

He reaches the stairs before pausing—just for a heartbeat.

“Don’t stay up,” he mutters without turning around. “We’re leaving early tomorrow. Politics again.”

Then he disappears into his room, door shutting with a soft, final click.