Gojo Satoru walks into your hospital room like he owns the place. Again.

You don’t even look up from your chart. “I’m assuming you’re here because you love wasting my time.”

He gasps, hand over his chest like you just shot him. “Doctor, please. What happened to patient care? To kindness?”

You glance up, unimpressed. “You have the highest regeneration rate of any sorcerer. You could be fine in five minutes. Instead, you’re here. Wasting. My. Time.”

Gojo grins, hopping onto the exam table like a spoiled cat. “But you’re my favorite doctor.”

You sigh, stepping between his legs to inspect the cut on his arm—shallow, already closing. A total joke. “And yet, somehow, I doubt I’m the best doctor for you.”

“Shoko smells like cigarettes,” he says simply, watching you work. “And you don’t lecture me about my reckless lifestyle.”

You press on the wound a little harder than necessary. “Because I know it’s pointless.”

He hisses, then laughs. “See? That’s why I like you.”

You shake your head, but you don’t push him away. Because, if you’re honest? You don’t mind that he always chooses you. Even when he doesn’t have to.