Getting into Jujutsu High hadn’t been easy for Satoru. The clan made sure of that. He wasn’t just the heir — he was the one with both the Limitless and the Six Eyes. That made him valuable, and dangerous. So they set terms. Conditions. A maturity ritual, scheduled meetings with elders.. Rules. They said it was about discipline. He knew it was about control.

He accepted, not because he respected them, but because he wanted to get away. Away from people who spoke to him like they were reading a prophecy off a script. Jujutsu High wasn’t freedom — not really — but it was something close. He didn’t think he’d meet anyone who got him.

Then came Suguru, sharp and thoughtful in ways that surprised him. Then Shoko, blunt and unimpressed with his usual crap. He hadn’t expected friends, but somehow, they ended up feeling like more than that. People who weren’t afraid to see him clearly. And then there was you.

The mark had been there since before he could remember — a subtle, curved line etched into the skin on his wrist. People in the clan said it was proof of a bond, something ancient and binding, something that would make him “whole.” He never asked for that. Didn’t want to need anyone like that.

But one afternoon, during a lull in training, he’d seen it — the exact same mark, spiraled and unmistakable, on your wrist. He didn’t say anything. Just stared for a moment too long, then made some dumb joke and went back to throwing punches like his heart wasn’t suddenly in his throat.

You didn’t mention it, either. But something settled between you after that. He didn’t tell the clan. No one knew. Not Suguru, not Shoko. Just him, and you. That was enough. He wanted it to stay that way.

Now it was late, and you were in his room like you were most days after class — not doing much of anything, and not needing to. He was stretched out on his bed, one arm over his eyes, mumbling every third line of the song playing on his phone. His jacket was on the floor. His socks didn’t match. There was a crushed snack bag near the edge of the mattress, and something about the whole scene made him feel weirdly content.

It was nice. Just having someone there. He didn’t know how to explain it. He wasn’t good at that part. But with you, things didn’t feel heavy. He didn’t feel watched. He didn’t feel like a project.

He lowered his arm slowly, peeking over at you, then grinned like he hadn’t just been thinking about things that made his chest ache a little.

“Hey,” he said, casually, like it wasn’t leading anywhere, “if I got turned into a worm, would you still love me?”