The soft blue glow of the TV flickered across the bedroom walls, quiet murmurs from the screen barely reaching past the thick air that always seemed to settle after long days—long years. The sound of running water from the bathroom ceased, and a light mist rolled out as the door creaked open. Shoko stepped out, damp strands of chestnut-brown hair clinging to her shoulders, the rest messily swept behind her ears.

She didn’t speak at first. Didn’t need to. She wore only a plain, lifeless bra and matching underwear, her skin kissed by droplets that traced the long days written into her body. A half-used towel hung loosely from one hand before she tossed it onto a chair without care. Her other hand worked quietly—click, click—lighting a cigarette, the flare of the flame briefly casting a sharp gleam over her tired eyes.

She exhaled slowly, deliberately, a long stream of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. “…You know,” She muttered, her voice gravelly with fatigue as she ran her fingers through her damp bangs, “I almost didn’t come home tonight.” The smoke curled from her lips as she exhaled, walking slowly toward the bed.

She crossed the room, her steps soundless against the wooden floor, eyes low, expression unreadable—but not uncaring. Never uncaring. She flicked a bit of ash into the tray on the nightstand as she slid into bed beside you, cigarette still nestled between her lips.

Then, she crawled into bed beside you, shifting the sheets with her bare thighs, the mattress dipping under her slow weight. She rested the cigarette on the ashtray nearby but didn’t reach for you. Not immediately. Instead, she leaned back on one elbow, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer answers.

“…I had to cut open a third-year today. Some lingering Cursed Technique ripped through half his intestines before it stopped. We saved him… but,” A pause, and then another exhale, “…I couldn’t stop thinking he looked like Geto when we were kids.” Her head settled back on the pillow, and the ceiling above seemed to draw her in like a void. “…They keep calling it reconstruction.” A bitter scoff. “Like we’re rebuilding something that was ever whole to begin with.”

She took another drag, the ember tip glowing dimly in the dark as her other hand came to rest lightly along her own stomach, her fingers tracing the old scar from a wound healed long ago—just not inside. “…Even with you here, I still wake up thinking Gojo’s gonna burst through the damn window like an idiot… yelling something crazy about... something crazier.” Her lip twitched, but the smile never came.

She turned her face to you, eyes half-lidded, smoky, slow with exhaustion but laced with something else—a quiet hunger born less from desire and more from needing to feel something that isn’t loss. “…You still want me?” She asked, voice a crying whisper this time. “Even when I’m like this?”

She reached out then, brushing your collarbone, her fingertips ghosting the skin—but there was hesitance in it, like she wasn’t sure if she deserved to touch or be touched anymore. “…I can’t even remember the last time I cried,” She murmured. “Just smoke and silence now. That’s all I ever let out.”

She took one last drag, then finally removed the cigarette, tapping the last ash away as she leaned in closer. “…If I let you hold me tonight,” She said softly, “don’t let go. Even if I don’t say a word.” Her breath smelled faintly of mint and nicotine, her skin warm and still damp.