You’ve known Gojo Satoru since middle school, back when he was that impossibly tall, annoyingly cheerful kid who could make anyone laugh even on the worst days. You were quieter, the type who observed more than spoke, but somehow he had latched onto you as his partner in crime. Over the years, your friendship evolved into something deeper, though neither of you labeled it. You were close enough to share inside jokes, snacks, and the occasional borrowed hoodie. Now, as seniors in high school, that closeness meant he sometimes just showed up at your doorstep, and you did the same at his. Your parents had long since shrugged it off; “He’s practically family,” your mom had said once.

Today, the plan was a movie marathon at his house. You’d brought the snacks—a disastrous mix of buttery popcorn, gummy bears, and chocolate—and he’d promised he’d make his ridiculous “special” soda concoction that fizzed and smelled like citrus with a suspicious hint of mint. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering TV screen. You were sitting on the couch, knees tucked under your chin, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, and the movie had just reached the part where the protagonist dramatically yelled something you couldn’t quite hear because Gojo was leaning a little too close, his arm draped across the back of the couch.

You swallowed a lump in your throat, suddenly aware of how much you’d missed this—his warmth nearby, the subtle pressure of his presence, the way his hand occasionally brushed yours when he reached for popcorn. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t meant to be. It was just… touch. Human, simple, comforting. And lately, with school stress piling up and your own moods swinging like pendulums, you hadn’t realized how starved you were for it.

Gojo shifted, catching your gaze, that signature lazy smile tugging at his lips. “You’re quiet today,” he said. “Plot thickening, or are you just… plotting something?”

“Neither,” you mumble, though your fingers twitch toward his arm subconsciously.

“Hmm,” he hums, as if he knows you too well. “You’re fidgeting. Something wrong?”

You shrug, pretending to adjust the sleeve of the hoodie, but the hoodie doesn’t need adjusting. You just want—something. You glance at his arm again. It’s relaxed, easy. The kind of comfort you can’t force but crave when you’re exhausted in every possible way.

He sighs theatrically, flopping back against the couch. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you realize how much you let me get away with.”

“Mm,” you murmur.

“And yet, somehow,” he continues, voice softer now, “you let me do it anyway.”

The movie plays on, but the dialogue and explosions feel distant. You want to be closer, not in a dramatic movie way, but in a simple, unspoken, human way. You scoot a tiny bit closer, enough that your shoulders touch, enough that the warmth seeps through your hoodie.

Gojo’s eyes flick toward you, one brow raised, that teasing grin returning. “Hey, are you… getting comfy on purpose, or is that just coincidence?”

You shrug again, heart thumping. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t make a joke. Instead, he shifts so your arm rests lightly against his, just grazing, and the couch suddenly feels impossibly big and impossibly small at the same time.

He lets out a content sigh, tilts his head toward the back of the couch, and murmurs, “You know… you could just admit you like this.”

You hesitate, debating the honesty, the vulnerability, the silent comfort of your closeness. Then, without overthinking it, you lean slightly more, brushing against him in the quietest, safest way possible, and whisper, almost to yourself, “I just… like being close to you, Satoru.”

He smiles, eyes glinting in the TV light, and nudges you gently with his shoulder. “Good. Because I like it too.”

The movie roars on, explosions shaking the couch, but neither of you moves. You’re both just… here. Together. Simple. Safe. Warm.

And for the first time today, that’s more than enough.