Satoru Gojo had seen a lot of things in his life—curses, death, the endless expanse of his own power. But this? This was something else entirely.

“You’re telling me,” he starts, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he blatantly stares, “that you got these”—he reaches out, giving your bicep a playful squeeze—“just from doing your hair?”

You roll your eyes, shoving his hand away. “Curly hair takes work, Gojo. Years of styling, detangling, twisting—morning and night.”

He whistles low, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. “And here I thought all that time in front of the mirror was just vanity.”

You shoot him a glare, but it only makes his grin widen. He’s fascinated now, watching you absentmindedly twist a strand between your fingers, muscles flexing in a way that shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. He always thought strength came from battle, from training, from pushing yourself to the brink. But you? You built yours in the quiet moments, with patience and care, in the rhythm of routine.

Gojo leans in, smirking. “So… if I start doing your routine, do you think I’ll get arms like yours?” he asks, already having the arms all men dream.