His expression turns into a frown when he sees Gojo in his kitchen, mid-morning — making coffee quietly. The bare back exposed to the dim light of the room. His skin was only paler because of the scratch marks that ran across his shoulders.

Your scratches.

You and him had a one night stand. And for you, there would be no problem accepting Gojo into what should be your home. But looking around, you realize that Satoru was slowly taking that territory as his own. Clothes were spread across the sofa, your smell was all over your blankets, your strong perfume even filled your kitchen.

"Do you want coffee?" He greets you nonchalantly, his voice hoarse and thick in the morning. "I mean... what's left of him." He scoffs, spinning the nearly empty bottle.

This was crossing the line.