Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The rain’s steady. The house is warm. Nothing outside this little world matters right now—not the missions, not the weight of what’s coming. Just the quiet rhythm of a shared life between two people trying to hold onto something good”

The rain tapped steadily against the windows of Geto Suguru’s apartment, a gentle but persistent rhythm that mingled with the quiet hum of early morning life. Outside, the streets were slick with moisture, a glossy canvas reflecting blurred neon signs and the occasional hurrying figure with an umbrella. But inside, everything was still, wrapped in the muted warmth of a home untouched by the cold world beyond.

Gojo Satoru lay tangled in a mess of sheets and dark clothing, the remnants of last night’s careless retreat to bed. One of Geto’s oversized black shirts had slipped halfway off the mattress and now curled awkwardly around Gojo’s arms like a soft cocoon. His white hair was a chaotic halo of softness, strands sticking out in every direction as if caught in a silent storm.

He blinked against the soft, diffused light filtering in through the curtains, the edges of the world coming into blurry focus. The apartment smelled faintly of burnt rice and sandalwood incense, an odd combination that somehow felt like home—comforting and real.

His mouth felt dry, and a faint hunger prickled in his stomach. But the world was quiet, and he wanted to savor the stillness a little longer.

Gojo stretched with a slow, luxurious motion that echoed the languid stretch of a cat waking from a long nap. His spine arched, a satisfying pop slipping from his back. His arms extended, fingers curling and uncurling as he reached toward the ceiling.

The cool carpet brushed against the bottoms of his bare feet as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the slight chill prickling at his skin. The sheets were warm and smelled faintly of Geto’s skin—a mix of mint toothpaste, faint musk, and something uniquely Suguru.

For a long moment, Gojo just stood, breathing in the familiar scents of the apartment, letting the quiet press against his skin like a soft blanket. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled where Geto had lain. The silence in that space felt heavy, almost tangible.

Gojo let out a soft sigh, half teasing, half fond.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, face still half-buried in the pillow.

No answer came. The apartment was quiet except for the steady patter of rain against the windowpanes.

Slowly, Gojo padded out of the bedroom, shirtless and barefoot, moving with the relaxed, unhurried grace of someone who had nowhere to be and all the time in the world. His feet made soft thuds on the wooden floor as he made his way toward the kitchen, drawn by the faint sounds of pots clanging and a muted hiss from the stove.

He paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing playfully.

Geto Suguru stood at the stove, back turned, stirring something carefully in a frying pan. His black hair was tied back in a messy knot that unraveled every few seconds, stray strands falling against his neck. The sleeves of the shirt he wore—one of Gojo’s older, oversized long-sleeve shirts—were pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing pale skin marred only by a few faint scratches and scars from their training.

The air smelled faintly smoky and sharp with the scent of cooking rice.

“Burning the rice again?” Gojo asked, stepping fully into the kitchen.

Geto didn’t turn around.

“No. You’re imagining things,” he said flatly.

“The smoke says otherwise,” Gojo said, gesturing at the small curls of smoke rising from the pot.

Geto finally turned his head slightly, raising a single brow.

“The smoke says ‘good morning,’” he replied, voice low and teasing. “You should try saying it back sometime.”

Gojo grinned and closed the distance, slipping his arms around Geto’s waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on his shoulder.

Geto’s shoulders tensed for a second, then relaxed beneath his touch.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Gojo said, nuzzling his neck.

“You left it on the floor,” Geto replied without looking down. “I’m protecting it from mildew.”

“So noble of you,” Gojo murmured, pressing a soft kiss against the hollow of Geto’s throat.

They lingered in that quiet moment, the rain a steady soundtrack outside, the warmth of their small apartment cocooning them away from the gray day.

Gojo’s fingers tangled in Geto’s dark hair, carding through it slowly, savoring the softness beneath his fingertips.

“Mmm. You smell like burnt rice and sin,” he whispered.

“And you smell like you haven’t showered,” Geto shot back with a smirk.

“We balance each other out,” Gojo whispered closer, his lips brushing the side of Geto’s neck.

Geto sighed, a soft sound that somehow held affection and exasperation all at once, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned in Gojo’s arms, his hand coming up to cup Gojo’s jaw gently. Their lips met in a soft, slow kiss, warm and steady.

When they parted, Gojo rubbed his eyes sleepily, the corners crinkling with quiet amusement.

His gaze drifted around the kitchen. There were dishes piled in the sink, remnants of last night’s dinner still faintly clinging to plates. A couple of empty mugs sat forgotten on the counter. A dark shirt draped over the back of a chair, wrinkled and forgotten.

“We should clean this up before it grows legs and walks away,” Gojo said, nudging Geto toward the sink.

Geto rolled his eyes but followed, slipping on a pair of worn slippers by the door.

They moved around each other in a slow, familiar rhythm. Gojo rinsed the plates with lazy, inefficient movements while Geto wiped down the counters, the clatter of cutlery and the splash of water punctuating their quiet conversation.

Every so often, their hands bumped, fingers brushing against one another. Each time, they exchanged a small smile or a glance loaded with the weight of unspoken affection.

“You never close the fridge door,” Geto muttered as Gojo stood staring inside the open fridge with a distant expression.

“I’m inspecting,” Gojo said, completely unrepentant.

“You’re just looking for snacks,” Geto said, voice dry.

“Maybe,” Gojo admitted, his hand reaching deeper inside and grabbing a chocolate bar.

“No, put that back,” Geto said, stepping forward.

“But it’s my favorite,” Gojo said, eyes wide and innocent.

“You’re supposed to eat real food first,” Geto reminded, already used to this battle.

Gojo huffed dramatically but complied, closing the fridge with a soft click.

“Fine, but only because you’re the boss,” Gojo grumbled with a smile.

After the kitchen was tidied up, Gojo grabbed a towel from the rack and began running it through his damp hair, tousling it with the careless energy of someone who wasn’t quite ready to face the day.

Geto leaned against the counter, watching the familiar little ritual with quiet fondness.

“You’re such a child sometimes,” Geto said quietly.

“And you’re my babysitter,” Gojo replied with a grin.

They stood there for a long moment, just breathing the same air, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence.

Gojo’s mind wandered, drifting from the mundane to the profound:

How many mornings like this would they have? How many quiet moments before the storm came calling again?

Could he hold onto this — this warmth, this peace — even when the world outside was falling apart?

The questions lingered unspoken, heavy but somehow softened by the familiarity of Geto’s hand slipping into his own.

Slowly, Gojo reached out, fingertips tracing lazy circles on the back of Geto’s hand.

“Hey,” Gojo murmured, voice soft.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for this. For... being here.”

Geto squeezed his hand gently.

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re the one who leaves shirts on the floor.”

“Fair.”

They laughed, the sound quiet but full of life, blending seamlessly with the rain’s gentle drum against the windows.

After breakfast, the apartment was filled with the low hum of domestic noise: the rhythmic swish of a broom against the hardwood floor, the gentle crinkle of laundry folding, and the occasional teasing shout cutting through the otherwise calm atmosphere.

Gojo stood in the middle of the living room, gripping the handle of a broom like a makeshift broomstick, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’m domestic now,” he declared, balancing precariously on one foot. “Call me Gojo Housewife Satoru.”

Geto, standing nearby with a stack of freshly folded towels, shot him a look equal parts amused and exasperated.

“You haven’t done a single thing,” Geto said flatly, folding a towel with meticulous care.

“I made your morning 30% cuter,” Gojo said with a grin, swaying dramatically on the broom.

“That’s emotional labor,” Geto deadpanned.

Gojo laughed, almost losing his balance. His fingers gripped the broom tighter, and with a whoop, he pushed off, pretending to fly around the room.

Geto shook his head but smiled, the edges of his mouth twitching upward in fondness.

The truth was, this kind of chaos was the only way Gojo knew how to exist in a routine. He hated chores, hated order, hated the pressure of perfection — but he loved the way Geto made even the smallest things feel important. Like folding towels, or sweeping floors, or making the other laugh until their ribs ached.

“Careful with that,” Geto warned, eyes flicking to the laundry basket that Gojo had just bumped with his foot.

“It was the wind,” Gojo said, throwing his hands up dramatically as the basket tipped over, spilling clean clothes across the floor.

Geto sighed and bent down to collect the scattered shirts and socks, but not before Gojo swiped a stray sock and darted away, laughing.

The whole scene was familiar in its imperfections — Gojo’s careless messes, Geto’s patient sighs, the silent rhythm they’d built together.

Gojo picked up a shirt and shook it out, his mind wandering as he watched Geto carefully fold another towel.

Every time I’m around him, my heart does this stupid flip. Like it’s some kid at a carnival waiting for the next ride.

His fingers fiddled nervously with the shirt, then ran through his hair, trying to shake off the sudden flutter in his chest.

Geto noticed, eyes narrowing.

“You’re not folding again, are you?” Geto teased, raising an eyebrow.

Gojo grinned sheepishly and dropped the shirt back into the basket.

“I’m an artist,” Gojo said. “Folding’s too… structured for me.”

Geto chuckled softly and shook his head.

“Just don’t knock over the basket again.”

Gojo’s grin widened, but he nodded seriously, then snuck up behind Geto and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

Geto startled for a moment, dropping the towel he was folding.

“Stop,” he said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’ll make the towels fall.”

Sure enough, the towels slipped from Geto’s hands, tumbling to the floor in a soft heap.

“Oops,” Gojo said, mock-innocent.

“You’re impossible,” Geto muttered, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

The rhythm of chores continued — Geto sweeping carefully while Gojo danced around the room, pretending to be a witch flying on her broomstick. Every so often, Gojo would “accidentally” knock into the vacuum cleaner or trip over a stray sock, drawing a disapproving look from Geto.

“I swear, if you break that vacuum, I’m banishing you from the kitchen,” Geto said, arms crossed.

“Worth the risk,” Gojo replied with a smirk.

When it came time to tackle the dishes, Geto rolled up his sleeves and started scrubbing the plates, while Gojo lingered nearby, twirling a sponge like a baton.

“Why don’t you do the dishes?” Geto asked, not looking up.

“Because,” Gojo said, stepping closer, “I have a better idea.”

Before Geto could react, Gojo grabbed the faucet sprayer and blasted a stream of water right at him.

Geto sputtered, eyes wide, as water soaked his shirt and ran down his arms.

“Gojo!” he shouted, though a laugh was creeping into his voice.

“Accidental,” Gojo said, ducking behind the counter and giggling.

Geto shook his head, smiling, and reached out to grab Gojo’s collar, pulling him in for a quick, dripping kiss.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Geto said, voice soft.

Gojo’s heart fluttered wildly, that familiar butterfly sensation curling in his stomach.

Even after all this time, I still get butterflies. Like the first time. Like the first time I saw him smile.

He let himself be pulled closer, leaning into the warmth of Geto’s embrace.

The apartment around them felt alive with quiet chaos — the mess of clothes, the scattered dishes, the rain still tapping softly on the window. But in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The rain had softened outside, shifting from a steady drum to a gentle patter that whispered against the glass windows. The apartment was wrapped in a hush, warm and fragrant with the lingering scent of incense and damp earth.

Geto sat cross-legged on the couch, his long dark hair cascading over his shoulders and pooling in loose waves around him. The fabric of his shirt clung slightly to his damp skin, evidence of the day’s earlier rain. His eyes were soft, unfocused as he gazed out the window, watching droplets race down the glass.

Behind him, Gojo sat on the floor with knees bent, eyes fixed on the strands of hair slipping through his fingers. His hands were tentative at first, unsure, as though afraid to disturb something fragile. But there was a kind of reverence in the way he touched Geto’s hair—gentle and unhurried.

He tried to braid the thick strands, fingers fumbling over knots and tangles. His hands pulled a little too hard here, missed a strand there.

“Ow,” Geto murmured quietly, voice low and steady despite the mild sting.

Gojo froze, blinking wide-eyed as if startled.

“Your hair betrayed you,” Gojo said with mock solemnity, tone softening into a whisper. “It deserves to be punished.”

He bent his head and placed a warm kiss on the side of Geto’s neck, just beneath the ear. The kiss was feather-light, almost hesitant, but it sent a shiver rippling down Geto’s spine.

Geto sighed, resting his head back against the couch, eyes closing in quiet surrender.

“I’m letting you do this because I’m tired,” Geto said softly, voice thick with a mixture of affection and weariness.

Gojo smiled, fingers now moving with more confidence and care, coaxing the hair into loose braids. The strands slipped occasionally, but Gojo persisted, determined.

“You’re letting me because you love me,” Gojo whispered, breath warm against Geto’s skin.

Geto’s lips curved upward into a slow, knowing smile.

“…That too.”

The room was wrapped in silence again, save for the soft symphony of rain tapping the window and the faint hum of the city beyond. Gojo’s hands continued their work, twisting and weaving strands of hair with a patient tenderness that felt new and yet familiar.

Between his gentle tugs, Gojo’s lips found new places to kiss—the hollow of Geto’s shoulder, the curve of his neck, the soft skin just below his ear. The kisses were persistent but tender, like the steady beat of a favorite song.

Geto’s breath hitched a few times, subtle signs of the warmth spreading through him, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head, inviting Gojo closer, opening himself to the moment.

The silence between them was full—words were unnecessary when everything was spoken through touch.

Gojo’s fingers trembled slightly as he tackled a particularly stubborn tangle, tugging gently but firmly.

“Ow,” Geto murmured again, a note of amusement in his voice this time.

Gojo paused, looking up into Geto’s eyes with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Your hair is... complicated.”

Geto chuckled softly, eyes warm and fond.

“It’s not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “Keep going.”

Gojo nodded and resumed his slow, steady work, weaving the strands as best as he could. The braid was loose and uneven, far from perfect—but it was theirs, marked by their shared moments.

As Gojo worked, he whispered small things—memories and half-formed thoughts that felt too fragile for full sentences.

“Remember when we tried to braid your hair for the school festival?”

Geto’s eyes flickered open slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“You gave up halfway and just tied it into a messy knot.”

Gojo laughed softly, the sound light and warm.

“I was nervous. It was the first time I touched your hair like that.”

Geto’s smile deepened, softening into something tender.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me anymore,” Geto said gently. “Not ever.”

Gojo’s chest tightened with emotion. He leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Geto’s temple.

“I want to stay close like this forever,” Gojo whispered. “Even when everything else falls apart.”

Geto’s hand came up to cup Gojo’s cheek, thumb tracing slow circles over his skin.

“Me too,” he said simply.

They lingered in that quiet intimacy. The imperfect braid, the lingering kisses, the soft murmur of rain—everything blended into a moment that felt suspended in time.

Gojo’s fingers brushed through Geto’s hair again, soft and slow, as if memorizing each strand. He pressed one last kiss to Geto’s neck before settling his cheek against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m so terrible at this,” Gojo said with a light laugh.

Geto shook his head, his voice steady and warm.

“You’re perfect at it. Because it’s you.”

Gojo’s chest tightened with a surge of affection, the need to be near Geto overwhelming.

He shifted slightly, wrapping his arms around Geto’s waist, pulling him close in a gentle embrace.

Geto leaned into the touch, sighing softly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Geto murmured. “Just stay.”

Gojo smiled, eyes closing as the world outside faded away.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed entwined in the soft glow of the apartment, wrapped in quiet love as the rain whispered its lullaby against the windows.

Minutes slipped by like hours, filled with nothing but the sound of steady breathing and the warmth of skin pressed close.

Gojo traced lazy patterns along Geto’s back, fingers brushing through damp strands, feeling the soft pulse beneath.

Every heartbeat felt like a promise—a fragile, beautiful vow spoken without words.

The braid, tangled and uneven, was a symbol of their messy, imperfect life together—something that wasn’t neat or easy, but wholly theirs.

As the sky outside darkened and the rain slowed to a drizzle, Gojo’s fingers slowed, finally resting.

He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the nape of Geto’s neck.

“I love you,” Gojo whispered softly, the words barely audible.

Geto’s hand tightened around his waist in response.

“I love you too,” he replied, voice low and full of warmth.

The room settled into peaceful quiet once more, the only sounds the fading rain and two hearts beating in quiet sync.

The rain had softened into a quiet murmur, like a whispered secret shared only between the apartment walls and the world outside. Its steady rhythm was hypnotic, weaving a gentle lullaby that seemed to suspend time. Inside, the warm glow of the living room lamp cast soft shadows over the cluttered mess of cushions and blankets strewn across the couch where Gojo and Geto lay.

Gojo was half-asleep, his head cushioned against Geto’s broad chest. The steady thump of Geto’s heartbeat beneath him was an anchor in the sea of his restless thoughts, a reminder that, for now, here was peace. His fingers twined idly with Geto’s, their legs tangled together under a threadbare blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and smoke.

Geto’s hand moved slowly through Gojo’s silvery hair, each stroke a small comfort, soft and deliberate. The touch made Gojo’s heart flutter, a quiet kind of joy swelling inside his chest — the kind that came from belonging, from being seen, even in the smallest gestures.

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt incense and damp earth, the scent mingling with the soft warmth of Geto’s skin and the lingering trace of coffee from the morning. Outside, the rain tapped steadily on the windows, a soothing cadence that seemed to blur the lines between inside and out.

Gojo’s eyelids fluttered as he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, the warmth and quiet a balm to his often scattered mind.

Breaking the silence, Geto’s voice came low and casual, cutting through the quiet like a soft thread.

“Did you see the delivery menu? They added that weird spicy ramen I was telling you about.”

Gojo’s eyes cracked open lazily, a grin teasing his lips despite the fog of sleep.

“You mean the one that tastes like it’s trying to burn your face off?” he teased, voice thick with drowsiness.

Geto chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating softly through the space between them.

“Yeah, that one. Thought maybe we could try it sometime. If you’re not scared.”

Gojo stretched, dragging his hands through his messy hair before shifting so he could look up at Geto’s face. The corners of Geto’s lips were turned up in a faint smile, eyes dark and thoughtful as they watched Gojo’s sleepy grin.

“You’re lucky I’m brave,” Gojo said with a lazy smirk. “Or maybe just stupid.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind that stitches together moments like this — small, unremarkable to the outside world but precious in their own way.

After a pause, Gojo’s voice softened.

“How was that mission this week?” he asked, tracing absent circles on Geto’s chest with his fingertips.

Geto’s smile faded just slightly, the shadow behind his eyes deepening.

“Same as always,” he answered quietly. “Tiring, messy.”

Gojo nodded slowly, sensing the weight beneath the words but choosing not to press — not yet.

“You did good,” Gojo said simply. “Like you always do.”

The silence settled between them again, thick and slow.

Geto’s fingers tightened just a bit in Gojo’s hair, a small reminder that he was there, present, even if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Then, with a soft sigh, Geto spoke again — this time, his voice heavier, more serious.

“What would you be doing if you weren’t a sorcerer?”

Gojo blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. He opened his mouth, ready with a joke, but the earnestness in Geto’s eyes made the words catch in his throat.

He closed his eyes briefly, considering.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, voice low. “Maybe something boring. Like a chef or a teacher.”

Geto hummed thoughtfully, running his hand through Gojo’s hair in a slow, comforting rhythm — a small gesture to soothe the question’s weight.

“I don’t think I ever thought about that,” Geto admitted. “What I’d be if I wasn’t... this.”

The word “this” hung heavily in the air — a quiet confession, a fracture in the surface of Geto’s calm.

Gojo opened his eyes and looked up at Geto’s face, searching.

“You’re not just ‘this,’” Gojo said firmly, fingers brushing over Geto’s cheek. “You’re you.”

Geto smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Sometimes it feels like we weren’t meant to survive this long,” he said after a long pause, voice almost a whisper.

Gojo frowned, the honesty cutting sharper than he expected.

“What kind of question is that?” he asked softly.

Geto shrugged, gaze distant.

“I don’t know. Just feels like I’m always waiting for something to snap.”

Gojo’s heart clenched. He shifted so his forehead rested against Geto’s temple, breathing in the scent of rain and soap and something distinctly Geto.

“Then don’t snap,” Gojo said softly, voice firm with quiet conviction. “Stay here. Stay with me.”

Geto’s breath caught, and his fingers tightened involuntarily in Gojo’s hair.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

The silence that followed was filled with all the things they couldn’t say — the fears and doubts, the fragile hopes, the unspoken promises.

Gojo closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of Geto’s body beneath his cheek, the gentle pressure of fingers in his hair, the steady rhythm of a heart beating just for him.

His mind wandered briefly — to their past, to the early days when everything was uncertain, when touching Geto felt like reaching for the sun. He remembered the nervousness, the butterflies, the thrill of those first tentative moments.

Now, here they were — a quiet routine built not on perfection but on messy, beautiful reality.

He thought about how easy it was to forget the chaos outside when they had this — a small, sacred space where nothing had to be spoken aloud.

Geto’s hand shifted, tracing a lazy circle on Gojo’s scalp. The touch was so simple, so familiar, it was almost like breathing.

Gojo let out a soft sigh, opening his eyes to meet Geto’s.

The gaze they shared was heavy with meaning, a quiet exchange of everything they felt but couldn’t say.

“Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like,” Geto said quietly, “if we’d never gotten involved in all this? If we’d just been... normal?”

Gojo tilted his head, considering.

“Normal’s overrated,” he said with a small smile. “But yeah, sometimes. I think about it. What kind of trouble we’d get into.”

Geto chuckled softly.

“Yeah, trouble. You’d probably find a way to burn the kitchen down.”

Gojo laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the heaviness.

“Hey, I’m a professional at causing chaos,” he said, mock offended.

Geto smiled, eyes softening.

“That’s why I love you.”

The words hung between them, fragile and full.

Gojo reached up, cupping Geto’s face, his thumb brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw.

“I love you too,” Gojo said, voice thick with emotion.

They lay like that for a long time, the rain outside a constant, gentle presence.

Gojo felt the slow build of something inside him — a mixture of hope, fear, and fierce protectiveness.

He wanted to shield Geto from the darkness he sensed lurking beneath, to keep him safe no matter what came.

But for now, all that mattered was this moment — the quiet warmth of Geto’s chest beneath his cheek, the softness of fingers in his hair, the steady pulse of love unspoken but deeply felt.

As the sky darkened and the rain slowed to a whisper, Gojo closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the comfort of being exactly where he belonged.

The next morning, the rain had finally let up, leaving behind that washed-out look the city gets when the sun isn’t quite sure if it wants to come back. The sky was gray but dry, and Geto, naturally, saw it as the perfect opportunity to drag Gojo out of the apartment for something "productive."

Gojo, on the other hand, did not believe grocery shopping qualified as productive.

“We could order in. Again. Forever,” he said dramatically, dangling himself off the couch like a dying Victorian widow.

“We’re out of rice, milk, eggs, and every green thing that isn’t mold,” Geto said flatly, pulling on his coat.

“Sounds like a you problem,” Gojo muttered.

But he still stood up and followed Geto out, hoodie half-on, sunglasses already in place even though the sun hadn’t made a proper appearance all day.

At the local market, the automatic doors whooshed open and the familiar fluorescent lighting hit Gojo like a slap. He hissed like a vampire.

“Why is everything so bright in here?” he whined, trailing behind Geto like a bored toddler.

Geto ignored him and started down the produce aisle, grabbing a handbasket instead of a cart, which was his first mistake.

As soon as Geto started picking through spinach, Gojo wandered.

By the time Geto turned around, Gojo had returned — with two bags of neon orange chips, sour candy strips, three types of gum, and something that looked suspiciously like a cake with a cartoon bear on the front.

“Absolutely not,” Geto said, eyeing the pile of junk.

“What?! It’s limited edition!” Gojo protested, clutching the bear cake like it was his firstborn child. “This is culture, Suguru. Culture.”

“We’re not buying snacks that are designed to poison you and look cute doing it. Put them back.”

Gojo dramatically sank to the ground, clutching the basket to his chest.

“You don’t understand me.”

“No,” Geto said calmly, nudging him with his foot. “But I understand diabetes.”

Grumbling, Gojo stomped off to return most of the junk — most, not all — and when he came back, he was pouting and holding a single packet of sour candy like it was a hard-won battle trophy.

“One,” Geto said, holding up a finger. “Just one.”

“You’re cruel,” Gojo muttered.

They made it halfway through the store with minimal disasters, until they turned the corner near the cereal aisle and encountered what Gojo would later call his nemesis.

A small child — maybe five or six — was standing by a shopping cart, chattering happily to his overwhelmed-looking parent and holding a brightly colored box of frosted cereal. The child made the mistake of locking eyes with Gojo, who raised his sunglasses dramatically and stared back with all the concentrated power of a six-eyed god.

The child’s smile faltered.

Geto noticed the shift in the air immediately.

“Satoru.”

“He started it,” Gojo whispered, deadly serious.

The child’s eyes widened. His lip began to tremble.

“Satoru,” Geto said again, more warning this time.

Gojo didn’t break eye contact.

The kid burst into tears.

Geto sighed like a man who’d lived through multiple apocalypses and this was somehow worse. Without missing a beat, he reached out and thwacked the back of Gojo’s neck with a practiced, no-nonsense palm.

“Ow—! What the hell was that for?!” Gojo gasped, rubbing his neck.

“You don’t win points for intimidating toddlers,” Geto said, stepping forward to awkwardly bow in apology to the confused and distressed parent.

Gojo scowled, watching as the kid was picked up and carried away, still wailing.

“You’d think he saw a ghost,” Gojo muttered.

“He saw a man-child in sunglasses picking a fight over cereal.”

“That cereal had no nutritional value and he knew it.”

“Satoru. Stop arguing with six-year-olds. Get soy sauce.”

Gojo wandered off again, muttering, but not before tossing an extra bag of chips into the basket behind Geto’s back.

The rest of the trip was... relatively normal, all things considered. Geto handled the real groceries — tofu, eggs, miso, vegetables, rice — while Gojo sneakily tried to smuggle in every colorful package that caught his eye.

Geto caught most of them. Not all.

By the time they reached the register, their handbasket was an awkward mess of well-balanced adult groceries and a rainbow of pure chaos. The cashier looked at them both and wisely said nothing.

As Geto paid, Gojo leaned against the counter with exaggerated exhaustion.

“I think I deserve ice cream after all that hard work.”

“You knocked over a pyramid of cans and almost got us banned from the cereal aisle.”

“Emotional labor,” Gojo said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

Geto just rolled his eyes and grabbed the bagged groceries, handing Gojo the lighter one with all the snacks in it.

Gojo lit up instantly.

“You do love me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

They stepped out into the gray afternoon together, plastic bags rustling, air cool and clean after the rain. Gojo bumped their shoulders together as they walked.

“You’re still mad I beat that kid in a staring contest.”

“You’re thirty. He was five.”

“Age is just a number when pride is on the line.”

“Remind me again why I haven’t broken up with you?”

Gojo smirked, slinging an arm around Geto’s shoulder.

“Because you’d miss me.”

“Unfortunately.”

The night settled gently over the apartment, folding in like a blanket. The kitchen still smelled faintly of soy sauce and roasted sesame from dinner, and one of Gojo’s stupid playlist mixes — a chaotic blend of R&B, 80s synth, and at least two anime openings — hummed quietly from a speaker in the corner before fading out completely.

They’d eaten late. Neither of them had been especially hungry, not after the sugar-bomb snacks Gojo snuck into the house under the guise of “emergency soul medicine.” Still, Geto had cooked, something warm and simple — a half-hearted miso soup and leftover rice — while Gojo hung off him like a very dramatic scarf the entire time.

After dinner, there was a mutual, unspoken acknowledgment of the day’s end — not a plan, but a natural drift toward closeness. The air had a softness to it, touched with fatigue, full of unspoken affection. The kind that only came when everything else was quiet.

“I smell like I ran through a spice market,” Gojo had muttered, poking his own sleeve and then sniffing it with great theatrical disgust.

“Because you did,” Geto replied, setting down their empty bowls. “You knocked over half the condiments aisle trying to avoid eye contact with a crying child.”

Gojo scowled. “He started it.”

Geto raised an eyebrow. “He was six.”

“Power recognizes power, Suguru.”

That had earned him a soft flick on the forehead and a lazy, fond smile.

Eventually, they drifted toward the bathroom, peeling off the layers of the day. Their shared shower wasn’t anything sensual — just warm water, the quiet intimacy of shampoo bottles being passed back and forth, a muffled “ow” when Gojo elbowed Geto by accident, a tired laugh. The room steamed up around them, fog on the mirror, silence stretching between them like cotton.

Gojo leaned his forehead against Geto’s shoulder under the water for a long time and didn’t say anything. Geto didn’t ask. He just stood there, letting the water run down their backs, his palm resting lightly between Gojo’s shoulder blades.

When they stepped out, the apartment had cooled. Gojo dragged the towel over his hair, shaking it out like a dog and flinging droplets everywhere.

“Honestly,” Geto muttered, watching him with a towel slung around his waist, “you have the emotional maturity of wet tissue.”

“I’m delicate and prone to dissolving under pressure,” Gojo shot back, grinning.

They ended up on the couch because neither of them had the energy to make the bed — or maybe they just didn’t want to break the rhythm of the evening. The couch was messy, still buried in throw blankets from earlier, but it was warm, familiar.

They collapsed into it like two halves of the same weight.

Gojo curled into Geto’s side immediately, wet hair slightly dampening his shirt, long limbs draped over him like a starfish. His arm slid around Geto’s middle, fingers tugging absently at the hem of his shirt.

“Why do you smell good?” Gojo murmured.

“I use soap,” Geto said dryly, his hand finding its place in Gojo’s hair again.

“No,” Gojo said, drawing it out. “You smell like... safe.”

Geto didn’t answer that.

The room was dim, lit only by the distant citylight bleeding in through the curtains. Rain had started again, soft and lazy, tapping against the windows in no particular rhythm. The air was warm from the shower, heavy with steam and the subtle scent of eucalyptus from the cheap body wash they shared.

They lay there in silence, one of those long, syrupy quiets that didn’t feel awkward — just full. Gojo’s breathing slowed, but he kept mumbling, the way he always did when he was half-asleep and his brain refused to shut down.

“...should get a cat,” he said into Geto’s chest.

“No.”

“What about a snake?”

“No.”

“A cat that looks like a snake?”

“That’s just a worm, Satoru.”

Gojo groaned. “You’re so boring. I’m trying to build a dream life here and you’re blocking the vision.”

Geto chuckled low in his throat, brushing a thumb along Gojo’s temple.

Gojo shifted, face tilted up, eyes barely open. “You’re comfy.”

“You say that every night.”

“Because you are.” A beat. “Like a giant, morally conflicted pillow.”

Geto didn’t reply, but he could feel Gojo grinning against him.

“Are you even listening to me?” Gojo mumbled, the words slurring now.

Geto looked down, taking in the half-lidded blue eyes, the faintest flush on Gojo’s cheeks, the way his lashes stuck together in clumps from the shower.

He didn’t answer.

Gojo let out a content sigh and nuzzled into his shoulder.

Then, with one final breathy exhale, he mumbled: “If I die before you, I want to be cremated and turned into glitter. Make me into an eyeshadow palette. So I can still make people hot.”

Geto blinked.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

Gojo didn’t reply. He was already out, completely, limbs slack and breath soft against Geto’s neck.

The room slipped into stillness again.

Geto lay there beneath him, unmoving.

He could feel Gojo’s weight — solid, familiar, warm. Every inhale and exhale brushing against his collarbone, the flutter of a heartbeat that wasn’t his. It was the kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything, that just... existed. Gentle and enormous at the same time.

His fingers brushed through the damp strands of Gojo’s hair absently.

A hundred things tried to form into thoughts.

Like how this felt like pretending.

How the future stretched ahead like a thin piece of glass he was too afraid to step on.

How he didn’t know what it would mean to have this forever, or if he even believed in forever anymore.

And yet.

This — Gojo, pressed close to him, ridiculous and warm and impossibly open — was the only thing that had ever felt like home.

Geto stared at the ceiling.

His throat tightened with something unspoken.

The rain picked up again, slightly harder now, drumming lightly against the windows in waves. A car passed on the street below. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe groaned faintly. The world continued moving around them.

But this moment was still.

He looked down again at Gojo — his Gojo, with his mouth slightly parted and one hand curled like a cat’s paw near his face, his body completely slack with trust.

Geto exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I wish we could stay here.”

He didn’t say it to be heard. He said it like a truth too big to carry.

But Gojo stirred slightly, frowning in his sleep, like he’d heard it anyway in some part of his dreaming mind. His grip on Geto’s shirt tightened.

Geto stilled, hand now resting over Gojo’s back, palm flat, grounded.

He stayed like that until sleep came for him, too — not as peace, but as permission to stop pretending, just for a while.

And outside, the rain kept falling.

Chapter Text

It started with an empty mug balanced on top of a book he hadn’t finished.

Geto stared at it — chipped ceramic, still ringed with the ghost of instant coffee — sitting precariously on the edge of his old volume of Modern Barrier Theory . Beside it was a half-unwrapped candy, something neon and sour, already melted slightly into the wood of the coffee table. Gojo’s hoodie was slung over the back of the chair again, sleeves dragging the floor like lazy shadows.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint whistle of wind pushing through the window Gojo had — of course — left open again.

Geto exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t want to be annoyed. He didn’t want this to be the thing that cracked something open. But it wasn’t about the cup or the candy or the mess, not really.

It was everything.

The way Gojo never closed the window, even when it rained.

The way he filled every room with noise and presence and clutter like he was afraid of silence.

The way Geto found himself picking up after him over and over, like some quiet, repetitive ritual of caretaking he hadn’t agreed to but performed anyway.

He picked up the mug and set it in the sink with a little more force than necessary.

From the hallway, he heard Gojo’s voice — casual, distant.

“Hey, did you see where I put my sunglasses? The dark ones, not the—” He stepped into the room mid-sentence, towel around his neck, hair damp and spiked from the shower.

He stopped short when he saw Geto standing there, arms folded, surrounded by Gojo’s hurricane of belongings.

“What?” Gojo asked. Not defensive — not yet — just confused.

Geto didn’t answer at first. He looked at the coffee table. The hoodie. The stack of empty snack wrappers. The crumbs.

“You treat this place like a dorm room,” he said, voice low and flat.

Gojo blinked. “Okay? I mean, technically, it’s our place, not—”

“That’s not what I said.”

A pause.

Gojo’s expression shifted — not to anger, but something more cautious. Something guarded. The way he always got when he sensed a shift in the air but wasn’t sure which way the wind was about to blow.

“…Is this about the hoodie?” he asked, brow furrowed. “Because I was gonna—”

“It’s not just the hoodie,” Geto snapped, sharper than he meant to be. “It’s everything , Satoru. Every damn day, I walk into this room and it’s like you exploded in it.”

Gojo straightened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind his glasses. He said nothing.

The silence hung between them, heavy and uneven.

Geto’s jaw tensed. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say anymore. It wasn’t about cleaning. Not really. It was about the way Gojo breezed through life like it didn’t weigh anything. The way he filled the space between them with jokes and wrappers and noise, like if he stopped moving, something might catch up to him.

And maybe Geto hated that he understood it.

But today, he was tired.

Tired of being the one who noticed. The one who held things. The one who felt like he was constantly sweeping up the pieces while Gojo spun in circles around him.

“I clean up after you every goddamn day,” he said, quieter now. “I know it’s stupid. I know it’s small. But it’s like you don’t even think about what that means.”

Gojo didn’t move.

Outside, the wind caught the open window and pushed it wider. The curtain flared like it was gasping.

Gojo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable behind the cheap sunglasses he still hadn't removed. He always did this — let silence stretch until someone else folded first.

This time, Geto didn’t.

“Say something,” he said, voice tight.

Gojo finally exhaled. “What do you want me to say, Suguru? That I’m messy? That I suck at chores? You already know that.”

Geto stared at him. “It’s not about the mess.”

“Then what is it about?” Gojo asked, not quite defensive — more like frustrated confusion. “Because one second we’re fine, and the next, you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of—of burden.”

The word hit harder than Geto expected.

He looked away.

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

Gojo crossed the room and pushed the window shut — too hard. The glass rattled in the frame. Then he turned, leaning against the sill, arms crossed.

“I know I’m not exactly easy to live with,” he added, quieter now. “But this? Picking a fight over socks on the floor or candy wrappers? It’s not you. So just—say what you actually mean.”

Geto felt something flicker in his chest. Anger. Guilt. Exhaustion.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight together like a prayer.

“What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that I’m tired.”

Gojo went still.

“I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one who sees the cracks,” Geto continued. “Like I’m the only one worried about them. You get to pretend everything’s fine. You get to laugh and joke and talk about snacks and cats and cereal aisle wars while the rest of us are—”

He stopped himself.

Gojo’s voice was quiet. “While the rest of you are what?”

“—Waiting for it to fall apart,” Geto said.

And there it was.

The truth, ugly and bare.

Gojo looked like he’d been punched in the chest.

For a second, neither of them said anything. The silence roared.

Then Gojo moved — slowly, deliberately — and dropped down onto the couch beside him, just far enough that their shoulders didn’t touch.

He spoke softly. “You think I don’t see the cracks?”

Geto didn’t answer.

Gojo let out a humorless laugh. “I see them every day, Suguru. I just... don’t stare at them. Not because I don’t care. But because if I do, I won’t be able to stop. And I can’t fall apart, because if I do, then you will. And we don’t survive that.”

That landed like a stone in Geto’s gut.

He looked over. Gojo wasn’t facing him — just looking down at his hands, fingers twined together, white-knuckled.

“I’m not trying to make you clean up after me,” Gojo added. “I just... I don’t know how to make things feel normal without clutter. Or noise. Or stupid cereal mascots. It’s like—if everything’s quiet, then I have to feel it. All of it.”

A pause.

“And some days, I can’t.”

Geto swallowed hard.

He hadn’t wanted a confession. Hadn’t expected one.

But Gojo always did this — broke wide open when Geto least expected it, and left him holding the jagged edges.

“…I know,” Geto said finally.

Gojo looked at him.

“And I’m sorry,” Geto added, voice soft now. “I’m not mad that you’re messy. I just—sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in all the things you don’t say.”

Gojo’s hand moved, almost without thinking, resting lightly on Geto’s knee.

“I don’t say them because they scare the hell out of me,” he said.

“I know,” Geto repeated. Then, quieter: “Me too.”

The silence returned, but softer now — less like a blade, more like a bandage.

Gojo leaned his head back against the couch, exhaling slowly. “So. You still mad at me?”

Geto sighed. “A little.”

“Fair.”

A small beat passed.

“...I’ll clean up the wrappers,” Gojo offered. “And the mug.”

“You’ll forget.”

“Probably.”

Geto looked over, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “But you’ll try?”

Gojo finally smiled — tired and crooked. “I’ll try.”

Gojo didn’t say anything when Geto leaned into him.

He didn’t have to.

Their shoulders touched, then their thighs. A quiet slide of weight, as natural as breathing. Gojo's warmth soaked into him, and the tension that had built like a storm front began to ebb — not vanish, just… loosen its grip.

Outside, the rain had picked up again. It hit the window in soft pulses, like a second heartbeat.

Geto didn’t move for a long time. He just sat there, one foot on the floor, the other tucked up on the couch, arms slack, his head slowly finding its way to Gojo’s shoulder.

Gojo let out a breath he’d clearly been holding.

“I hate fighting with you,” he said, quiet.

Geto hummed in acknowledgment. “Me too.”

Gojo tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing against Geto’s hair. “Do you think it’s always gonna be like this?”

“What, messy?” Geto asked, without malice. “Complicated?”

Gojo’s fingers found the edge of Geto’s sleeve, fidgeting with the cuff. “Yeah.”

Geto considered it.

“I think it might be,” he said finally. “But I don’t think that means it’s broken.”

He felt Gojo nod — a small, tired motion.

Then, silence again. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Gojo shifted, one arm sliding around Geto’s waist like it belonged there — and maybe it did. His other hand was still playing with Geto’s cuff, slow and absent, like he needed something to keep him tethered.

“I meant what I said,” Gojo murmured after a while.

Geto didn’t lift his head. “Which part?”

“That I see the cracks.”

Geto’s throat tightened. He didn’t respond — just shifted a little closer, eyes falling shut.

“You don’t have to hold everything,” Gojo added. “I know you think you do, but… you don’t.”

“I don’t know how not to,” Geto admitted, voice barely a whisper.

“That’s okay,” Gojo said. “I can learn with you.”

That did something to Geto — cracked something open and warm and aching all at once.

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding over Gojo’s where it rested on his waist. Fingers interlaced. No big gestures. Just skin and warmth and a silent, trembling kind of understanding.

They sat like that until the rain softened again.

Eventually, Gojo yawned, loud and unrepentant. “So,” he mumbled, muffled against Geto’s hair. “Truce?”

Geto gave a faint nod. “Truce.”

“Even though you were wrong?”

Geto elbowed him lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

Gojo chuckled, and the sound rumbled through both of them.

And just like that, the sharp edges dulled.

They didn’t talk about the mess on the table. Or the things still unsaid. Or the heavy thoughts waiting for them in the quiet hours of the night.

They just sat together.

That, for now, was enough.

The smell hit him first — burnt oil and something vaguely sweet, too sweet. Sugar? Syrup? Something was off.

Then came the sound: the scrape of metal against metal, a pan being moved too fast, too hard. A drawer yanked open, shut again. Then silence.

Then—

A muffled sob.

Geto was up before his mind fully caught up. Barefoot, shirt wrinkled, sleep still clinging to the corners of his vision. But he knew that sound. It sliced through him like instinct.

He turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped cold.

Gojo was on the floor.

Sitting, knees pulled up, one hand cradled in the other, breath hiccupping in wet, quiet gasps. The air smelled like scorched butter and soy sauce, something charred and cloying all at once. A half-chopped carrot lay forgotten on the counter. A pan hissed angrily on the stove, flame still on low.

There was a thin line of red on Gojo’s finger.

Not deep — not bad. But he’d dropped the knife, and it had clattered to the floor with a finality that echoed.

“Gojo,” Geto said, sharp and soft all at once, rushing over.

Gojo flinched, immediately trying to scrub at his face with his wrist. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you—fuck, I’m fine, it’s—”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a cut—”

“And you’re on the floor crying.”

Gojo went quiet.

Geto crouched in front of him, reaching out, gentle. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Gojo uncurled his hands. His fingers trembled in Geto’s palm. The cut was shallow, already beading with blood, smeared a little from Gojo’s earlier attempts to wipe it away.

Geto’s thumb brushed across his knuckles. “Dramatic as ever,” he said lightly, trying to soothe the tension in the air.

Gojo gave a choked laugh that dissolved into another sob. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, curling forward.

“I was trying to make you lunch,” he said, voice muffled, barely coherent. “You always cook, and I thought maybe—maybe if I just did something right, it’d make up for—” He broke off, breath catching. “But I couldn’t even do that. I just—fuck, I suck, Suguru.”

Geto’s heart broke clean in two.

He didn’t rush to fix it. Just let the silence sit, warm and close. Let Gojo breathe, even if those breaths were uneven.

The kitchen light was too bright, harsh on Gojo’s tear-streaked cheeks. The window was still cracked open, letting in the late afternoon breeze — warm and muggy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and city smog. A single fly buzzed somewhere near the fruit bowl, and the pan hissed one last time before dying down into silence.

“I don’t need you to do things right,” Geto said quietly, finally. “I just need you.”

Gojo looked up, eyes red, lashes clumped and wet. “But I wanted to say sorry.”

“You can say sorry without burning the kitchen down.”

“I didn’t burn it.”

Geto glanced at the blackened corner of the omelet on the stove. “…Yet.”

That earned a small, wet laugh.

Geto pressed a kiss to Gojo’s temple, then moved to grab a clean dish towel. He wet it under the tap — cold water shocking against his skin — and came back, gently wrapping it around Gojo’s finger.

“You should leave the cooking to me,” he said, soft and teasing.

Gojo sniffled. “Rude.”

“You almost made breakfast flambé.”

“I was going for ‘heartfelt gesture.’”

“And instead, you gave me a grease fire and a panic attack.”

They were smiling now, both of them — soft, frayed at the edges. Geto sat beside him on the floor, their knees bumping, the towel still gently pressed to Gojo’s hand.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then Gojo exhaled shakily, leaning into Geto’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Geto tilted his head, resting it against Gojo’s.

“You’re an idiot,” he murmured. “But you’re my idiot.”

The apartment was wrapped in a soft quiet, the kind that settles after a storm—both outside and between them. The warm glow from the kitchen spilled into the living room, casting gentle shadows on the worn couch where Gojo sat, cocooned in a thick blanket. The fabric smelled faintly of eucalyptus and the faint musk of laundry detergent, wrapping him in a familiar comfort that felt like a shield against the weight pressing down on his chest.

Geto moved silently in the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of a wooden spoon stirring a skillet mingling with the faint hiss of oil. The aroma of ginger and garlic caramelizing filled the air, rich and homey. The clink of a knife against the cutting board, a soft sigh of steam rising from a pot simmering with miso broth—it was the quiet music of normalcy, something both grounding and fragile.

Gojo’s eyes were half-closed, his breath steady but shallow as he watched Geto’s steady movements. His fingers twitched slightly, absently tracing the edge of the blanket, anchoring himself in the moment. There was a stillness between them, unspoken but heavy with meaning—the fragile peace they fought to hold onto.

Geto glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark and unreadable, but something like worry flickered in their depths. He crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the couch beside Gojo, voice low and steady.

“You okay?”

Gojo gave a soft chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m always fine.”

Geto shook his head, his hand settling lightly over Gojo’s, the warmth a quiet question. “You don’t have to be.”

Gojo’s smile softened, a small crack in the armor. “I’m trying to be.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was thick with unspoken fears, with the fragile hope that this moment could last a little longer. Gojo shifted slightly, leaning into Geto’s touch, the blanket slipping off one shoulder to reveal the soft warmth of his skin beneath.

“I wish I could stay like this forever,” Gojo murmured, voice almost lost in the hum of the apartment.

Geto’s fingers threaded through Gojo’s hair, tugging gently, grounding him. “Me too.”

Their peace was broken suddenly by the shrill ring of Gojo’s phone, sharp and urgent in the quiet room. Geto’s body tensed instantly, his gaze flickering with concern as Gojo reached for the device.

“Gojo here,” his voice was steady but carried an edge of readiness.

The words from the other end came quick and clipped—a curse had been sighted nearby, growing in strength, innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. The room seemed to shrink around them, tension coiling tightly.

Geto moved closer, his voice low but firm. “Be careful, Satoru.”

Gojo looked up, blue eyes meeting Geto’s, the familiar spark igniting behind them. “I’m always careful.”

Geto’s hand lingered on Gojo’s arm for a moment longer before pulling away, the worry still shadowing his face. “Come back safe.”

Gojo smiled, a small, reassuring curve of his lips. “I always do.”

The blanket slipped fully from his shoulders as he stood, the quiet resolve in his stance solidifying.

Geto watched him go, the weight of unspoken things pressing down. When the door clicked softly behind Gojo, Geto moved to the balcony, the cool evening air brushing against his skin.

He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the flame briefly illuminating the lines of fatigue around his eyes. The smoke curled upward, mingling with the damp night air, carrying away some of the tension knotted in his chest.

Outside, the city breathed and pulsed—lights flickering like distant stars, the murmur of distant traffic and life continuing despite the shadows creeping closer.

Geto exhaled slowly, letting the smoke trail out with it, fingers tapping the railing absently. His thoughts were quiet but restless, circling around the same fear he never said aloud: that sometimes, peace was just the calm before a storm.

The cigarette burned low, and he flicked it away, watching the ember fade into the dark below. Inside, the apartment waited — still warm, still waiting.

The door slammed harder than it should’ve, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot.

Geto didn’t even have time to look up from the book in his lap before the noise jolted him upright. The sudden burst of cold air rushed in behind the intruder, rain and wind trailing through the hall like an unwelcome guest.

Gojo stumbled inside, dripping from head to toe, hoodie soaked through and clinging to his frame like a second skin. One hand was clutched to his forehead, fingers slick with something darker than rain.

Blood.

A slow, thick line of it crept down from beneath his palm, carving a path along the sharp angle of his temple and down his cheekbone, trailing past the curve of his jaw to vanish into the collar of his soaked shirt. It mingled with sweat and rainwater and something else — something acrid, metallic, and wrong.

“Are you—” Geto’s voice caught before it could finish, his breath snagged mid-thought like thread pulled too tight. His eyes widened. “Satoru.”

Gojo blinked, dazed and swaying, fingers finally falling away from his wound. “Oh. Yeah. I think I got dinged or something.”

Geto was already on his feet, the book forgotten, heart jackhammering behind his ribs. His steps were fast and sharp across the hardwood, each one laced with a tightly coiled panic that sat just beneath the surface.

“You promised me,” he hissed, barely able to hold back the anger that surged up in his throat — the kind of anger that had nothing to do with fury and everything to do with fear.

Gojo gave him a tired shrug, rain dripping from his lashes, his lips pulled into a crooked half-smile. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, voice slurred at the edges. “Barely noticed.”

“Look in a mirror,” Geto snapped, his hands already reaching for him, fingers cupping Gojo’s jaw and turning his face toward the light. The gesture was rougher than he intended, but he couldn’t help it — not when that much blood was staining skin he knew so well. “You’re bleeding. A lot.”

Gojo winced slightly, not from pain but from the look in Geto’s eyes. “Didn’t even feel it.”

“That’s not comforting,” Geto growled.

His grip tightened just a fraction before he caught himself. He exhaled sharply, jaw tense. “Shower. Now. I’ll come in and help you clean up.”

Gojo groaned, dramatic as ever. “Suguru, I’m tired.”

“Then don’t make me argue,” Geto shot back. “Strip, shower, sit down if you have to. I’ll be there in a second.”

Gojo sighed like a man burdened with unbearable tragedy. “So bossy. Such tyranny. When did I sign up for a nagging boyfriend?”

But he peeled the hoodie off anyway, each movement slower than the last. He hissed once when fabric brushed a bruise, and Geto noticed — didn’t say anything, just turned and left the room with purpose. The hallway lights flickered briefly as he passed through, stormlight from the window throwing long, pale shadows behind him.

In the bathroom, steam was already beginning to fog the mirror. The scent of hot water and old tile filled the space. Geto returned with a thick towel and the first aid kit, hands steady now, but only just.

He opened the door to the sight of Gojo standing under the spray, his back turned, water streaming down his spine and over the angry red bruise blooming beneath his left shoulder blade. His hair was plastered to his skull, and even the line of his shoulders — usually proud, effortless — sagged under invisible weight.

Geto lingered for a moment at the threshold, watching him. The sound of water hitting skin echoed like distant rainfall, but the quiet inside Geto’s chest was thunderous.

Gojo lifted one arm to run a hand through his hair and winced. It was a sharp, instinctive reaction — barely audible — but Geto moved before he could think.

“Satoru,” he called gently.

Gojo didn’t turn. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words were edged, brittle. Defensive. But Geto didn’t stop.

He stepped barefoot onto the cool tile, set the first aid kit on the counter, and softened his voice like you would for an injured animal.

“You don’t have to pretend nothing hurts,” he said.

Silence.

The water kept running.

“I should’ve put up my Infinity,” Gojo muttered after a long pause. “I didn’t think it was serious. Then I blinked and—” He touched his forehead. “This happened.”

“Because you were rushing. Again.” Geto’s voice dropped lower, hurt threading through every word. “Because you keep forgetting you’re not invincible.”

“I don’t need you worrying like I’m made of glass,” Gojo said, finally turning. Water ran in rivulets down his face, and his eyes — tired, too bright — locked onto Geto’s. “I can take care of myself.”

“Then do a better job of it.”

It wasn’t a yell. It didn’t need to be. The weight in those words was enough to bring down kingdoms.

Gojo looked away first.

“...Sorry,” he muttered.

Geto moved closer without speaking, the silence between them saying everything. He reached for the shampoo, his fingers brushing through Gojo’s soaked hair with practiced care. Years of familiarity made the motion effortless — like muscle memory, like coming home.

The scent of mint and cedar filled the space, a grounding smell. Gojo’s eyes fluttered closed as Geto worked, shoulders loosening under the slow, methodical attention.

His ribs ached. His pride ached more.

“You’re being pathetic,” he told himself.

But then Geto’s palm slid carefully down his spine, lingering briefly over the worst of the bruises. Gojo winced again, involuntarily.

“Be careful,” Geto murmured.

“Yeah,” Gojo breathed. “Sorry.”

Geto rinsed him off in silence. The air around them was warmer now — not from the steam, but from the shift in mood. The anger had faded, replaced by something quieter, more fragile. When Geto shut off the water, Gojo stayed where he was, unmoving.

Then, with a tired sigh, he let his forehead fall against Geto’s shoulder.

“You’re being clingy,” he mumbled, lips brushing damp skin.

“I know,” Geto whispered back.

There was no teasing in his voice. Just weariness — the kind that came from loving someone who could break your heart by walking in the door bleeding.

He wrapped Gojo in a towel and guided him gently back into the bedroom. The air outside the bathroom was cold, biting against damp skin, but Gojo didn’t complain. He just collapsed onto the bed with a groan, limbs loose with exhaustion.

Geto dropped to his knees beside him, cracking open the first aid kit.

“You don’t have to—” Gojo started.

“Shut up,” Geto replied.

And Gojo, of course, grinned.

Geto worked in silence. The antiseptic stung, but Gojo didn’t flinch. He watched Geto the entire time — watched the furrow between his brows, the precise movements of his fingers, the quiet way he pressed gauze to his temple like he was afraid to cause more damage.

“Just because you’re the strongest doesn’t mean you get to be stupid,” Geto muttered, reaching for more bandages.

“I didn’t know it’d hit that hard,” Gojo said. “I forgot the Infinity.”

“Not an excuse.”

Gojo leaned back, stretching slightly, then draped one long leg over Geto’s shoulder with lazy insolence. “Hi.”

Geto looked up, unimpressed.

“Seriously?”

Gojo smirked, sheepish and charming and exasperating all at once. “I’m being cute and sorry. It’s strategic.”

Geto rolled his eyes — but didn’t push the leg away.

Instead, he reached up and gently tapped Gojo’s ankle. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

Silence.

Then a kiss — light, hesitant, but real.

When it broke, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Later, Geto crawled into bed first, pulling the covers up to his chin. Gojo lingered by the window, the breeze catching in the curtains, the faint scent of ozone still on the air. Rain had started again, soft against the glass, a lullaby of storm.

He climbed into bed and wrapped himself around Geto’s back, one arm slung over his waist.

“I got it this time,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Geto didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away either.

And in the quiet, they fell asleep.

—

The next morning, Geto woke to a chill biting at his bare shoulders.

The window was wide open. Again.

Rain had drifted in overnight, pooling across the floor in uneven puddles, soaking into the hem of the curtains. The dresser stood in a shallow lake.

Geto sat up, blinking blearily. “Satoru.”

Gojo groaned from under a pillow. “Mmh.”

“You left the window open again.”

“I was airing out the room,” came the muffled reply.

“It rained.”

“I wanted ambiance.”

“There’s a lake under the dresser.”

“...Atmospheric ambiance.”

Geto stared.

Gojo peeked out with one eye, sheepish grin already forming. “I love you?”

Geto groaned. “You’re mopping it up.”

And Gojo, bruised, bandaged, and still smug, gave a dramatic salute from the bed. “Sir, yes sir.”

Geto couldn’t help it. He laughed.

And outside, the rain kept falling.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped sometime after midnight.

It left behind a hush — not silence exactly, but something gentler. The kind of stillness that only came after something had been wrung out of the world. The curtains shifted faintly in the breeze from the cracked window, and the apartment was soaked in the kind of dim, silvery dark that made everything feel softer. Blurred. Less real.

Geto lay on his back, shirtless under the sheets, one arm folded beneath his head. His other hand was splayed over his chest, slow with breath. The warmth beside him was unmistakable: Gojo, stretched out on his side, hair still damp from the shower, bruises beginning to darken across the line of his ribs. His fingers played with the edge of Geto’s blanket, twisting it idly.

They hadn’t spoken much after cleaning the floor. Just soft motions, tired limbs, a quiet dinner eaten side by side. And now, here. In bed. The space between them was minimal — their bodies pulled toward each other like magnets worn smooth from use.

Gojo shifted closer, his foot brushing Geto’s ankle under the covers. Bare skin against bare skin.

“I like it when you laugh,” he murmured.

Geto blinked. Turned his head. “…What?”

“You don’t laugh that much anymore. But when you do, it’s like—” Gojo hesitated, searching. “Like I didn’t mess everything up completely.”

Geto didn’t respond right away. The words hit with more precision than Gojo likely meant. He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“You didn’t mess everything up.”

A pause.

“But you’re not denying that you messed up something .”

Geto cracked a faint smile. “Don’t push it.”

Gojo grinned — soft, pleased, stupid — and tucked his face against Geto’s shoulder. His breath was warm against the slope of his collarbone.

They lay like that for a while. Minutes stretched thin. Breath deepened. Hands wandered — not with hunger, but with need. Gojo’s fingers mapped the lines of Geto’s chest, the soft indent of his waist. Geto threaded his own through Gojo’s hair, slow, dragging his nails lightly over his scalp. The air between them grew heavier with each passing second, not with tension but with want — the slow kind. The aching kind.

“What do you want?” Gojo asked suddenly. His voice was quiet. Serious.

Geto’s eyes flicked toward him. “Right now?”

“Right now. Tomorrow. After that. Just… in general.”

Geto was quiet for a long time.

Then: “Peace.”

Gojo’s brows knit together. “Peace?”

Geto nodded. “Not... safety. Not even happiness. Just peace. I’m tired of waiting for the next fight. I’m tired of waking up tense.”

Gojo didn’t speak, but his fingers stilled against Geto’s side.

Geto looked at him, eyes unreadable in the dark. “What do you want?”

The pause was longer this time.

“…You,” Gojo said. Simply. Like it was obvious.

A beat passed.

“Just me?” Geto asked.

“No,” Gojo admitted. “But you’re the only part that doesn’t change.”

It would’ve been easy to let that moment slip by. To lean into it, laugh it off, kiss him and say nothing.

But Geto was tired of letting things slip.

“You say things like that,” he murmured. “And you mean them. But you don’t think about what it does to me.”

Gojo pulled back just enough to see his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Geto swallowed. His throat felt tight. “I mean it’s not fair. To make me feel like I’m your anchor. Like if I let go, you’ll fall apart.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“But you did , Satoru.”

Gojo opened his mouth. Closed it again. He looked suddenly small, curled against the sheets, skin pale in the moonlight, jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not— I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you to stay sane.”

Geto’s voice was low. Barely audible. “Even if that’s what I am?”

“You’re not.” Gojo’s voice cracked slightly. “You’re not. You’re—” He stopped. Breathed in. “You’re the thing I want . Not the thing I’m leaning on.”

Geto rolled onto his side, facing him fully now. They were only inches apart.

“Then don’t say forever.”

Gojo blinked. “What?”

“You say it like it’s a promise. Like it means something.” Geto’s hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly against Gojo’s cheekbone, then tracing the edge of his ear. “But I don’t know if I believe in forever. Not anymore. Not with what we do. Not with how often we come home bleeding.”

Gojo looked at him for a long time. Eyes blue and glassy in the dim light. Then he nodded, just once.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “No forever.”

A pause.

“But can I say now ?”

Geto’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“Can I say ‘right now, I love you’?”

Geto stilled.

The words didn’t surprise him. But the way Gojo said them — quiet, steady, without drama — left him breathless.

He didn’t say it back.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he closed the distance between them and kissed him — slow and trembling, one hand curling around the back of Gojo’s neck like he might disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough.

Gojo kissed him back without hesitation, lips warm and sure, his hand sliding beneath Geto’s jaw, thumb brushing the pulse there like a promise.

They sank into each other.

Clothes were peeled away. Slowly. Reverently. Not for lust, but for closeness. For the sheer need to be known skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. They moved like they’d done this before — because they had, in different ways, in different lives, through bruises and arguments and half-shared beds. But this time, it felt different.

This time, it felt like wanting instead of needing .

Gojo’s fingers traced the long lines of Geto’s spine, lips pressing gently to the dip of his shoulder. Geto’s hands were steadier now, mapping every familiar inch of Gojo’s body with care that felt almost holy. The room smelled like skin and warmth, sweat and soap. The sheets tangled around them, quieting the world.

When they reached for each other, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow — the kind of intimacy that comes from knowing every sigh, every hitch in breath. From years of orbiting each other and finally letting the gravity take hold.

After, they didn’t move. Gojo’s head rested against Geto’s chest, fingers drawing lazy circles along his stomach. Geto’s arm wrapped around his back, thumb stroking the curve of his hip, anchoring him in place.

“I’m sorry if I said it too soon,” Gojo murmured, almost to himself. “I just didn’t want to die without you knowing.”

Geto’s eyes burned.

He pressed a kiss to Gojo’s hair and closed his eyes.

“I know,” he whispered.

Another pause. Gojo shifted just enough to look up.

“Do you…” He didn’t finish the question.

“I don’t know how to say it,” Geto admitted. “Not yet.”

Gojo nodded. No anger. No pressure. Just a soft kind of acceptance.

“I can wait,” he said.

And Geto believed him.

Outside, the city had gone quiet. No thunder. No rain. Just the low hum of life resuming its rhythm.

Inside, two bodies pressed close beneath a thin sheet. No forever. No promises.

Just now .

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It was still dark when Gojo woke.

Not fully — the kind of darkness that comes right before the light changes, right before the sun remembers it has a job to do. The room was blue-toned and grainy with shadows. Still. Too still.

He blinked slowly, groggy and warm beneath the sheets, his arm automatically reaching out to the other side of the bed.

It wasn’t empty.

But Geto was sitting up, shirtless, knees drawn up to his chest, hair loose around his face. There was something still about him — not the stillness of peace, but of pressure. Of something held in place too long.

Gojo watched him for a moment. Tried to gauge the mood by the shape of his spine, the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers were folded neatly in his lap.

“…Suguru?” he whispered, voice thick with sleep.

Geto didn’t look at him.

His gaze was fixed somewhere just beyond the wall. Like he could see through it. Like the future was waiting out there in the hallway, patient and heavy.

Gojo sat up slowly. The sheets slid off his chest, and the chill hit him like a quiet rebuke. “You okay?”

A pause.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Geto said, voice barely above a breath.

“You didn’t,” Gojo said automatically. But the weight in his stomach told him otherwise. He hadn’t been woken by sound. He’d been woken by absence.

Geto still hadn’t looked at him.

That’s what did it — not the silence, but the way it was directed . Like Geto had already started detaching. Like his body was here, but his soul had taken one quiet step back.

Gojo’s heart knocked too hard against his ribs.

“Talk to me,” he said.

Geto finally moved — just a little. He unfolded his legs. Ran a hand down his face. He looked so tired it hurt.

“I don’t know what to say anymore,” he murmured.

Gojo shifted closer, hand reaching out on instinct, brushing lightly against Geto’s shoulder. “Then don’t say anything. Just stay.”

The silence that followed was thick and awful. And then—

“I think I’ve already left a little,” Geto said. Still not looking at him.

The words were soft. But they split something wide open.

Gojo’s fingers stilled against his skin. “What do you mean?”

Geto exhaled slowly. “I mean it’s happening. Whatever this is… it’s cracking. And I’m watching myself let it.”

Gojo’s throat tightened. “Why?”

A pause.

Geto turned, finally. Met his eyes.

And God — there it was. That look. Not angry. Not cruel. Just… accepting. Like someone who had already grieved something that hadn’t finished dying yet.

“You always knew where this ends,” Geto said.

The words were a knife.

Gojo’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything.

Because if he did — if he answered — then yes, it would be real. And Gojo had always been good at not making things real. At burying truth beneath jokes, beneath kisses, beneath the noise of being alive.

But now, Geto was looking at him like he already belonged to a different timeline. A different conclusion. Something quieter and colder and inevitable.

Gojo swallowed hard. His voice was sandpaper. “We can still—”

“Don’t,” Geto said gently. “Please.”

And that please — it was the softest blow of all. Not a warning. Not a demand. Just something raw and human and heartbreakingly final.

“I love you,” Gojo said suddenly, because it was all he had left.

“I know,” Geto said.

And he did know. That was the worst part.

They sat in silence for a while after that, not touching. The space between them had never felt wider.

Eventually, dawn began to bleed into the room — first a pale gray, then the soft blush of early sun. Light moved slowly across the wall like it was reluctant to witness this.

Geto stood first. Quiet. Barefoot. He walked to the bathroom without another word.

Gojo stared at the space he left behind.

It still smelled like him.

And it would, for a little while.

But Gojo already knew.

He always had.

This was the beginning of the end.

Not with a fight.

Not with a goodbye.

Just with a sentence that lingered in the air long after the door clicked shut:

“You always knew where this ends.”

And Gojo, finally, had nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

Gojo woke with the weight of someone else’s breathing in his chest.

For a moment—just a second—he thought Geto was still there.

That low hum of warmth beside him. That phantom feeling of pressure on the mattress. The echo of a presence that his body had learned too well. He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing over the sheets like he might find skin.

But there was nothing.

Just the hollow dent where a body used to lie. Already fading.

The room was still and gray with early light. Too gray. Too still.

He blinked once. Then again.

The illusion didn’t return.

He was alone.

He sat up slowly, each movement leaden, like he was wading through water thick with memory. The bed was cold. The sheets were twisted around his legs. The world felt too wide and too empty all at once.

It hadn’t been real.

None of it.

Not the fight. Not the silence. Not the apology whispered into steam. Not Geto’s voice in the dark or the soft press of a hand over his heart.

Just a dream. A memory. Or something worse—some grief-forged hallucination of the past where they were still tangled together, still fighting over open windows and omelets and forever.

Gojo rubbed his hands over his face, palms dragging down like he could scrape the ache away.

He couldn’t.

Not this time.

The apartment around him was different now. Sparsely kept. Neat. Cold. The kind of place that only one person lived in, no matter how many toothbrushes still sat in the bathroom drawer, untouched. No matter how many mugs waited in the cupboard like they remembered being shared.

He didn’t get up right away. Just sat there, eyes glazed, staring at the floor like it might offer some version of the past that still had Geto in it.

But it didn’t.

And wouldn’t.

Ever again.

Eventually, his eyes landed on the chair across the room. The old armchair Geto used to collapse into after missions, limbs flung over the sides like a lazy king.

A sweater was draped over the back.

Gojo didn’t remember putting it there. He wasn’t even sure how it had survived. The weave was loose and soft and fraying slightly at the cuffs, the color faded from dark black to a washed-out charcoal. The collar was stretched. It smelled like dust.

And still—something in Gojo’s chest cracked wide open at the sight of it.

He stood on legs that didn’t want to hold him and crossed the room.

He picked it up slowly, like it might disintegrate in his hands.

It was warm from the light, but not from Geto. Not from anyone.

Gojo clutched it to his chest like it was the last thing keeping him tethered. Like it was lungs. Like it was blood. Like it was him .

And then he sank to the floor.

He didn’t sob. Not at first.

He just… broke.

Silently. Completely.

Shoulders shaking, breath stuttering in his throat, face pressed to cotton that no longer smelled like anything except loss. His fingers curled tight into the fabric, knuckles gone white, trying to hold on. Trying to hold him .

But there was nothing to hold.

There hadn’t been, for years.

Geto was gone.

And this—

This was the final destination.

Not some dramatic ending. Not a cursed battlefield. Not a fight to the death.

Just a man sitting alone on a hardwood floor, crying into a sweater that used to belong to someone he loved more than the world.

A world that kept spinning anyway.

A world that didn’t stop for the strongest.

A world that didn’t care how many times Gojo whispered please into a silence that never answered.

The window was closed.

The room was still.

And Gojo wept like he never had the chance to before.

Because grief doesn’t care if you’re Satoru Gojo.

Because sometimes the only thing left is a memory that won’t hold you back.

And a voice you’ll never hear again.

It had been a dream.

Of course it had.

His brain had built it like a cathedral. Every crack in the floorboards, every blink, every sigh — a perfect facsimile. His memory hadn’t just recalled Geto Suguru. It had resurrected him.

Their bed. Their fights. The steam curling in the bathroom mirror. The stupid candy melting into the table. The wet hair. The shoulder touches. The "I love you" that never came in time.

Gojo had dreamed of Geto like he was still alive.

Like he was still reachable .

Because that’s what grief does, doesn’t it?

It rewires time.

It makes you believe, if only for a few minutes in the dark, that you haven’t already lost everything.

That if you can just dream hard enough , maybe this time the ending will be different.

Maybe this time you’ll say it back.

Maybe this time, you’ll stop him from slipping away.

But Gojo couldn’t. Not even in dreams.

He curled tighter around the sweater, fingers fisting the sleeves. His breathing was shallow. Quiet, but wrecked.

He wanted to go back to sleep. Not because he was tired — he wasn’t, not really — but because the world without Geto was unbearable, and even a lie was kinder than reality.

Even the illusion of Geto watching him sleep — dark hair mussed, mouth parted like he was just about to speak — felt like oxygen in a vacuum.

Gojo had built that dream out of scraps. The sound of Geto’s laugh from a decade ago. The weight of his presence when he leaned on a doorframe. The way he used to touch Gojo’s wrist when he needed grounding, soft and fleeting, like they were still young, and there was still time.

In the dream, Geto had looked at him like he might stay.

In the dream, they’d said "truce" and meant it.

In the dream, Gojo still had a chance.

But in the waking world, all he had was this:

A hollow apartment.

An old sweater.

And the unbearable clarity of morning.

He hadn’t cried the day Geto died. He hadn’t cried at the body, or the aftermath, or the silence that followed him like a ghost for years. He had carried the weight like a monument on his back, too strong to break, too stubborn to let go.

But now — now that the dream was gone and there was no one left to protect from it — he cried like it was the first time.

Like the funeral had just ended.

Like the world had just ended.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that.

At some point the light shifted. The rain had stopped. The world, indifferent, had moved on.

But Gojo didn’t.

He sat in the ruins of what once was, hands still clutching the fabric of memory.

And when the grief quieted — not gone, just dulled — he pulled himself upright, shaky, slow. Moved on autopilot.

He folded the sweater gently, smoothing the edges with reverent care, and placed it back on the chair.

Then he stood in the doorway of his bedroom — their bedroom, once — and stared.

The air was still heavy. Grief lived in every corner, in every dust mote. He couldn’t breathe without tasting it.

But he didn’t close the door.

He left it open, just in case.

Because part of him — the same part that had built the dream — was still waiting.

Still listening for footsteps that would never come.

Still hoping, just once, that Geto might open the door and say, “You left the window open again.”

But no voice came.

And Gojo, finally, whispered the words he never got to say.

“I love you.”

It didn’t change anything.

But he said it anyway.

And the silence, for the first time in years, felt like a kind of answer.