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Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo

You hand Gojo a bouquet of flowers, fully expecting at most, a smug little quip or maybe some insufferable flirting in return.

What you do not expect is for him to have a reaction so over-the-top that you briefly wonder if you accidentally proposed.

He gasps. Loudly. Tragic heroine energy. A hand flies to his chest like he's been personally victimized by this act of kindness. His knees buckle. He stumbles backward as if you've just struck him with the sheer magnitude of your affections. "What's the occasion? Did I forget our anniversary? Are you breaking up with me? Did you poison these? Are they funeral flowers?! Oh my god, am I the funeral? Am I already dead?"

You have to physically grab his face to stop the spiral. "Gojo. Take the flowers."

And so he does. He delicately cradles the bouquet in his hands like it's a newborn baby or the last piece of cheesecake on earth. His fingers tremble. His eyes widen behind his blindfold. If this were a shoujo anime, there'd be sparkles and cherry blossoms flying around him right now.

"YOU GOT THESE… FOR ME?" He sounds like a Disney princess who just found out true love exists.

"Yes?"

"LIKE… AS A GIFT???"

"Yes, Satoru."

"BECAUSE YOU LIKE ME???"

"…Yes, Satoru."

In true Gojo fashion, he holds the bouquet up like Simba from The Lion King and proceeds to give it a full government-mandated, 15-minute TED Talk about how this moment is historic and should be documented in the national archives. He fake cries. He sniffs the flowers obnoxiously loudly, making a show of how deeply moved he is. At one point, he even pulls out his phone, snaps a picture of himself with the bouquet, and immediately sets it as his lock screen.

You're about to make a sarcastic remark when he suddenly gasps again and looks at you, horrified. "Wait. WAIT. Have I been a bad boyfriend this whole time? Have I never gotten you flowers???"

"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, but–"

You better not be surprised when he starts giving you even bigger flower arrangements in retaliation.

"Oh, you got me a little bouquet? That's cute," he says a day later, as an entire truck pulls up with a floral arrangement the size of a small car. "I WIN. I LOVE YOU MORE!!!" he yells, standing triumphantly on top of the pile like a victorious gladiator.

"…This is why I don't do nice things for you."

Suguru Geto

You hand Geto a bouquet, and immediately, something feels… off. He doesn't react. At all. Not even a blink. His expression is unreadable, like he's either deeply moved or deeply confused, and you have absolutely no way of knowing which.

Panic sets in. Oh god. Did you miscalculate? Is he allergic? What if this is some kind of tragic backstory moment, and flowers remind him of a long lost lover? What if you just triggered a dramatic flashback sequence?

The silence stretches on, unbearably awkward. Five seconds have never felt this long. You start sweating. Your soul briefly leaves your body.

And then finally, he smiles. That smile. The one that makes your heart do an entire Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

He takes the bouquet with the kind of effortless grace that suggests this is a totally normal occurrence. Like people just randomly shower him with flowers every day. Like he's some untouchable, dark-haired romance anime protagonist who was born to receive grand romantic gestures. He holds them delicately, fingers brushing over the petals with reverence. You're convinced that this man has secretly starred in a historical drama where he played a prince.

"These… are for me?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, eyes twinkling with amusement. He looks way too pleased with himself.

You nod, hesitantly, like you're handing a wild animal food and aren't sure if it'll accept it or bite your hand off. He chuckles. A low, warm sound that should be illegal and twirls one of the flowers between his fingers.

"You're so sweet," he says, voice soft and filled with fondness.

As time passes, you catch him treating the flowers with an almost comical level of care. He arranges them in a vase like he's the world's most dedicated florist, adjusting each stem with surgical precision. If a single petal looks out of place, he fixes it. If a leaf is even slightly bent, he frowns at it like a disappointed art critic.

He also starts calling you "my flower" unironically, and you're never escaping that nickname. Ever.

Kento Nanami

Nanami stares at the flowers for exactly ten seconds before saying, "Why?" in the most confused voice you've ever heard.

It's not that he doesn't appreciate them. He's just genuinely confused. You can actually see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out if this is some kind of hidden message.

You tell him it's just because you love him and the moment you say that, he softens instantly. His entire posture relaxes, and you see it. That tiny, almost imperceptible smile that only you get to see.

"Thank you," he murmurs, voice warm in a way that makes your stomach flip.

He puts them in a vase immediately. He is so serious about them. He waters them religiously and learns way too much about flower care overnight. This man reads care guides, watches YouTube tutorials, and probably takes notes. Every time he looks at them, he thinks about how much he loves you, and at some point, he starts drinking his coffee next to them like it's a little morning ritual.

He also buys you a bouquet. Except it's way more expensive and has some deep, poetic meaning behind the flower choices. Because of course it does.

When the flowers you gifted him eventually die, you catch him looking a little sad. So, naturally, you get him another bouquet, and suddenly, this becomes a thing.

Nanami will never outright ask you for more flowers. But if you keep giving them to him? He's never been happier.

Choso Kamo

Choso doesn't know what to do with himself. His ears turn red. His hands hover awkwardly over the bouquet like they might explode if he touches them wrong. "For… me?" he asks, like you might be pranking him.

Once he realizes you're serious, his grip on the bouquet tightens slightly like someone is about to take them away. He blinks at you. Blinks at the flowers. Back at you. "…What do I do with them?"

You try to explain, but he's so invested in getting this right that he overthinks every step. "Where do I put them? Do they need a special container? What happens if they die? Will that mean I failed?"

He ends up putting them in a large water bottle because he doesn't own a vase. The bottle label is still on. He is very proud of this solution.

He stares at the flowers in deep concentration. "You okay?" you ask.

Choso looks at you, dead serious. "I have to take care of them. You gave them to me."

And he does. Aggressively. He researches proper water levels. He constantly moves them around to get "the right amount of sunlight." He talks to them like they're his children. He defends the flowers with his life. If anyone even so much as accidentally sneezes near them, Choso will glare at them like they just committed war crimes.

The next time you see him, he shyly hands you a single flower he found outside.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji squints at the flowers like they just personally insulted him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with these?"

You tell him they're a gift. For him. His eyebrows go up. His expression is so deeply confused you'd think you just handed him a mortgage bill.

"…You're givin' me flowers?"

"Yes."

"…Voluntarily?"

"Yes??"

"…You sure you meant to give these to me and not some poor bastard standing behind me?"

"Toji, just take the damn flowers."

He takes them, holds them in one hand, and just stares. Like he's waiting for them to do something. He then grabs a beer bottle from the counter, chugs the last of it in one go, fills it up with water, and shoves the flowers inside like that's normal.

He does not own a vase. That is now the vase.

"That's not a vase."

"Works, don't it?"

The worst part? He actually gets really attached to them. He won't admit it, but he kind of likes having them around. Every time he sees them, he remembers you. He starts getting weirdly good at keeping them alive.

He plays it off like he doesn't care, but you catch him smirking at them sometimes. He'll be sharpening his weapons, glance at the flowers, and just... smirk. Like they're in on something together.

If you ever get him more, he will grumble and roll his eyes, but he always keeps them.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo

You? Patting him? On his head?

Oh, you've done it now.

The moment your hand made contact with Gojo's fluffy white hair, the man melted. Like, physically melted. Sagging against you with the dramatic flair of a dying anime protagonist, hands clutching his chest like he had just been shot. Gojo thrives on validation, and you just gave him a gold star experience without even realizing it.

He immediately plops his head back into your hand, full body leaning into it like a Great Dane that doesn't understand its own size. "More. Again. Do it again."

If you try to retract your hand, he will simply follow it. He is a pat-seeking missile. If necessary, he will crouch, lean, or even worse, puppy eyes you.

"No, no, no. I like this. Please, continue." He leans his entire head into your palm, sighing dramatically.

He is so smug about it. He makes it so weird.

He closes his eyes, murmuring, "This is what I deserve. The strongest also deserves the strongest head pats."

You have created a monster.

Gojo weaponizes the head pats. He starts doing things just to earn them.

"I saved a kitten today."

"That kitten was fine, Satoru."

"I held open a door for an old lady."

"It was automatic."

"I didn't commit war crimes today."

"…"

You give him a reluctant pat.

"Yay! I love positive reinforcement!"

Suguru Geto

The moment you pat him on the head, he freezes. His usually smug, smooth expression flickering through about sixteen different emotions at once. He wasn't prepared for that.

Then, after a long pause, he tilts his head up, looking at you with lazy amusement. "Oh? You're bold today."

Despite his composed exterior, you can tell he secretly loves it. He leans ever so slightly into the touch, acting like he's doing you a favor by letting you do this.

"Hmm, I could get used to this…" he hums. If you stop too soon, he'll give you a teasing look. "That's all? I thought you had more in you." Smug, smug man. But if you go for another? You might just hear a tiny pleased hum escape him. And then he realizes it and immediately tries to play it off by fake coughing.

You have power over him now. Use it wisely.

Kento Nanami

You had been foolish.

You had let your instincts override common sense.

Because Nanami had just finished a long, grueling shift, and he looked so tired. Shoulders heavy, sighing like an overworked single dad. And for some reason, your brain had gone: Pat him, he deserves it.

So you did.

And then you immediately wanted to enter witness protection.

Nanami froze. Entirely. His body went rigid, his hands stopped mid-air, and the slow, agonizing turn of his head toward you felt like a damn horror movie.

"…What," he said, in a voice that made you reconsider every life decision, "was that?"

"A gesture of support," you answered carefully. "And respect."

Nanami stared at you for a long time. You were about to start saying your last prayers when, finally, finally, he sighed.

"… Just this once," he mutters, completely betraying himself.

Choso Kamo

Choso is like a cat who has never been pet before. Your hand lands on his head, fingers ruffling his dark locks, and this man absolutely freezes.

You did not expect this much of a reaction.

He just stands there, completely motionless, staring at you like you just introduced him to a fundamental human experience he did not know existed. His mouth moves like he's trying to say something, but nothing comes out.

Finally, after a very long pause –

"…I see," he mutters, nodding very slowly.

He does not elaborate.

Then he leaves.

He comes back the next day and awkwardly hovers near you, tilting his head forward just a little in your direction, waiting.

"… Do you want another head pat?" you finally ask.

"… I would not be opposed."

If you pat him again? You might see him physically relax for the first time in forever. You are his comfort now.

Toji Fushiguro

The second your hand lands on Toji's head, he reacts like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

"Oi. What do you think you're doin'?" He glares at you, but you don't miss the way his lips twitch slightly upward.

He leans into it. But he also refuses to let you know that he is enjoying this. His pride is on the line.

"You treating me like some kinda dog? Huh?" He teases, but he doesn't move away.

And then, he does it back. This menace of a man head pats you right back, but way too aggressively. It's not even a gentle pat. It's a ruffling, noogie level disaster.

If you complain? He smirks and shrugs. "What? Thought we were tradin'." Absolute menace. You are stuck in a headpat war.

And if you dare stop first? He clicks his tongue, "Tch. Weak." and then just walks off like he didn't just enjoy that entire interaction.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo

The very moment your body hits the floor, he's already in motion. No hesitation, no thought, just pure, unfiltered chaos. He throws himself down beside you with a level of theatrical commitment that would make a seasoned Shakespearean actor weep.

"BABE?!? BABE, NOOOOOOOO!" he cries out, his voice cracking mid-scream like an overworked opera singer. With all the grace of a man who has never known the concept of subtlety, he dramatically shakes your shoulders as if he's trying to reset a Nintendo 64 cartridge.

The situation escalates immediately – because, of course, it does. One second, you're lying there in mild inconvenience, and the next, Gojo has fully committed to the bit. He cradles your head in his lap, clutching you like you're a fallen soldier in a tragic war film. He tilts his head back, gazing up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, and suddenly, he's monologuing.

"Oh, cruel fate! How merciless you are to steal away my one true love in the prime of their youth!" His voice trembles with emotion as he strokes your hair, his other hand clutching his chest. "What good is my power if I cannot protect the one I hold dearest? Am I even worthy of the title of strongest?"

You stare up at him, absolutely dumbfounded. Somewhere in the background, you swear you hear the faint echoes of tragic violin music (probably playing from his phone).

Before you can protest, Gojo takes things to an even more unnecessary level. He yanks out his phone, thumbs moving at light speed.

"WE NEED A HEALER–" he bellows into the receiver.

Your brain short-circuits. "Gojo, what the–"

"SHOKO, YOU HAVE TO COME QUICK!" he cries dramatically, pacing now, as if the weight of the world is crushing him. "IT'S BAD. IT'S REALLY BAD."

You sit up with a sigh, rubbing your temple. "Gojo. I literally just dramatically fell for attention. I'm fine."

There's a long pause. A suspiciously long pause.

Then, like a switch flipping, his entire demeanor immediately changes. His teary, grief-stricken expression vanishes in an instant, replaced with his usual mischievous grin. He blinks down at you, casually ending his fake emergency call like he didn't just cause emotional devastation for fun.

"Oh." He dusts off his pants, completely unfazed. "Okay, cool. So, like, wanna go buy something wildly unnecessary and stupidly expensive to heal your soul?"

Before you can even process what just happened, he's already pulling out his Black Card, holding it up like a golden ticket to financial irresponsibility.

You exhale sharply, placing a hand over your heart. "Gojo, I think I actually am dying now."

"See?! I knew I wasn't overreacting."

And just like that, you're being whisked away for a completely unnecessary shopping spree because, in Gojo's mind, retail therapy is a legitimate medical treatment.

Suguru Geto

You collapse onto the floor like a dying swan in a tragic ballet. Geto, currently sipping his tea like a man who has mastered the art of serene detachment, watches your performance unfold with the emotional range of a houseplant. He doesn't react. Not immediately, anyway. He just tilts his head slightly, blinks once, then takes another slow, thoughtful sip.

"Rough day?" he asks, as if your corpse-like sprawl isn't deeply concerning and like this is a normal Tuesday for you (which, to be fair, it kind of is).

"Yes, actually," you groan, face-first into the carpet.

Geto hums, a low, considering sound, like he's analyzing the weight of human suffering itself. And then, with absolutely zero hesitation or context, he drops to the floor beside you. "If you're going down, I'm going down with you."

Now, you're just two bodies on the floor, lying side by side like the world's most exhausted crime scene victims.

For a second, a very brief, fleeting second, you feel touched. This is kind of romantic in a weird, stupid way. He could have ignored your suffering, but no. He chose to join you in it. "That's sweet."

"I know," he replies. Then, completely deadpan, he adds, "Shall we hold hands and ascend to the next realm?"

You're laughing before you can stop yourself, and Geto just smirks, clearly very pleased with himself. He's not the type to make a huge fuss, but he is the type to match your energy, even if your energy is currently Existential Crisis via Floor™.

Eventually, he pulls you up and forces you to drink warm cup of tea because, "If you're going to suffer, at least be hydrated."

Kento Nanami

Nanami is in the kitchen, minding his own business, making his morning coffee like a responsible, tax paying adult. And that's when you dramatically fling yourself onto the floor like you're in an overacted soap opera. He doesn't react immediately. He just stands there, silently stirring his coffee.

You wait.

And wait.

A full thirty seconds pass before he finally exhales, long and suffering, like a man who has already lived through a thousand lifetimes of nonsense. "Do I even want to ask?"

"I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE," you wail, the sheer agony in your voice so theatrical it deserves a standing ovation.

Nanami takes what might be the longest, most exhausted sip of coffee in the history of mankind before muttering, "Neither can I."

This is a man who has fought for his life against special-grade curses. A man who has endured the unrelenting chaos that is Gojo Satoru's existence. A man who has spent years dealing with the absurdities of Jujutsu society. And yet, somehow – somehow – you, sprawled out on the floor, being extra seems to be what breaks his spirit.

He crouches down next to you, his tie slightly loosened, looking so tired. "You say that often. And yet, you persist."

"Yes, because I'm suffering."

Nanami sighs then reaches over and gently peels your arm away from your covered face. "What happened?"

You sniffle. "I just remembered that my favorite childhood snack got discontinued."

Silence.

Not just silence, but Nanami silence. The kind that could make even Gojo rethink his life choices. Nanami stares at you for a long, long moment. Then, without a word, he gets up, walks to the kitchen.

You peek over the couch like a guilty dog. "You're not even gonna roast me?"

"No," he says simply, grabbing his phone and pulling up a search page. "If I did, I would not be a man worthy of you."

You clutch your chest like you've just been struck by divine intervention. "NANAMI, STOP, I'M GONNA CRY."

Completely unaffected, he continues scrolling. "What was the name of the snack?"

You whisper it reverently, as if speaking its name too loudly would make the grief too real. He nods once and, within seconds, finds a recipe online with the efficiency of a man who probably filed his taxes in January.

The next thing you know, Nanami is moving with the focus of a Michelin star chef. He's measuring ingredients, mixing them with precision, his expression unreadable but his actions entirely sincere. You can only watch in shock as he moves around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brows slightly furrowed.

This is the Nanami experience: a man who will not entertain your nonsense, but will also go to ridiculous lengths to support it in his own methodical, devastatingly attractive way.

Choso Kamo

The moment you throw yourself onto the floor, Choso looks genuinely alarmed. His entire body tenses, his eyes immediately scanning the room for threats. This man has spent most of his life fighting, so his immediate instinct is that you've been attacked. He's already prepared to throw hands, use his Blood Manipulation, and avenge your fall.

"Who did this to you?" he demands, voice laced with deadly seriousness.

You peek up at him from the floor. "Capitalism."

Choso frowns, staring at you like you've just uttered the name of an ancient, malevolent entity. "Is that a curse?"

You sigh, the weight of the world pressing against your soul. "Basically."

He stands there, actually considering fighting 'capitalism' for you. In this moment, you are not just his beloved, you are a victim of an unseen force, and he must destroy it. You see it in his eyes. The sheer, genuine concern. You have to clarify that you are, in fact, just being dramatic.

Once he realizes this, he crouches beside you and with an almost painfully stiff movement, he gently, oh-so-awkwardly, pats your shoulder. It's the kind of stiff, tentative touch you'd give a traumatized pigeon you're trying to befriend.

"There, there," he says, voice unnaturally formal, like he's reading dialogue from a handbook titled 'How To Human: Basic Comfort Edition.' "It will be okay."

You stare at him. His movements are so mechanical, so stiffly rehearsed, like he's performing a first-aid procedure on an injured bird he has no idea how to care for but really, really wants to help.

You want to laugh, but honestly? You're touched.

Choso doesn't always understand human emotions, but what he does understand is that you are sad, and that makes him upset. He cannot let this stand.

So, in the only way he knows how to truly show solidarity. He joins you.

Without hesitation, Choso lowers himself onto the floor, lying beside you. He takes your hand in his, his grip firm, and grounding.

"If you need anything," he says, voice low and sincere, "just tell me. I will do my best to make the world a little less exhausting for you."

And that? That's when you actually start crying.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji is sitting on the couch, one leg stretched out, scrolling through his phone like a man with zero responsibilities and even less motivation to gain any. He's so relaxed it's almost an art form. The pinnacle of bare minimum energy.

And then, in a move so dramatic it could win an Oscar for Best Overreaction, you collapse onto the floor like a medieval peasant who just got diagnosed with the plague and a tax increase in the same breath. Arms sprawled, face pressed to the ground, you release a noise that is one-third sigh, two-thirds existential despair.

Toji's response?

The barest flicker of an eyebrow raise.

He gives you a long, considering glance, the way someone might look at someone's spilled drink in the room. Mildly aware of the issue, but not entirely convinced it's his problem. Then, deciding it is not, he calmly resumes scrolling.

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. "Wow. Not even a little concern?"

Toji doesn't even pause. "Did you die?"

"… No?"

"Then you're fine."

You groan louder, rolling onto your back like you've been emotionally sniped. "I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE."

"Then don't."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, narrowing your eyes. "That's not how life works, Toji."

He finally, finally looks up from his phone, just enough to make prolonged eye contact while lazily shrugging. "Sounds like a you problem."

You are so close to throwing something at him.

Toji is absolutely not the comforting type. If anything, he finds your suffering mildly entertaining. You can practically see the amusement glinting in his eyes every time you get extra like this. He thrives off it.

And yet.

Despite his lazy indifference, despite his refusal to play into your dramatics, despite every ounce of his cold-blooded energy–

He nudges you.

With his foot.

Like you're actual roadkill, and he's checking if you're still breathing.

"C'mon, get up," he mutters, like he's doing you the world's biggest favor. "I'll buy you food or whatever."

Your soul immediately resurrects.

In less than a second, you shoot up from the floor like a zombie reanimating in a horror movie. The promise of food has restored you.

Toji smirks, fully aware of what just happened. He knew exactly what he was doing. Food is the one thing that can drag you back from the depths of despair.

So, yeah. Toji absolutely won't give you some deep emotional pep talk. He won't hold your hand and whisper encouragements about your worth and potential. But he will bribe you with food to make you stop being dramatic.

And honestly? You'll take it.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo

You knew something was wrong the moment you stepped out of the salon.

It wasn't the gasps of horror from innocent bystanders. It wasn't the hushed whispers of "Oh no, honey…" from the elderly ladies on the bench. It wasn't even the child who pointed at you and burst into tears before his mother yanked him away.

No.

It was Satoru Gojo.

The moment he laid eyes on you, his entire body short circuited. It was crystal clear that he could not comprehend the eldritch horror that was your new haircut.

For the first time in his life, Gojo was speechless.

You, unfortunately, had no time for his nonsense.

You crossed your arms, trying to suppress the deep, bone crushing regret of ever trusting a hairstylist named Destiknee. "Say a word, and I'm ending our bloodline."

Gojo snapped out of his trance, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No, no, babe, I would never–" He broke off mid-sentence as his shoulders started trembling. His lips twitched. His fingers curled into fists.

You narrowed your eyes. "You're laughing."

"I'M NOT LAUGHING."

He was, in fact, absolutely laughing.

Like, wheezing. Like, bent over, hands on knees, struggling to breathe. Like, Gojo-suddenly-develops-asthma levels of laughing.

You stood there, stone faced, waiting for him to get it out of his system. But he was not stopping. His soul had left his body. His knees buckled like a man experiencing divine punishment. He clutched his stomach like he had been personally attacked by your haircut.

If it's a botched bob, he calls you Lord Farquaad for three weeks straight. If they gave you uneven bangs? Oh, he's pulling up pictures of coconut-head meme kids. If the stylist went full scissors happy and took off way more than you wanted? "WHO DID THIS TO YOU? WHO HURT YOU?" Like you just got jumped in an alley.

But when he sees you actually start to get upset, he's suddenly the most supportive person on Earth. He's hyping you up, buying you expensive hair accessories or hats, bribing a different stylist to fix it. If you cry, he's crying harder (for dramatic effect). "We will get through this TOGETHER."

And if you want revenge? He is fully prepared to get the stylist banned from cutting hair ever again.

Suguru Geto

Geto notices immediately but has the emotional intelligence to lie.

The second you walk in, he registers the damage but does not flinch. "Oh, you changed your hair?" So neutral. So non-threatening. No visible reaction. No laughter. Nothing.

If you're in denial, he will play along. He never outright says anything. Instead, he crafts the most polite, diplomatic responses possible.

"It's… different."

"It's a new look for you."

"I love that you're experimenting."

"You have the confidence to pull off anything."

He is LYING. He is lying to protect you. But the second you crack, he's right there with you and immediately enters supportive boyfriend mode. He holds you like you just received a terminal diagnosis. "It's okay. Hair grows. We will rebuild."

If you rant about how bad it is, he listens intently, nodding along like a supportive boyfriend should. He hates the stylist on principle. He comforts you immediately, reassuring you, telling you that you're still stunning, that no bad haircut could ever change how much he loves you.

But lowkey? When you're not around? He is laughing. Not at you, just at the situation. You leave the room, and he covers his mouth like Oh my god, it's so bad. But he would NEVER let you know. He will take this to the grave.

That night, Geto personally helps you fix it. He learns how to cut hair on YouTube in real time, holding your hair carefully, his hands steady. If it's completely unsalvageable, he wraps you in a blanket and orders your favorite takeout while you sulk.

"It'll grow back," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "And I'll love you no matter what."

He helps you find ways to style it so it looks less tragic. He takes you shopping and will not let you spiral. If he notices you looking in the mirror too long, he immediately distracts you.

At the end of the day, Geto is the best person to have in a crisis. He will not let you suffer alone.

Kento Nanami

You should've known something was wrong the moment the stylist spun your chair around and went, "Ta-da!" with the same energy as a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Except, instead of a cute, trendy haircut, you looked like a before picture in a hair restoration ad.

Your bangs? Uneven. The layers? Chaotic. The back? You couldn't see it, but you were pretty sure it looked like someone took inspiration from a Minecraft block.

It was bad. Real bad.

Nanami has a reaction, but in true Nanami fashion, it's mostly internal. When you walk in, he barely raises an eyebrow. But in his mind? Oh no. Oh, absolutely not.

You shift uncomfortably. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Nanami, ever the gentleman, does not insult you. He doesn't want to make you feel worse, so he plays it cool. He sets down his book, tilts his head slightly, and gives you a very careful once-over. "… Did you ask for this?"

The way he phrases it tells you everything. You groan. "No, Nanami. I did not ask for this. They just… did this to me."

At that moment, Nanami's jaw tightens like a man preparing for war. "I see," he says grimly. "Do you want me to call them?"

"CALL THEM?"

"Or email," he offers. "Whichever gets results."

You have to physically grab his arm to stop him from drafting a strongly worded complaint. He's already pulling out his phone like he's about to single-handedly take down the entire hairdressing industry.

Instead, you distract him by asking if he can help you style it so it looks less terrible, and to your surprise, Nanami is actually very good at this. He expertly fixes it up – smoothing, pinning, doing whatever it takes to salvage the situation. He's quiet the whole time, hyperfocused, and when he's done, you almost tear up because he's made it look decent.

"… Kento," you whisper. "Are you a hair god?"

He just sighs, dusting off his hands. "No. I just had a horrible haircut once as a teenager and swore to never let anyone suffer like I did."

Choso Kamo

Choso does not understand.

Like, at all.

You come home, looking like you just battled with a weed whacker (and lost spectacularly). Your eyes are puffy, your energy is drained, and your hair… oh, your hair. The stylist did you so dirty. It's like they saw a picture of your dream haircut and then actively chose violence.

You dramatically collapse onto the couch, face down, and let out a muffled, grief-stricken wail. Choso, ever the devoted boyfriend, squats beside you like a confused but deeply concerned cat.

"Are you sick?" He tilts his head. "Do you require medicine?"

"No, I require a time machine," you groan into the cushions. "I look horrible."

Choso blinks, looking at you, then at your hair, then back at you. He sees nothing wrong.

Like, nothing. You could be bald right now, and he would simply nod and be like, Ah. A styling choice. Nice. But because you are clearly in distress, his internal 'protect-you-at-all-costs' protocol activates.

The first thing Choso does? He disappeared into the bedroom for approximately three minutes and returns holding one of his hoodies. With no warning, he pulls it over your head, yanks the hood up, and tightens the strings. You look like a babushka now.

"There." He crosses his arms, pleased. "Problem solved."

You blink at him from inside the hood. "This is not solving anything."

He nods like it does, dead serious. "No one will know."

He then pulls out his phone and shoves it in your face.

"Look. Baby ducks."

You open your mouth to protest but then – oh. Oh, wait. They were baby ducks. Little guys. Just wobbling. Being babies. Doing duck things.

Your sniffles slowed. Choso, seeing his opening, started a full-scale attack. He queues up every cute animal video he had saved in his phone (which, shockingly, was A LOT). Dogs in sweaters. Cats getting stuck in bags. A raccoon holding a tiny croissant.

And then, the final move, he pulls you into his lap, arms secure around you, chin resting on your hooded head. "Forget your hair. Focus on the baby animals."

"… This is manipulation."

"Yes."

Eventually, you start laughing because, let's be real, how can you not? He looks so genuinely concerned but also so deeply clueless. To him, you are the most beautiful, perfect being in existence. Hair? Hair is nothing. You could be a floating entity with no physical form, and he would still follow you around like a devoted guard dog.

"Do you feel better?"

You sigh, sinking into his embrace. "Yeah. A little."

He nods, satisfied. "Good." Then, after a pause: "But do you want them gone?"

"CHOSO–"

Toji Fushiguro

You knew the haircut was bad the moment the stylist spun you around to face the mirror. It was giving DIY tutorial gone wrong. It was giving I let my sleep paralysis demon take the clippers. It was giving Who let Edward Scissorhands cook? But the real horror? The moment you stepped through the door, and Toji saw it.

At first, there was silence. A long, deafening silence. Toji just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to process a Blue Screen of Death error in real time. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Then, he burst out laughing. Wheezing. Hunched over, hands on his knees, absolutely losing his mind like you just hit him with the funniest stand-up routine of the century.

"What the hell did they do to you?" he choked out between laughs. He tried to stop, he really did, but every time he looked at you again, it sent him spiraling. He had to turn away and stare at the wall to compose himself.

Once he got the giggles out of his system, he went into damage control mode. Toji sucks at emotional support, but he does try, and his version of helping is... questionable at best.

His first attempt at fixing your situation? He slaps one of his beanies on your head like it's a bandage covering a fatal wound.

"There," he grunts, patting your head. Unfortunately, Toji is built like a fridge, and his beanie is somehow massive on your head. You look like a drowned rat trying to wear a bucket. But Toji nods approvingly, like he's just done the world's greatest boyfriend duty.

Then, Toji somehow convinces himself that he can fix it. You, for some ungodly reason, let him. This is a mistake. This man holds scissors the way a toddler holds crayons. He does one snip, and you immediately regret every decision that led you to this point.

"Oh," he mutters. "Damn." That's all he says. Just "Oh. Damn." You snatch the scissors away before he turns your head into an unintentional modern art piece.

When you start pouting about your hair, Toji does attempt comfort. "Eh, you still look good," he shrugs. "Kinda. If I squint." You glare at him. "I mean, if I was blind, you'd still be hot," he tries again. You glare harder. He sighs and finally just says, "Look, your face carries the team, alright?" Somehow, that's the nicest thing he's ever said.

At the end of the day, though, he sees you still sulking and finally does something actually sweet. He pulls you into his lap, rests his chin on top of your head (bad hair and all), and mumbles, "It's just hair, babe. It'll grow back. 'Sides, you're still mine, no matter how goofy you look."