Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The classroom in its current state looked less like a place of learning and more like a battlefield that had been hastily dressed up in construction paper. 

Somewhere between the third cup of coffee and the fifteenth, high-pitched, "Sensei, I accidentally glued my sleeve to the table!" - a declaration that had required a rescue operation involving safety scissors and a small prayer - Utahime had officially surrendered the pretense that she had any semblance of control over the situation.

This was Parent-Teacher Meeting day: the longest and most exhausting day of the semester. It was a marathon of forced smiles and trying to politely explain a child's strange artwork to their parents.

The sun-shaped clock on the wall seemed to tick slower and slower, mocking her. She was sure it moved more sluggishly whenever she looked at it, as if time itself wanted to prolong her misery.

She walked between the tiny desks, the room filled by the noise of chattering and shrieking children. It was covered with the evidence of their art projects. Crayon drawings were taped to the walls, macaroni collages were drying, and a lumpy papier-mâché volcano sat oozing paste and despair.

Nobara looked up, her face a mask of fierce determination, a single sparkle stuck to her eyebrow like a defiant star. "It's called sparkle vision, Sensei," she declared, as if explaining a fundamental rule of the universe. "Okaasan says people will remember you forever if you sparkle enough."

"Well," Utahime conceded, "they certainly will after this. Your vision is very... comprehensive. Maybe, just as a suggestion, try to channel the sparkle onto the paper though, okay? Let's make the artwork unforgettable, not the custodian's mop."

Before Nobara could argue, a new commotion started across the room. A boy with amazing pink-tinted hair was standing on his chair, waving a thick permanent marker like a sword. He was completely focused on a silent fight with an invisible enemy, making slashing and blocking movements.

"Yuji," Utahime called out, her voice rising to a practiced pitch that carried over the din without quite becoming a yell. "We don't duel in the classroom!"

He froze, marker-sword held aloft, and turned wide, innocent eyes toward her. "It's not a duel, Sensei!" he protested, his brow furrowed in earnest correction. "It's training!"

Utahime straightened up, one hand going to the small of her aching back. "Training for what, exactly? A marker-based tournament?"

Yuji hesitated, his heroic stance deflating slightly as he searched for a suitably academic justification. His eyes darted around the room, looking for inspiration, and finally landed on the art supplies cart. "...Artistic expression?" he offered, with a hopeful, gap-toothed grin that was annoyingly charming.

Utahime closed her eyes for a brief second. A minor, throbbing headache had taken up residence right between her eyes. "Itadori-kun," she said, her voice laced with the patience of a saint on their very last nerve, "artistic expression, while I fully support it, does not involve stabbing your desk repeatedly with a Sharpie. The desk is not your canvas. The paper is."

There was a quiet moment. Just as the marker fell onto Yuji's desk, Utahime saw movement from the corner of her eye. She turned around just in time to see Maki Zenin, a small but determined child, trying to climb a wobbly chair like it was a mountain. Her goal was to hang her painting - a wild mix of black and red - on the ceiling tile.

"Maki! No climbing!" Utahime's voice was sharp with panic, her heart leaping at the sight.

Maki, who was already halfway up, didn't look surprised. She just glanced back, her face full of pure logic. "I'm not that high up, Sensei," she argued, holding her painting tightly. "Yuta said it would look cooler up here! More like an art gallery!"

At a nearby desk, Yuta, a very gentle boy, looked up with a terrified expression. He shook his head wildly, his dark hair flying. "I didn't! I said maybe! Maybe it would be... noticeable!" he squeaked, as if his own painting was blaming him for the idea.

"Which," Utahime sighed, "is not a 'yes'." She walked over and put her hands securely around Maki's waist, lifting her down from the wobbly chair with the skill of someone who does this all the time.

"Feet on the ground, please. That's the rule," she said. "You can put your very strong artwork right here on the wall, where everyone can see it without hurting their necks, okay?" She pointed to a good spot on the bulletin board.

Maki grumbled, a low, unhappy sound, but she listened, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "But it ruins the artistic vision," she muttered, glaring at the safe spot on the wall.

Utahime felt an unexpected smile touch her lips. She would never admit it, but she had a soft spot for Maki's stubbornness. It wasn't just being difficult; it was a core of steel, a resolve to arrange the world according to her own unique plan. Most of these kids had that strength, she thought, watching the scene around her. It just showed itself in different, often messy or dangerous ways.

Her eyes scanned the room for the next potential problem and landed on the far corner, a surprisingly calm spot. There, tucked away like a shadow, sat Megumi. While the rest of the room was full of color and noise, he was an island of quiet focus.

He wasn't painting wildly or building with macaroni. He was sketching, his small hand moving with a seriousness that seemed much older. His drawing wasn't a burst of childish imagination, but a study of reality. With clean pencil lines, he had created a surprisingly detailed picture of the classroom itself. He had captured the slant of afternoon light through the windows, the scattered chairs, and even the lopsided "Welcome Parents!" banner, drawing its one drooping corner perfectly.

Utahime felt a familiar pang of affection and concern. She moved toward him. “You okay there, Megumi?” she asked, her voice dropping to a soft, non-intrusive murmur.

He didn’t look up, his focus remaining entirely on the line he was shading. “I’m fine.”

“You know,” she leaned slightly to get a better look at his work, “it’s okay if you’re feeling a little nervous about your dad coming today. Lots of kids are.”

His pencil stopped for just a second. "I'm not nervous," he said quickly. The words sounded a bit too sharp and practiced. He grabbed his eraser and scrubbed at a line on the paper until it was gone.

She decided to leave it alone. The kid's defenses weren't just up; they were like a solid medieval fortress. But her trained eye noticed the frown on his forehead, and the way his pencil now tapped a little too hard against the desk.

Utahime stood up, feeling a wave of tiredness. She let out a long breath and took in the scene around her. The air was a unique mix of crayons and the faint tang of orange juice. The clock ticked, the children chattered, and the parents would be here soon. 

"Alright, everyone!" her voice cut through the noise as she clapped her hands. "The parents will be here in fifteen minutes! I need you all to be professional artists now! Finish your artwork and clean your tables until they shine - and I mean with soap and water."

She looked around the room, her expression a mix of hope and dread. "And please," she begged, "please try not to get paint all over yourselves, your friends, or the ceiling this time. Let's try to look like we had a normal, civilized day of learning."

A loud groan moved through the room. Two dozen children were unhappy about the sudden need for order in their beautiful mess.

Ignoring the groan, Utahime began her final walk around the room, like a general checking on her troops before a big event. She moved from desk to desk, her eyes looking over their artwork with a practiced, though tired, gaze. Her words of praise were partly automatic, a series of kind murmurs meant to encourage them without being dishonest.

"Wow, Nobara, that is... incredible. They'll see this from space." And they probably would. It wasn't so much a drawing as a landscape of glitter. It might have been a house, a sun, or a disco ball. It was hard to tell, but it was definitely unforgettable.

She moved to Yuji's desk. His "portrait of my grandpa" was a sweet, if strangely shaped tribute. It looked a lot like a friendly, lopsided potato with kind eyes and hairs sticking straight up. "You've really captured his... spirit, Yuji. Very strong."

Next was Maki's painting. The slashing strokes of black and red hadn't gotten any softer. If anything, they seemed even more intense, looking less like a peaceful scene and more like the end of a great battle. "Bold choices, Maki. Very... powerful emotional expression." It was the kind of painting that made you look for hidden weapons.

Then she came to Yuta's desk. His peaceful lake scene, with its soft blues and greens and a single, perfectly drawn swan, was so calm it felt like a relief to her tired nerves. It was actually, truly beautiful. For some reason she couldn't explain, its simple beauty, so different from the chaos around it, almost made her want to cry. 

She shook the feeling off violently. Emotional vulnerability before a PTM? Absolutely not. That way lies madness and accidentally telling a parent their child is a beautiful disaster who has permanently stuck your favorite pen to a diorama.

She walked back to the safety of her own desk at the front of the room and started organizing the folders, creating a small bit of order. Each child had a binder full of their work from the semester: graded papers, her notes on their progress, and a few of their best drawings.

She had stayed late for nights in a row, drinking vending machine coffee, to make sure everything looked perfect. Parents liked seeing clear proof that their child was learning even if that proof was just slightly neater handwriting, knowing more than four colors, or a drawing of their family where everyone finally had the right number of arms and legs.

Her eyes moved down the list of names in alphabetical order, thinking about the parents she was about to meet. Most were familiar, their personalities as clear to her as their kids'. There were the nice but flustered Suzuki parents, the very protective Hikari mother, and the pushy Yamaguchi father who was already trying to get his son into a top middle school. They were normal. She could handle them.

Her pen hovered as she turned the page, skimming toward the end of the list. Then she saw it.

Gojo Satoru.

It was underlined. The pen had pressed so hard into the paper you could feel the groove.

She frowned. Every teacher has that one parent. The one who is talked about in the staffroom, the one with a reputation. With Gojo, the feeling was hard to pin down. Maybe it was because of the time he emailed to reschedule a meeting and signed off with just a thumbs-up emoji.

But the real reason came from Megumi himself. One day, when she’d asked if he was looking forward to his guardian's visit, the boy had looked up at her with a completely blank face and said, "He's weird."

“‘Weird’ how?” Utahime had pressed, curiosity piqued.

Megumi had just looked at her for a long, unblinking moment, his blue eyes seeming to hold a universe of weary patience, before muttering, “You’ll see.”

Utahime had decided then and there that she did not, in fact, want to see.

She looked away from the worrying name and scanned her classroom. A small miracle had happened. The room was thankfully, starting to look presentable. The desks were mostly clean, art projects were set out to dry, and the children were actually packing their bags. For one wonderful moment, everything looked almost perfect. Peaceful, even. Like a real, functioning classroom.

Then, Yuji sneezed a huge, powerful sneeze right onto his potato-portrait of his grandpa, spraying moisture all over the paper.

At the same time, Nobara saw her reflection in a shiny pencil case and screamed. "MY HAIR! IT'S INFECTED!" The glitter from her desk had somehow gotten into her bangs, giving her a shocking, disco-ball highlight.

And Maki, rushing to get a paper towel for the sneeze, accidentally knocked over a cup of dirty paint water. The murky water spread across the table in a slow wave, soaking the nearby drawings.

“This is fine,” Utahime said aloud, her voice remarkably level, addressing the cheerful clock on the wall. “Everything is perfectly fine. We are professionals here. We are paragons of pedagogy and composure.”

From his corner, Megumi glanced up from his meticulously detailed sketch, one dark eyebrow arched in a profound judgment. “You’re talking to yourself, Sensei.”

Utahime didn’t even open her eyes. “I’m not talking to myself, Megumi. I’m manifesting an aura of preternatural calm.” She clutched her clipboard to her chest. “Don’t ruin it for me.”

When the final bell rang and the first parents started to appear in the hallway, Utahime had carefully put on her Professional Smile. It was a specific smile she had practiced: polite and warm, but with eyes that silently begged, "Please be normal."

She looked at the clock again. She had a few minutes until her first meeting. Her heart beat hard once, like a starting gun. This was it. A long day of handshakes, carefully chosen words, and the tricky job of telling every parent their child was both a special genius and also really needed to stop trying to eat adhesive.

She took a calming breath that smelled of cleaning supplies. She let it out slowly, smoothed her skirt.

Then the parents began to flow in.

First was Yuji’s grandmother, her face a roadmap of cheerful wrinkles. “Sensei! Yuji just adores you! He says you’re as strong as a superhero!” Utahime’s Professional Smile warmed by several genuine degrees. “He’s a joy, Tanaka-san. His energy is boundless, and his kindness to his classmates is remarkable. We are just working on channeling that energy away from using his classmates as climbing equipment during recess.”

Next came the Zenins, and with them went Utahime’s brief moment of peace.

They arrived like a cold weather front, and somehow over-dressed for an elementary school hallway. Mr. Zenin entered first, his shoes so polished they reflected the classroom lights. His wife followed half a step behind, holding her bag close, the trace of nerves hiding behind perfectly drawn eyeliner.

Utahime greeted them. “Mr. and Mrs. Zenin, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

Mr. Zenin didn’t. He glanced around the classroom like he was evaluating a property investment. “So this is where she spends her time,” he said. “I hope the curriculum is more advanced than it looks.”

Mrs. Zenin offered an apologetic laugh. “Dear - ”

He waved her off. “Maki’s results in arithmetic were… adequate. Not exceptional. Considering her family background, we expected higher.”

Utahime’s fingers tightened slightly on her clipboard. She smoothed them out before she spoke. “Maki’s results are strong. She’s performing above grade level in several subjects, particularly in critical thinking and science. She’s also shown remarkable initiative in group projects.”

“She’s headstrong,” he corrected. “Defiant. I’ve had to tell her more than once that arguing isn’t a virtue.”

Utahime’s Professional Smile sharpened. “In this classroom, it is. She debates clearly, defends her ideas, and listens when others do the same.”

Mrs. Zenin glanced up, hope flickering in her eyes. “She does talk about class a lot,” she said softly. “She says you let her run the experiments.”

“I do,” Utahime said, gentler now. “Because she’s careful and curious. She doesn’t need to be the best at everything. She just needs space to find what she loves.”

Mr. Zenin’s brow creased. “She still needs discipline. Her twin manages just fine.”

Utahime took a slow breath. “Respectfully, every child’s different. Comparing them doesn’t help either.” Her tone stayed calm, but the steel in it was unmistakable. “Maki doesn’t need to fit anyone’s mold to succeed. She’s doing wonderfully on her own terms.”

Mrs. Zenin beamed. “I think that’s all I wanted to hear.”

Mr. Zenin gave a noncommittal grunt, clearly unused to being disagreed with by teachers - or anyone. “We’ll see,” he muttered, already turning for the door.

Utahime stood as they left, offering Mrs. Zenin a quick, reassuring nod. The woman hesitated, then whispered, “Thank you for… seeing her.”

“Always,” Utahime said simply.

When the door closed behind them, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding. She jotted a note: Maki: keep encouraging leadership. Maybe chess club? Then, under her breath, “And maybe a punching bag for her father.”

Next, a while later a whirlwind of perfume and anxiety named Ms. Akemi followed. “Nobara! Is she making friends? Is she being too loud? She’s so particular about her ribbons, does that seem obsessive to you?” Utahime laid a calming hand on a bundle of Nobara’s brilliant art. “Nobara has a very strong and wonderful sense of self. She’s forged several solid friendships, and her creative vision is a gift. We’re simply encouraging her that not everyone’s artistic choices need quite such… vigorous critique.”

Through it all, Utahime was a diplomat, a psychologist, and a tender shield for her students. She celebrated quirks, reframed challenges as "opportunities for growth," and delivered concerns wrapped in layers of praise. 

As the last parent - Mr. Okkotsu, Yuta’s soft-spoken father, who simply thanked her again for understanding his son’s gentle nature - departed with a bow, the artificial lights seemed to dim. 

Outside the classroom, the soundscape had shifted. The wild and untamed orchestra of children was being replaced by the polite hum of adult voices - a murmur of questions about curriculum and playdates - punctuated by the familiar patter of little shoes being ushered away. A final wave of her students passed by the door. Nobara and Yuji waved exuberantly, their faces already lit with the freedom of the evening. Maki, striding past with the confidence of a businesswoman, declared her painting "museum-worthy and criminally undervalued." Yuta offered a formal bow, his gentle "Thank you, Sensei," a balm to her soul, before scurrying after his classmates. Only Megumi stayed.

"Your dad's coming soon?" Utahime asked, her voice softening as she approached him.

He gave an imperceptible nod, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "He said he'd be here."

Utahime mustered her most reassuring smile, the one she used for lost lunchboxes and scraped knees, though she had absolutely no idea who or what she was preparing herself for. "Then we'll make sure to show him all your wonderful hard work. He'll be very impressed with your observational drawing."

He nodded again, his expression a sealed envelope. When he finally slipped out into the bustling hallway to wait, Utahime allowed herself to sag against the solid edge of her desk for one precious second of utter silence. 

She could practically taste freedom. It had the distinct flavor of cold tea, a warm bath, and the beautiful, beautiful solitude of her own apartment.

Except, of course, there was no sign of the final appointment. The other teachers had long since packed up, their cheerful "Good luck, Utahime!" calls echoing in her memory. Even the janitor, a man named Mr. Akihiro, who had seen it all, had poked his kindly, weathered face in, to ask if she needed the trash bins emptied before he left for the night.

"No, thank you, Mr. Akihiro," she'd said, her voice strained thin over the effort to sound patient. "Just waiting on one more parent."

That had been five minutes ago.

She could practically hear her grandmother's no-nonsense voice in her head: Punctuality is a virtue, Uta. A person's character is revealed in their relationship with the clock. People who are late for small things will always be late for something important.

Utahime muttered under her breath, "And apparently, that includes their own children's educational development."

Megumi didn't look up from his coloring, but she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "He'll come," he said simply, as if stating a law of physics.

"Your optimism is admirable, Megumi," Utahime replied dryly, her eyes darting to the clock again. The minute hand seemed to have given up entirely. "It's now been twenty minutes. That's a whole episode of a cartoon."

Before he could elaborate, or before she could question her own hearing, a sudden, unmistakable burst of noise rolled down the deserted hallway. It wasn't the respectful sound of a tardy parent. It was a bright and amused voice cutting through the silence like a firework in a library.

"Megumi! There's my favorite little shadow! Sorry I'm late, the world-saving business is just brutal on a Tuesday!"

Utahime's jaw went slightly slack. The boy at the table didn't even turn around. 

"Told you he'd come."

The man in the doorway didn't just enter; he seemed to appear suddenly, as if the air itself had decided to place him there. He looked completely out of place, like he had wandered away from a fashion photoshoot and into an elementary school hallway by mistake. He was tall, seeming to take up all the space in the room, with bright white hair that almost glowed in the light.

He wore a pair of stylish round black sunglasses indoors, as if the normal classroom lights were too boring for him. Underneath them was a wide grin that seemed friendly but not entirely sincere. His crisp white shirt was untidy, with the sleeves rolled up and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He stood with a relaxed posture that suggested he was never on time for anything and found the whole idea of punctuality to be beneath him.

“Hiya, Sensei!” he said, his voice a cheerful boom that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. He waved with an open-palmed gesture, as if greeting a old friend at a party. “Sorry I’m late! There was, uh - ” He paused, tapping his chin in a pantomime of deep thought. “ - traffic? Probably? Somewhere?” He delivered the line with a wink, as if they were both in on the same delightful joke.

Utahime stared at him, her brain struggling to process the overwhelming presence of him. It was a full second too long, a silence that stretched into awkwardness, before she remembered how to form words. “You think?” she said, her voice emerging far sharper than she’d intended, her arms crossing over her chest in a teacherly barricade. “Parent–Teacher Meetings started hours ago, Mr. Gojo. We have a very strict schedule.”

He winced, full-body flinch that was more performance than apology. “Ah, you see, Sensei, time’s just a social construct, right? A flat circle? Or maybe a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey… thing?” He gestured vaguely with one long-fingered hand.

“Not in my classroom, it isn’t,” Utahime retorted, her tone leaving no room for temporal philosophy. He looked barely old enough to legally rent a car, much less be responsible for raising a complex seven-year-old. Her brain was trying desperately to reconcile the official paperwork that listed 'Guardian' beside his name with the reality of the sunglasses-wearing agent now taking up all the oxygen in the room.

Ignoring her frosty reception, he swooped over to the reading nook, crouching down beside Megumi’s chair with an easy grace that was somehow irritating. He ruffled the boy’s dark hair with a familiarity that, to Utahime’s astonishment, actually softened the child’s usual stoic expression into one of mild, long-suffering annoyance. It was the most emotion she’d seen on Megumi’s face all day.

“So, what’s the verdict, champ? Did you tell Sensei all about how awesome and responsible and incredibly punctual I am?” Gojo asked, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial stage-whisper.

Megumi didn’t even look up from his geometric coloring. “No.”

“The disrespect.” Gojo clutched a hand to his heart, staggering back as if struck by an arrow. “My own kid. ”

“I’m not your kid,” Megumi muttered, still focused on his coloring. “You adopted me.”

Gojo gasped. “You hurt me! Right here!” He pointed to the center of his chest. “The one who buys you all those expensive artisanal juice boxes!”

Utahime simply blinked. She had mentally prepared for every possible type of parent: the defensive ones, the helicopter parents, the exhausted single parents running on caffeine and hope. She was armed with diplomacy, data, and a bottomless well of patience for genuine concern. She was not, in any way, prepared for a twenty-something guardian dressed in designer casualwear, hiding behind a thousand-watt smile and a vocabulary that included Shakespearean quotes and "wibbly-wobbly."

When she finally found her voice again, it came more strained than she intended, frayed at the edges by sheer bewilderment. “Mr. Gojo, if you’re quite done with the dramatics, we have a limited amount of time to discuss Megumi’s academic and social progress.”

“Of course! One hundred percent. Let’s talk about my genius boy.” The chair he was on, designed for a seven-year-old, protested audibly. His knees shot up towards his chin, sticking out at comically awkward angles, his long limbs looking like a grasshopper’s stuffed into a matchbox. Yet, somehow, he still managed to look entirely comfortable, sprawling in the miniature seat as if gravity was a gentle suggestion that applied only to other, less fabulous people.

She adopted the tone she reserved for particularly unruly field trips to the planetarium. “Mr. Gojo, punctuality is important, not just as a courtesy, but as a practical necessity. We schedule these meetings meticulously so that every parent gets their uninterrupted time to discuss their child’s progress.”

“Ah, Sensei, please, don’t you worry your very serious little head about me,” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture somehow encompassing the entire concept of linear time. “It all works out. Time bends around my charm, you see. It’s a documented phenomenon.”

Utahime blinked in a conscious effort to keep her eyelids from fluttering in disbelief. She could feel a rebellious muscle twitching near her eyebrow. “I can assure you,” she said, her voice dangerously level, “that the space-time continuum remains entirely unmoved by your personal schedule. The clock, as you can see, reads 4:47.”

He laughed, an easy, bright sound that seemed to bounce off the posters of the alphabet and the multiplication tables, drawing curious glances from the few stragglers still in the hallway. “You’re funny, Sensei. I like you. You’ve got that whole ‘stern but secretly has a heart of gold’ vibe. It’s a classic.”

Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t a social call, Mr. Gojo. This is about Megumi’s education.”

“Of course not,” he said, finally leaning forward as if he were ready to behave. The tiny chair creaked a pathetic warning under the shift of his weight. “So, lay it on me. How’s my Megumi doing? Quiet kid, right? Brilliant, obviously. Devilishly handsome, takes after his old man?”

“He’s quiet,” Utahime replied, the word pointed and specific, leaving no room for interpretation about which of those qualities she was confirming.

He chuckled, and for a brief, disarming moment, Utahime caught a flicker of something genuine and warm beneath all that casual bravado. It was in the way his large hand came to rest lightly on Megumi’s shoulder in a grounding touch. It was in the way his smirk, when he glanced down at the boy, softened at the edges into something that looked suspiciously like real affection. The realization struck her with the force of a delayed sneeze. 

“He’s… bright,” she said finally, the admission feeling like a concession. She flipped open the manila folder. “His observational skills are remarkable for his age. And he’s surprisingly considerate of his classmates, often helping them find lost items without being asked.” She lifted her gaze to meet the impenetrable black lenses of his sunglasses. “You might learn a thing or two from him about subtlety and timeliness.”

“Wow, Sensei,” Gojo said. “Did you just compliment me and insult me in the same sentence? That’s a high-level technique. I’m impressed. Really, I am.”

Utahime refused, point-blank, to acknowledge that.

She merely straightened her posture until her back was a rigid line and thought grimly to herself that if every parent were like this man, she would need to invest in a much stronger brand of coffee, a prescription for sedatives, and a week’s vacation on a remote soundproofed island.

Gojo, to his credit, then tried to look like he was paying attention. Unfortunately, “tried” in this case meant leaning forward with his chin resting in his palm, his head cocked, the sunglasses still firmly in place, smiling as if he were watching a particularly entertaining independent film at a cafe.

Utahime told herself not to be distracted by the spectacle of him. She was a professional. She had lesson plans to review and grades to submit.

She failed almost instantly.

It wasn’t just that he was attractive - well, he was, objectively, a fact he was clearly so aware of that he probably had it listed as an emergency contact - but it was the unmitigated audacity of how out-of-place he looked here. He was too loud, not in volume now, but in essence, a walking exclamation mark in a world of polite and well-formed sentences. 

“Alright,” she began. “Academically, Megumi is doing very well. He’s reading well above his grade level, and his comprehension is excellent. He’s shown a remarkable capacity for focus, especially during independent work. It’s quite impressive for his age.”

Gojo perked up instantly, as if someone had plugged him in. He swiveled in his tiny chair to face Megumi. “See, ‘Gumi? What did I tell you? You’re a little prodigy! A genius in the making! They’re gonna have to invent new grades for you!”

Megumi, who had been adding a shockingly detailed shadow to his geometric design, didn't even look up. His voice was a dry plain in the face of Gojo’s hurricane of praise. “You said school was a scam designed to crush individual spirit.”

Utahime, who had just taken a cautious sip of her now-lukewarm tea, nearly choked. An undignified sputter escaped her as she fumbled for a napkin, the liquid burning a path down her windpipe.

Gojo coughed delicately into his fist, waving his other hand in a dismissive little circle as if shooing away an inconvenient fact. “Ah - well - context, Megumi, context is key! I said college was a scam. A soul-crushing, debt-inducing… uh… institution. You’re still in the fun part! With the glue and the… sparkly things!” He gestured vaguely at the glitter still clinging to Nobara’s former desk.

Utahime stared at him, her eyes narrowed into slits of unadulterated teacherly disapproval. “Mr. Gojo,” she said, her voice dangerously sweet, “I would prefer if you didn’t describe any part of the educational system as a ‘scam’ to a seven-year-old. It tends to undermine the whole ‘learning is valuable’ message we’re trying to cultivate.”

“Right, right. My mistake,” he said, not looking chastised in the slightest. “It’s not a scam. It’s a… lightly overpriced, mandatory life experience. Better?”

She decided to move on immediately before the vein throbbing in her temple achieved sentience and staged a walk-out. She tapped the progress report with a firm finger.

“Anyway,” she said, the word a verbal bulldozer, “socially, he is very independent and polite. He clearly enjoys and excels in solitary activities. Though - ” she hesitated, choosing her words with the care of a bomb disposal expert, “ - he can be a bit… reserved. I’d like to gently encourage him to open up a little more and feel comfortable participating in the more collaborative aspects of the classroom.”

Gojo tilted his head, the movement bird-like and curious. The black lenses of his sunglasses seemed to fix on her. “Reserved? You mean he’s just… quiet?”

“Very,” Utahime confirmed, nodding. “He often prefers working alone, and while his self-sufficiency is admirable, I’d like to see him share his ideas more during group discussions and activities. He has wonderful insights; he just keeps them to himself.”

Gojo hummed thoughtfully. He brought a single finger to tap against his cheek. “Yeah, that’s just him. Stoic little guy. I tried to get him to join a soccer club once, thought the teamwork would be good for him. He looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Teamwork is an illusion perpetuated by the weak to leech off the strong.’”

Utahime looked from Gojo’s utterly serious face to Megumi, who was now coloring with the intense focus of a cartographer mapping a new world. “He… he said that?”

“Verbatim.”

“...He’s seven.”

“Old soul,” Gojo said, puffing out his chest with a ridiculous pride. “Must’ve gotten it from me. The philosophical outlook, not the leeching part. I’m definitely the strong one.”

From the corner, Megumi looked for a moment like he was strongly considering simply dematerializing, or at the very least, making a run for it.

Utahime inhaled slowly through her nose, counting silently to three. The numbers did not bring the peace they usually did. “Right. Well. As long as he feels comfortable and safe, that’s the primary concern. I’ll continue to check in with him during class and create low-pressure opportunities for social interaction.”

Gojo’s posture shifted then. The performative pride melted away, and his smile softened into something more genuine. The change was so abrupt it was disorienting. “Thanks, Sensei,” he said, and his voice had lost its theatrical boom, dropping into a more sincere register. “Really. You’re… you’re taking good care of him. I can tell.”

For a second, Utahime didn’t even register that he was talking to her. It took her brain a full heartbeat to catch up, to realize this was - oh. Actual gratitude. It was not sarcasm or backhanded charm. Gratitude.

She blinked, thrown off enough that her voice came out softer than she meant. “It’s Iori, actually. Or, well - Utahime-sensei. If we’re being proper.”

“Utahime-sensei,” Gojo repeated slowly, like he was testing how it tasted. And because he was Gojo Satoru, he somehow managed to make it sound like a compliment.

She busied herself in Megumi’s report file, even though it didn’t need it. “I’m just doing my job,” she said quickly, because suddenly her throat felt warm.

He shook his head. “You’re doing more than that. It’s obvious. Megumi’s… not an easy kid. But he’s doing great here. That’s you.”

It wasn’t a grand statement, but something about the way he said it plainly hit her harder than it should have. She wasn’t used to hearing it. Most people didn’t thank teachers; they expected them.

She thought of the countless nights grading papers under bad fluorescent light, the unpaid overtime, the relatives who’d tutted over her “wasting” her degree. A teacher? After all that studying? You could have done so much more, Utahime.

And now here was this man in tinted shades and an unbuttoned collar telling her she was doing something that mattered.

Something about the unvarnished honesty in his tone caught her completely off guard. To distract herself from the unsettling warmth his moment of sincerity had ignited, Utahime reached for the stack of freshly-printed handouts. 

"Now, moving on to the final item," she announced. She slid one of the packets across the desk towards him. "Each student will be receiving this. It requires a parent or guardian's signature."

Gojo reached for it at the same time she adjusted the edge of the paper, and their hands met halfway.

It was the lightest contact of skin against skin with no reason for her to even notice. But she did. Her fingers skimmed the smooth back of his hand before she could pull away, and warmth pulsed up her arm, like touching the edge of static before a storm breaks. She withdrew first, and the paper crinkled between them like a secret tattling on her.

He didn’t seem to notice - or maybe he did, because the corner of his mouth curved upward.

“Sorry, Sensei,” he said lightly. “Didn’t mean to invade your personal space. Occupational hazard of having long limbs.”

Utahime cleared her throat, refusing to look at him directly. “I’m sure you’ll survive the trauma.”

Gojo chuckled, then tilted the paper toward the light. He squinted at the tiny print, and in a move that felt strangely more intimate than it should have, he pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead. His eyes, now fully visible, were an unreasonably crystalline blue - the color of a tropical lagoon or a particularly potent windshield-washer fluid.

"It's the permission slip and information packet for our upcoming field trip," she explained, her tone carefully neutral. "The second graders will be visiting the Kyoto Nature Reserve next week. We’ll have ample chaperones, of course, and the bus will leave from the front gate at eight o'clock. Sharp." She delivered the last word with the weight of a gavel, her gaze locking with his.

Gojo’s face lit up as if she’d just announced a trip to Disneyland. "A field trip? Oh, that sounds fun! A day out in the fresh air, communing with nature, the gentle sounds of the forest - "

"Fun for the students," she corrected, carefully and deliberately emphasizing the plural noun, building a verbal wall between him and the concept.

He didn't seem to notice, or more likely, chose to ignore it. "What day did you say again? My schedule is a fluid carpet, but I can make it work."

"Thursday. We’ll be touring the botanical gardens, completing a guided nature walk, and having a supervised picnic lunch by the pond - "

"Can parents come?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying enthusiasm that made Utahime's blood run cold.

Her pen, which had been poised to make a note, stopped dead on the paper. "Excuse me?"

He leaned forward, the desk groaning in protest as he planted his elbows on it, his chin in his hands like a kid about to beg for a puppy. "I'm just saying, Sensei, field trips can get pretty wild. A bus full of seven-year-olds hyped up on sunshine and bento boxes? You're gonna need all the help you can get. I have excellent juice-box-carrying stamina. Top-tier. I'm like a pack mule for Capri Sun."

"Mr. Gojo," she said slowly, as if addressing a lit firework that had rolled under her desk, "I appreciate your… eagerness to participate. But this trip is for students, teachers, and certified staff only. Our liability insurance is very specific, and our chaperone roster is already full." It was a white lie, but one she would defend to her dying breath.

His pout was instantaneous. His whole face seemed to droop, the very light in those blue eyes dimming. "Aw, come on, Sensei. You're telling me you wouldn't want this level of dedication on the front lines? I'm a natural with kids! I speak their language!"

Utahime’s gaze flicked pointedly from his sunglasses, still perched on his head, down to his loose tie and then back to his pleading grin. "You were late to a fifteen-minute meeting that was written on your calendar in bold print, and sent home with your child and via email."

"I like to make an entrance!" he protested, as if this was a perfectly reasonable justification.

"Not at a protected nature reserve, you won't," she stated, her voice flat and final. "The deer are skittish."

"To suggest I would disrupt the delicate ecosystem of the local fauna..."

Megumi muttered without even looking up from his paper, "She's right. You'd scare the animals. You'd probably try to race the squirrels or challenge a badger to a staring contest."

Utahime bit back a laugh so suddenly and violently that she nearly pulled a muscle in her cheek. It escaped as a strangled snort that she quickly disguised with a cough into her fist.

Gojo turned his wounded expression toward the boy. "You're supposed to be on my side! We're a team! The dynamic duo!"

Megumi simply shrugged one small shoulder, selecting a new crayon. "I'm on the side of peace and quiet. And not getting lost in the woods because you decided to 'explore a cool-looking path.'"

"That's cold, kid. That's a glacier-level cold."

Utahime, having regained her composure, pretended to adjust the stack of folders into an even more impossibly perfect alignment. "If you'd like to volunteer for future school-based events, Mr. Gojo, we do occasionally put out calls for parent assistance for things like the annual fundraiser bake sale or for helping with larger classroom art projects. That would be a more… contained and appropriate venue for your particular brand of energy."

His previous pout vanished as if it had never existed. The whiplash was giving Utahime a headache. "So there is hope! You see a place for me in this grand educational journey. You just like to play hard to get."

Utahime froze mid-blink, her entire body going rigid. "I beg your pardon?"

He had the decency to look momentarily flustered, waving his hands in a frantic erasing motion. "I meant - uh - professionally! Professionally hard to get! With the rules and the boundaries! I totally respect that. Boundaries are great. Very… shapely."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. The warmth from earlier was now a distant memory. "I'm sure you do."

Gojo’s laugh burst out then, clearly trying to bulldoze over his own gaffe. Utahime, against her will, felt the corner of her own mouth twitch in response.

“Anyway,” she said, her voice carefully even, “the most important thing is that you sign and return the permission slip by tomorrow. Megumi mentioned offhandedly that you sometimes… forget these things.”

Gojo looked appropriately scandalized. “I, Gojo Satoru, never forget important things. My mind is a steel trap.”

From his spot on the floor, Megumi gave him a stare so flat it could have been used as a level. “You forgot to pack my lunch last Tuesday.”

“A calculated test of your burgeoning survival skills.” Gojo retorted without missing a beat. “You emerged stronger and more self-reliant.”

“You also forgot to pick me up after music class the week before that.”

“Ah that,” Gojo waved a hand, his expression one of profound wisdom. “That wasn’t forgetfulness. That was a lesson in patience and self-sufficiency.”

“Mr. Gojo,” Utahime interjected, pinching the bridge of her nose, “perhaps just… write it down this time. On your hand. On the fridge. Anywhere.”

He offered a sheepish grin that was somehow both contrite and utterly unrepentant. “You got it, Sensei. I’ll inscribe it upon my very soul.”

“The permission slip will suffice,” she said dryly. She glanced at the clock whose hands had finally reached a reasonable hour, and then back at her notes. “I think that just about concludes our discussion for today. Thank you for your time.”

Gojo rose from the child-sized chair - unfolded was truly the more accurate term, a series of limb-unfurling movements that defied the furniture design. He stretched his arms high above his head with a satisfied groan, like a cat awakening from a particularly luxurious nap. “Great chat, Sensei. I feel enlightened. Maybe even a little educated myself. You’re a natural.”

“I’m sure that’s a first,” she muttered under her breath.

He heard it, of course. His blue eyes caught hers, and his smile turned into a teasing, lopsided smirk. “You’ve got a surprisingly sharp tongue hiding behind that very polite, very professional teacher facade.”

Utahime raised a single, cool eyebrow. “I save it for special cases. It helps maintain the ecosystem.”

He laughed again, but this time it was less of a performance and more of a genuine sound of amusement. “Guess that makes me lucky, then.”

Before she could formulate a response that was both appropriate and adequately scathing, Megumi tugged lightly at the hem of Gojo’s untucked shirt. “Can we go now? I’m hungry.”

“Right, right, the most important appointment of the day: dinner.” Gojo ruffled the boy’s hair again, a gesture that was becoming familiar. “C’mon, genius. Let’s get out of here and leave Sensei to what’s left of her sanity. We’ve probably taken a year off her life.”

Utahime watched them head for the door, her arms crossed. She told herself she was just performing a final visual sweep to ensure no crayons had been pocketed or glitter bombs left in their wake - but her gaze lingered a little too long on the sight of Gojo’s long stride consciously slowing and shortening to match the pace of the small boy beside him.

Just as they reached the doorway, Gojo turned back, framing himself in the entrance like the poster boy for troublesome parents. “See you Thursday, Sensei! Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll be on my absolute best behavior!”

“I highly doubt that,” she replied, the words leaving her mouth before her brain could censor them.

He simply winked. “You’ll see.”

Then he was gone. And hanging in the room was the unshakable feeling that her peaceful, predictable week had just been officially declared an endangered species.

Utahime sank back into her chair, the weight of the day finally settling on her shoulders. She brought her hands up, rubbing firm circles at her temples. Her eyes drifted to the field trip packet, on the blank line waiting for a signature under “Parent/Guardian Name.”

Her pen hovered over it for a long second. Finally, she muttered, half to herself and half to the ghosts of the ducks at the nature reserve, “If he so much as shows his face at that reserve on Thursday, I’m feeding him to the ducks.”

From far down the hallway came the sound of bright laughter.

She had a sinking certainty that the ducks wouldn’t be nearly enough.

Chapter Text

The morning of the field trip arrived, and the classroom was electric with the energy Utahime called the pre-disaster buzz. You couldn't see it, but you could feel it like a current of unrestrained joy and anticipation that made everything feel louder and brighter and much more unforeseeable.

The second she walked through the door, her tote bag still slung over her shoulder, the questions began flying at her like enthusiastic arrows.

"Sensei, are there bears?" Yuji asked, his whole face lit up with the thrilling possibility. He looked as if the idea of bears was the best news he'd ever heard.

"Large, angry ones?" Nobara added immediately, putting her hands on her hips as if preparing to negotiate with a grizzly.

Maki, who was calmly checking the laces on her sturdiest outdoor shoes, glanced over. "Do we get to fight them?" she asked in a deadpan voice. Utahime had learned that with Maki, this tone meant she was only partly joking. There was a real part of her that was always ready for a challenge, even if it was against a wild animal.

Utahime held up a hand, trying to catch the wave of questions before it crashed over her completely. "No bears," she said, making sure each word was clear and firm. "There are no bears at this reserve. And there will be absolutely no fighting any wildlife, large or small." She gave Maki a specific look.

Yuji's face fell, his dream of a bear encounter shattered. Nobara looked deeply disappointed, as if the trip was now ruined. Maki just sighed a little, as if the world was once again not living up to her exciting expectations.

Meanwhile, near the window, Yuta was clutching the straps of his backpack with both hands, his knuckles white. He had been listening to the entire conversation with growing worry. "Do... insects count?" he whispered, his face already looking a little pale at the thought of a confrontation with a particularly determined beetle.

Before Utahime could reassure him or maybe tell a comforting lie - Todo decided it was the perfect time to demonstrate a bird call he had been practicing all week for the trip. He puffed out his chest and let out a screech that sounded less like a bird and more like a rusty gate being pulled apart by a tornado. It was a truly terrible noise.

From the desk next to him, Inumaki nodded his head very seriously, as if he had just heard a beautiful symphony. "Salmon," he said, with clear approval.

Utahime took a deep breath. "We are lining up for the buses in fifteen minutes. I need you to do a final check. Make sure you have your water bottle, your packed lunch, your sun hat, your name tag, and a jacket." She paused, looking over the sea of excited faces. 

She was doing her absolute best to maintain control. She had even arrived at school painfully early to prepare. Her desk was a monument of attendance sheets, emergency contact forms for every single child, and a list detailing which students were not, under any circumstances, allowed to be within twenty feet of a body of water without an adult physically holding their hand.

(That particular list was much longer than she felt comfortable with.)

Logistically, everything was ready. All she needed now was for the other teacher assigned to her group, the teacher-in-charge for their bus to show up so they could run through the final checks together.

Unfortunately, that teacher was Naoya Zenin.

As far as Utahime knew, he was some kind of distant relative to Maki. The girl always reacted to his name as if she'd just bitten into a lemon, which honestly told Utahime everything she needed to know about his character.

And Naoya himself? Well, calling him a "slacker" didn't even begin to cover it. He was a master of doing the bare minimum. He strolled into work late with a cocky smile, left early with a casual wave, and somehow managed to float just above any and all consequences, like a nepotism-powered helium balloon. The powerful Zenin family name pulled strings behind the scenes, and their principal, who had a deep and reverent respect for old, traditional families, let him get away with what amounted to workplace murder.

Meanwhile, Utahime could arrive with lesson plans polished to a mirror shine, her paperwork triple-checked and flawless, and still get a gentle, condescending lecture if she didn't smile enough during staff meetings.

She checked her watch. 

8:02 AM.

Naoya was supposed to be here at 7:45 sharp for a pre-trip briefing. She'd even sent him a reminder text last night and another one this morning.

She picked up her phone, her jaw tightening as she unlocked the screen. There was finally a notification.

Naoya Zenin: cant make it lol stomach feels weird 😷 u got it right? 👍🏼

Utahime stared at the message, her grip on the phone so tight she was surprised the screen didn't crack. The "lol" felt like a personal insult. She typed out a blistering reply that would have surely gotten her fired, her fingers flying across the screen. At the last second, she took a breath and deleted every single word.

She tried again, forcing her fingers to be calm.

Utahime: This is extremely short notice, Zenin-sensei. We are legally required to have a specific staff-to-student ratio on this trip.

The dreaded "typing" bubble appeared. 

Naoya Zenin: dean said its fine. he knows im indisposed. sorry 😎

The emoji with sunglasses was the final straw. Utahime closed her eyes, lowering her phone. She marched to the principal’s office window, where he stood sipping tea like a man whose world was peaceful and consequence-free.

"Principal Fuyuhito," she said, keeping her voice carefully calm. "A quick update. Zenin-sensei has just informed me he will not be attending the field trip. He's... unwell."

The principal turned slowly, blinking behind his round spectacles as if processing a mildly interesting but ultimately unimportant piece of information. "Well, then I'm sure you'll just manage without him."

"Manage - ?" The word escaped her lips before she could stop it. "Principal, I will have nearly thirty second graders at an open-air nature reserve. The safety regulations clearly state we need a minimum of one adult for every ten children. Without him, I will be dangerously over ratio."

He simply nodded, taking another slow sip of his tea. "You're a very capable woman, Iori-sensei. I have every confidence in you. You've always been so... resourceful."

She heard the subtext as clearly as if he had shouted it. Zenin can skip work because he's a Zenin. You, however…

She was here because she was the sort of young and underpaid teacher who never caused trouble or complained loudly enough to inconvenience anyone. Her position wasn’t protected by a famous family name or a well-placed parent; it was held together by the expectation that she’d swallow mistreatment with a polite smile. Any objection she made would be reframed as her being “difficult," “overly emotional," or “not a team player.”

The injustice burned in her chest, but she forced it down, locking it away. She needed this job. She loved this job, even when it felt like this.

"Of course," she said, the two words coming out tight and clipped. What else could she say? There was no winning this battle.

She turned and walked back toward the courtyard where her class was assembling. In her head, she repeated the mantra that got her through the most trying days: I love this job. I love teaching. I love the children. I love - 

A small hand tugged urgently on her sleeve. "Sensei, sensei! Can I sit next to Yuta on the bus?"

Before she could even form a response, another student appeared at her other side. "Sensei, are there monkeys at the park? Can we see them? Can we feed them?"

And then another tug, this one from behind. "Sensei! Todo’s eating the crackers from the first-aid kit!"

She handled them all and confiscated the crackers. But as she finally got the class into a semi-straight line, her eyes kept scanning the area, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

There was still no Megumi.

Still no sign of - 

“YO! UTAHIME-SENSEI!”

The loud voice boomed across the school grounds. It was so sudden and out of place that Utahime was convinced all coherent thoughts fled her mind, hovering somewhere near the jungle gym in a state of pure shock.

Then she saw Gojo Satoru making an entrance. He strode across the pathway, one arm waving. His shades glinted in the morning sun, and his jacket flapped behind him with a flair, despite the fact the air was completely still. It was as if he brought his own personal wind machine everywhere he went. Trudging along beside him was Megumi. The boy looked less like a student arriving for a fun trip and more like a prisoner being delivered to his fate.

Utahime could only stare. Of all the stressful, understaffed days, of course he would appear now, at the exact moment she was at her most vulnerable.

“Good morning, class!” Gojo called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the hum of the children. He was immediately met with a wave of shrieks and pointing fingers.

“IT’S MEGUMI’S DAD!” Yuji yelled, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“HE’S SO TALL!” Nobara added, her eyes wide. "He could touch the sky!"

Gojo’s grin widened, if that was even possible. “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you! I know, it’s a lot to take in. Please, hold your autographs for later, we have a busy day ahead - ”

“Gojo-san,” Utahime snapped, finally finding her voice and marching toward him like a storm cloud. She stopped directly in his path, planting her feet. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

He blinked at her from behind his sunglasses, the picture of innocence. “To drop my favorite little charge off for the day? Isn’t today the field trip to the great outdoors?” He leaned down, lowering his sunglasses just enough to peer at her over the rims. Those impossibly blue eyes were sparkling with mischief. “Or…” he said, “…did you just miss me?”

“I did not,” she said, her voice hard as stone. “And as I have told you repeatedly, parents are not allowed on this trip. It is for students and staff only.”

“Good thing I’m not one, then,” he chirped, straightening back up.

Utahime stared at him. “…You’re literally his guardian. It says so on all the official forms.”

“Guardian, sure. Legal caretaker, absolutely,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m not technically a parent parent. Y’know, in the biological sense. It’s a very important legal distinction, Sensei. You of all people should appreciate details.”

From beside him, Megumi looked for all the world like an overworked salaryman facing yet another pointless corporate meeting. “Please,” he muttered, directing his plea toward Utahime, “don’t encourage him. It just makes it worse.”

“I’m trying not to,” she replied back through gritted teeth, a moment of shared solidarity with the seven-year-old.

But Gojo was already peering around her, taking in the lineup of fidgeting students with the air of a proud troop leader surveying his scouts. “Wow, just look at them all! So full of potential!” He turned his blinding smile back to Utahime. “I’m great with kids, you know. A natural. They love me.”

“Gojo-san,” Utahime tried again, her voice straining with the effort of maintaining patience. She gestured with her clipboard toward the line of children. “You cannot come. This trip is strictly for certified staff and students. Those are the rules.”

“Oh! Perfect!” His face lit up with a new, terrifying idea. “I can be staff! Consider me your highly enthusiastic, volunteer teaching assistant for the day!”

“No - ” she began, but he steamrolled right over her.

“I can help!” he insisted, his voice full of misplaced confidence. “I’ll be your right-hand man. I can carry the heavy first-aid kit! I can lead the hiking songs. I can be the official wildlife spotter.”

“You won’t - ” she tried again, her protest growing weaker.

“I’m very responsible,” he declared, puffing out his chest with pride.

“That is a blatant lie,” Utahime stated flatly, thinking of the forgotten permission slips, late arrivals, and the general aura that followed him everywhere.

“Sensei! How could you say that? I’ll have you know I run a whole company! A very large and successful one!”

She blinked. The words didn't make any sense arranged in that order. “You… run… what?”

“Gojo Enterprises?” he said, tilting his head as if she’d just asked what color the sky was. “The family business? Lots of money and very boring most of the time? I manage it technically. Mostly I just sign the papers and make the scary phone calls when I have to. Because now I’m not busy doing other things.”

Utahime’s mind was reeling. Gojo Enterprises was a massive conglomerate. And this man, this human hurricane in a blindfold, was in charge? It seemed as likely as Nobara suddenly deciding she hated shimmer. “…what other things?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

He beamed. “You’re looking at a proud college dropout. I realized early on that the whole sitting in a classroom thing was criminally boring. So I left. Best decision I ever made. It freed up my schedule immensely.”

She stared at him, her facade completely shattered by the absurdity of the confession.

He stared back.

Suddenly, like puzzle pieces snapping into a picture she never wanted to see, everything clicked into place. The completely unstructured schedule. The constant availability to drop off and pick up Megumi at all hours. The weirdly large amount of time he seemed to have to just… loiter around a primary school. 

A dawning horror spread across her face. “…so what you’re telling me,” she said, “is that you are, for all intents and purposes, a man of privilege with unlimited free time and no real oversight.”

“Basically,” he confirmed. “I highly recommend it. You should try it sometime, Sensei. You look very tense.”

Utahime’s gaze swept over her reality in a series of devastating snapshots. First, her color-coded lists now seeming like a pathetic joke. Then, the principal’s window, where she could just make out the vague shape of him, utterly unconcerned. Her eyes then landed on the empty space beside her where Naoya Zenin should have been standing.

Finally, her gaze was dragged, against her will, back to her class. The orderly line had completely dissolved. The children were now a giggling swarm, literally circling Gojo as if he were the most fascinating exhibit at the zoo. Not only was he allowing it; he was encouraging it. He was crouched down to their level, letting them poke at his shock of white hair, which Yuji and Nobara were doing with intense curiosity. He laughed as one of them tugged on his sleeve. He gave Yuji a high-five so enthusiastic and loud it cracked through the morning air like a firework.

He was good with them. He wasn't just tolerating them; he was engaging, his attention fully on them. He was, in that moment, a better and more present adult than Naoya Zenin had ever been.

“Sensei?” Yuta’s soft voice piped up from the edge of the circle. He was clutching his backpack straps, but he was smiling a little. “Can… Gojo-san please come with us? He’s… nice.”

That single, simple word seemed to break the dam.

“PLEASE LET HIM COME!” Nobara yelled, punching a fist into the air. “HE CAN BE OUR BODYGUARD AGAINST THE BEARS!”

“HE CAN CARRY THE HEAVY COOLER!” Todo boomed, already trying to hoist the class cooler toward him.

“Salmon,” Toge added with a firm nod, which in this context sounded like a full-throated endorsement.

The only dissenting voice was a despairing groan from Megumi. “Please,” the boy muttered, his voice muffled, “don’t let him come.”

Utahime closed her eyes. The arguments warred in her head.

Technically, she wasn't supposed to bring unauthorized adults. It was a clear rule.

Technically, she should say no. It was the safe, by-the-book choice.

Technically, she would be breaking a rule that only ever seemed to apply to her, while people like Naoya seemed to operate on a completely different set of guidelines.

But the principal wasn't lifting a finger. Naoya had abandoned them without a second thought. And she was standing on the precipice of a day-long field trip desperately in need of another pair of hands.

Even if they were the most infuriating and annoyingly capable hands alive.

“…Fine,” she muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “You can come. As a… volunteer chaperone.”

Gojo shot upright, fist-pumping so hard he nearly knocked his own sunglasses off. “I knew you secretly liked having me around, Sensei. I could feel the positive vibes - ”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, pointing a finger at his chest, “push it. Not one inch. You follow my rules. You do exactly as I say. You are on probation from this very second.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Okay, everyone!” Utahime called, forcing authority back into her voice. “We are now going to line up and board the bus in a safe manner! I want to see walking feet, not running feet! Let’s show our best behavior for the bus driver - CALMLY, NOBARA, THAT IS NOT A SLIDE - Yuji, I can see you readying yourself up for a sprint, do not make me use my teacher voice before we’ve even left the parking lot - ”

Her words were like trying to hold back the tide with a butterfly net. The students surged toward the bus door in a wave of colorful backpacks and mismatched socks. Utahime stood by the door, doing a rapid mental headcount as they clambered up the steps.

There was Yuji, already describing to a slightly green-looking Yuta the various cool bugs he hoped to discover. Maki was muttering something to Nobara that sounded suspiciously like, "If a bee lands on you, just stand still," which was somehow both threatening and deeply affectionate. Todo was already pressed against a window, waving at the empty courtyard.

Finally, bringing up the rear with the energy of a snail attending a mandatory fun run, was Megumi. As expected, he didn't even break stride. He moved with the purpose of a commuter who knew his route by heart, walking straight to the very back row of the bus. He selected a two-seater, slid into the window seat, and promptly placed his backpack on the aisle seat beside him. It was a perfect fortress of solitude. The ultimate "do not perceive me" configuration.

Utahime watched him for a moment and then followed him down the aisle.

She stopped at his row and pointed a finger at him as if she were issuing a parking citation. "Nope," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Not today, Megumi."

Megumi’s eyes, which had been fixed on the world outside, narrowed as he slowly turned his head toward her. “…Sensei.”

"You are not sitting alone for the entire duration of this trip," she insisted, crossing her arms. "Field trips are a social activity. They are about shared experiences."

"They don't have to be," he countered.

"Yes," she said, leaning slightly into the aisle. "They do. Especially for you."

Megumi set his jaw. "I'm fine right here. It's quiet."

Before Utahime could launch into her well-rehearsed speech about branching out and making connections, a long shadow fell over them. Gojo appeared behind her, his head hovering between them like a very unhelpful parrot observing a tense standoff.

"Aww, Gumi, buddy," Gojo cooed, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "What's this? All alone back here? Don't you want to come sit up front with your dear, fun, incredibly interesting old dad?"

Megumi didn't even blink, his gaze still locked on Utahime. "You're not old."

"True." Gojo said, utterly delighted by this technicality. "I am, in fact, incredibly youthful."

"That wasn't a compliment," Megumi deadpanned, finally turning his dead-eyed stare toward his guardian. "It was an observation. And no."

“Megumi,” Utahime tried again. “How about you come sit with Yuji and the others? They’re playing a game. I’m sure they’d love for you to join.”

“No thanks,” he said, the words immovable as a mountain.

Okay.

Reasoning wasn't working. The logical appeal to group dynamics had failed. It was time to escalate and employ some bribery or emotional leverage. She was just mentally calculating if she had any extra juice boxes to use as bargaining chips when Nobara took matters into her own hands.

From three rows ahead, she twisted around in her seat and fixed her eyes on the back of the bus, her expression one of supreme challenge.

“Oi, Hedgehog!” she called out, using the nickname Megumi visibly loathed. “If you sit alone back there, I’m telling everyone you’re scared of talking to people!”

A twitch ran through Megumi’s eyebrows. His carefully constructed wall of indifference developed its first hairline crack. “I’m not scared,” he stated.

“Then prove it!” Nobara shot back, crossing her arms. “Come sit with the rest of the class. Unless you’re too scared.”

Megumi opened his mouth and closed it. The gears in his sharp mind were visibly turning, weighing the agony of social interaction against the unbearable social death of being labeled ‘scared’. He opened his mouth again.

“…you talk too much,” he finally muttered, a weak but pointed counter-attack.

Nobara gasped. “I do NOT talk too much! I talk exactly the correct amount! People pay attention when I speak!”

Megumi stared at her. “You yelled at a vending machine yesterday.”

“BECAUSE IT ATE MY COINS AND I WANTED GRAPE SODA!” she shouted, proving his point beautifully.

“And then you kicked it.”

“BECAUSE IT WAS A CRIMINAL!”

Gojo, who had been eagerly watching the exchange like it was a championship tennis match, said to Utahime, “This is my favorite student rivalry, honestly.”

“That is not helpful,” Utahime hissed back, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m contributing to the ambiance. Setting the scene.”

Utahime’s eyes snapped back to Megumi. She saw the subtle shift in his posture. She had seconds before he shut down entirely and the drawbridge was raised and the social siege would be lost.

So she switched strategies. Abandoning reason and peer pressure, she went for the one thing she knew he couldn't ignore: a direct assignment that appealed to his deep-seated sense of responsibility.

“Megumi,” Utahime said seriously. “You know how we’re keeping a partner chart today for the field trip, right?”

He blinked, his stoic expression faltering for a fraction of a second with genuine confusion. “Partner chart?” he repeated, suspicion lacing his words.

“Yes,” she lied smoothly. “It’s a new safety protocol. For the nature reserve. Each pair of students is a designated ‘buddy team.’ You have to check in with your partner at every single checkpoint. If someone sits alone on the bus… well…” She let the implication hang in the air. If you sit alone, you’ll be the odd one out. 

Megumi’s frown deepened, a small crease forming between his brows. He saw the trap, but the walls of "safety" and "rules" were closing in. “What if I don’t want a partner?” he tried.

“Too bad,” Nobara declared, her voice ringing with triumph. She had been listening to every word, and now she saw her opening. Before anyone could react, she launched herself across the aisle, grabbing Megumi’s wrist like a cowboy lassoing a stray calf. “You have one now! The rules are the rules!”

Utahime didn’t even try to intervene. She simply watched like a co-conspirator in this benevolent kidnapping.

“Come on, sea urchin,” Nobara said, tugging him with surprising strength out of his chosen seat. His backpack was left defenseless on the seat. “We’re sitting here. With me. And Yuta. And Yuji. And Maki. We’re a group now.”

Megumi stumbled into the aisle, his balance compromised. He shot a look of betrayal at Utahime, as if she had personally sold him into this destiny.

She met his gaze. 

He stood there for a long moment weighing his options. He could make a scene, which was anathema to his very being. Or he could surrender with what little dignity he had left.

“…Fine,” he muttered eventually, the word barely audible.

It was as if he had given a secret signal. The entire section of the bus where Yuji, Yuta, Maki, and Nobara were sitting erupted into a chorus of victorious cheers and whoops.

Nobara scooted over with a triumphant wiggle, patting the now-vacant spot beside her with a smack. “Welcome to the fun squad. Try to keep up.”

“I didn’t agree to that name,” he grumbled, sliding into the seat with the grace of a condemned man approaching the gallows.

Yuji beamed at him, his smile so bright it was almost a physical force. “Too late! You’re in! We voted!”

Megumi sank down into the seat, his face once again an unreadable mask. But as he pulled his backpack onto his lap and stared out the window, Utahime noticed the slight relaxation in his shoulders. They were no longer pulled up tight around his ears. He was surrounded, yes. He was outnumbered, absolutely. But for the first time all morning, he was unmistakably part of the group. 

Just when she thought she had successfully navigated the storm and could perhaps breathe, the universe delivered a fresh kind of hell. Another wave of students arrived in a clustered swarm at the bus door.

A last-minute text from the school office informed her that the second bus, the one meant to handle the overflow, had been unexpectedly reassigned. The message offered no further explanation, only a passive-aggressive: "We're sure you can handle it, Iori-sensei!"

Which meant every single student from both classes was now being funneled into her already-cramped bus.

The aisle clogged instantly with a new tide of backpacks and excited voices. Bags thumped into seats as children scrambled to claim spots. Yuji's voice rose above the din, shouting something alarming about the digestive systems of beetles. 

Utahime’s teacher instincts kicked in. She did a rapid headcount, her lips moving silently.

Then, her brow furrowed in confusion, she did it again.

She stared at the packed rows, her mental math failing her. Thirty kids. One Utahime. One… Gojo. And…

Her eyes landed on the two empty seats at the very front of the bus right next to each other.

The only two unoccupied spots in the entire vehicle.

She processed this new development and turned her head to look at Gojo.

He had seen it too. His eyes drifted from the empty seats back to her, and a knowing smile spread across his face, his lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts mischief and delight.

“Oh,” he drawled. “Would you look at that. The universe is practically screaming it.”

“It’s misfortune,” she corrected immediately. “A logistical error. A cruel twist of luck.”

“You say tomato, I say the beginnings of a beautiful soulbond.”

“Just sit down,” she ordered, pointing a rigid finger toward the front of the bus.

They moved at the same time - Utahime storming forward with the determination of someone walking the plank, and Gojo strolling behind her as if he were entering a trendy cafe at a leisurely noon.

She slid into the aisle seat to act as a barrier between him and the rest of the bus. He plopped into the window seat beside her with zero hesitation, stretching out his stupidly long legs into the narrow space. His knees nearly brushed the back of the seat in front of them.

The bus doors hissed shut, sealing their fate.

Shockingly, the seat beside her did not smell of boy sweat, forgotten cheese sticks, or the stench of professional failure that usually clung to Naoya Zenin.

No.

Gojo Satoru, obnoxiously and inexplicably, smelled… good.

It was a clean, warm scent. An expensive cologne with notes of citrus and sandalwood, underpinned by something undeniably troublesome. She stiffened in her seat, her spine going ramrod straight. She refused to acknowledge that. 

He rested one arm along the top of the seat behind her. His posture relaxed into something altogether natural - none of his cartoonish peacocking that screamed: 'Please look at me, I'm charming!'

This was more subdued version of Gojo. He looked - and she hated even mentally admitting this - like a rogue young businessman who had ditched a soul-crushing corporate meeting to crash a school trip. 

It really didn't help that the morning sunlight streaming through the bus's large front windshield hit him perfectly. It outlined the line of his jaw, caught the high edge of his cheekbone, and made his disheveled white hair look like it had been intentionally styled instead of being a natural state of rebellion.

Utahime stared straight ahead at the bus driver's partitioned window with the laser-focused intensity of someone trying very hard not to notice any of that. The engine rumbled to life, and she prayed for a short, uneventful ride.

The bus hummed along the road, the city slowly giving way to glimpses of green. Behind her, the children had settled into their own little universes. For the first time since the pre-dawn hours, Utahime allowed her shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch, feeling the soothing rhythm of the road beneath the tires.

Then Gojo’s voice slid into the space beside her. “So,” he said, “what exactly was the final push? What convinced you to let a rule-breaking element like me tag along, Sensei?”

She didn’t look at him. “You’re implying there was a logical decision-making process involved.”

“There wasn’t?” he asked, feigning surprise.

Utahime stiffened slightly. “I told you. We were short-staffed. We needed an extra pair of hands.”

“Hmm.” He tapped a single finger against his knee. “That’s the official answer. The one you’d put in a report.”

“It’s the correct answer,” she insisted.

“It’s a lie,” he sang softly.

She finally shot him a sharp glare. There really was no point. Lying to him was like trying to hide a firework in a glass jar; he could sniff out the half-truths and evasions with the same unnerving accuracy Megumi used to detect emotional vulnerability in others.

“Fine,” she muttered, surrendering to the inevitable. “Since you insist on prying.”

“Oh, I do,” he said brightly, his full attention now fixed on her.

Her jaw tensed. She focused on a distant tree line, finding it easier to speak to the scenery. “It’s Naoya Zenin.”

Gojo stilled beside her. The lounging energy that always surrounded him vanished. 

Utahime didn’t notice at first as she was too busy finally unloading the day’s accumulated frustration, the words starting to spill out in a vehement torrent.

“He was supposed to be the other teacher in charge. He texted me this morning, last minute, saying he had a ‘stomach thing.’ Which everyone knows is just code for ‘I don’t feel like doing my job today.’ And the principal didn’t care. He never cares when it’s Naoya. He just told me to manage. And I’m always the one who gets stuck cleaning up the mess, because apparently working past four AM and actually showing up anyway just means I’m reliable and can therefore handle every single crisis alone. Meanwhile, he - !”

She realized she was ranting, her voice rising with a bitterness she usually kept carefully locked away. She cut herself off, expecting a flippant remark or a joke to deflect the seriousness.

But it never came.

Gojo didn’t interrupt. He was just… listening. 

His sunglasses were now pushed up on his forehead, and his strikingly blue and clear eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that was completely unfamiliar. Those eyes were ridiculous up-close, seeming to see right through her defenses. 

Why was he even looking at her with a seriousness that felt more real than all his joking and preening combined? The shift was so abrupt it left her feeling off-balance, the rest of her frustrated tirade dying on her lips.

She cleared her throat awkwardly and stared firmly at the patterned fabric of the seat ahead.

"Anyway," she finished, trying to pack all the frustration back into its box. "That's what happened. That's the reason."

After a moment of silence, Gojo pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up, casting a glow on his face. Before she could even form a question, he lifted the phone to his ear.

When he spoke, it wasn't the goofy, showboating voice he used most of the time full of the teasing lilt or the dramatic whisper.

This was his business voice that carried an effortless, unshakeable authority in a way that sent an entirely unwelcome shiver straight down her spine.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes still fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. "Cancel the appointment with the Zenin client today."

Utahime’s head snapped toward him so fast she felt a twinge in her neck.

What?

"Mhm. No, all of it," he continued conversationally. "Meetings, orders, pending shipments - freeze everything. Tell them we're reallocating resources. Indefinitely. If they have an issue, they can contact my office to renegotiate. Next quarter, maybe."

Her jaw went slack. She was gaping at him.

He ended the call with a quiet, "Thanks," and then slipped the phone back into his pocket with a flick of his wrist, as if he'd just ordered a pizza instead of potentially torpedoing a major business deal.

Utahime stared at him, her mind reeling. "What do you mean done? What did you just do?"

He shrugged one shoulder, a maddeningly unconcerned gesture. "Just canceled a deal. It was boring anyway."

"With the Zenins?" she hissed, lowering her voice so the children wouldn't hear.

"Yeah. They had a pending contract with one of my smaller divisions." He leaned back, stretching his long legs out again. "Now they don't."

Her mouth fell open. "You canceled a multi-million-yen business deal because one of their distant relatives was lazy and didn't show up for a field trip?!"

Gojo tilted his head, as if considering the logic. "Partly. Mostly because I never liked that branch of the family. Thinks their name is a substitute for actual competence. You just gave me a wonderfully personal excuse." He smiled easily. "I appreciate the inspiration, Sensei."

She was torn between horror and absolute disbelief. "You can't just - what if that causes massive problems? For you? For them?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. They'll recover. The Zenins always do. It's a minor financial hiccup for them. A little ego bruise never hurt anyone."

"That's - !" She caught herself just before the word insane could escape. "That's… a catastrophic overreaction!"

"Maybe," he said lightly, "but it's fun. And satisfying."

"Because of me?!" The words were a strangled whisper.

He blinked, those blue eyes wide with fake innocence. "Was that unclear?"

She sputtered, a flush of heat rising to her cheeks. "Why?"

He tilted his head again, this time looking genuinely thoughtful. "I don't like him."

"That's not a reason! That's a toddler's reason!"

"It's a perfectly good reason for me," he countered, his tone implying this was obvious.

"It is not!"

"Also," he added, "he annoys you, so now he annoys me."

She stared at him like he'd just sprouted a second head. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Oh, don't give me that look," he said, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy groan. "You basically gift-wrapped the motivation and handed it to me on a silver platter. I just acted on it."

"I -  you -  Gojo-san - !" Utahime felt completely flustered and out of her depth. "You can't just interfere in high-stakes corporate business because someone personally irritates me at my job!"

His lips curved into that soft-edged smile he only ever used when he was being either terribly sincere or terribly annoying. She still hadn't managed to figure out which one it was.

"Sure I can," he said simply. 

"No you - "

"And," he continued, leaning back as if settling in for a longer chat, "if you feel like telling me the principal's name, I can take care of that little problem for you, too. Nice and easy. A few phone calls. He might find his budget for next year has some… interesting new constraints."

She reacted on pure instinct by slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the terrifying words.

His eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement above her palm.

Her face was on fire. She could feel the heat all the way to the tips of her ears.

"Stop that," she told him. "Stop everything you are doing right now. No more corporate vengeance."

He raised a single eyebrow, “You sure? Sounds like he's overdue for a bad day.”

"I said no." She jabbed a finger at his chest, though it had no effect. "You are not weaponizing your family's corporate empire because I vented to you during a bus ride!"

He smiled wider against her hand. "You say that now."

"Gojo - "

" - Satoru," he corrected cheerfully, his voice muffled by her fingers.

He then reached up and gently, but firmly, pulled her hand away from his mouth, his own hand lingering for a moment too long, his touch warm. "Sensei. You worry too much."

"I have to," she snapped, snatching her hand back, "because you clearly don't worry about anything!"

Gojo laughed; it was a laugh that made her want to simultaneously shove him out of the moving vehicle and, to her utter horror, lean into the sound at the same time.

He let the laughter taper off, before sliding his sunglasses from his forehead into their proper place on his nose.

It was the world's strongest emotional whiplash.

Instantly, the man who had just spoken of corporate retribution with calm authority was gone. In his place was the unserious Gojo she knew. The moment of terrifying sincerity was over, but the echo of it and what he had just done on her behalf, left Utahime's heart pounding in a confused and frantic rhythm.

She turned sharply away from the window.

What had she just done?

She had touched his mouth.

Her hand was on his mouth. His stupid, probably-soft, definitely-smirking - 

Nope. 

Denial was a perfectly healthy and valid coping mechanism. She would simply deny this entire sequence of events ever happened.

Because if she allowed herself to think about it for more than three seconds, she would have to remember that there were thirty pairs of observant eyes behind them. Children who could have easily looked up from their frog debates and chip-eating at exactly the wrong moment. Children who would have seen their teacher clamping her hand over a parent's face. Children who would, without a doubt, tell Megumi. 

Then the principal would find out, and she'd be fired on the spot for "grossly unprofessional conduct with an eccentric young parent." The scandal would follow her forever. She'd never teach again. She'd end up selling questionable street food from a cart.

Oh, god. Her lungs were failing. She was going to hyperventilate and die right here on this sticky vinyl seat, all because she had accidentally grazed Gojo Satoru's perfect face.

"Sensei."

She stiffened, her entire body going rigid.

"Sensei." He poked her arm lightly. "Hey. Utahime."

The sound of her first name on his lips without any honorifics made her flinch. 

He snorted. "Relax. You're worrying at an Olympic level right now. Is this your normal resting state of anxiety or is this just a one-time performance for me?"

She didn't turn, keeping her glare fixed on the passing trees. "Don't talk to me."

"Can't," he said, his cheerfulness a weapon. "Bus is too loud. Have to talk directly to you to be heard. It's a safety thing."

She groaned, the sound muffled as she dropped her face into her hands.

"If you're spiraling about that whole hand-on-mouth thing," he said, his tone deceptively light, "don't. It's not a big deal."

"It was a big deal!”

"To you," he clarified, tapping the side of his sunglasses. "To me, it was just Thursday. A slightly more hands-on than average Thursday, but still."

That somehow made it infinitely worse. The fact that it was so insignificant to him, just another blip in his existence, while her entire career had flashed before her eyes.

Before she could formulate a coherent argument, he nudged her shoulder with his. It was an intimate gesture, the kind shared between friends. He had no concept of boundaries. 

"Tell you what," he said, as if offering a peace treaty. "You told me something real about Naoya. So now you can ask me one thing. It’s a fair trade."

She finally lifted her head from her hands to stare at him.

A question?

Did he have any idea of the volume of questions that spontaneously detonated in her head whenever he was near? Why were his hands always so warm? Why did he switch from irritating to a dangerously competent adult like he was flipping a light switch? Why did he smell like expensive fabric softener and trouble? Why was he so invested in the life of a grumpy second-grade teacher? Why was he so -

Abort. 

She needed the least dangerous question. The one least likely to get her fired or committed to a psychiatric ward. Her eyes darted around the bus, searching for inspiration, before landing on the most mundane and boring subject she could possibly find.

She swallowed and said, with the dignity of someone forcing herself to be Normal, “…Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?”

He blinked behind the lenses - she could feel it.

Surprisingly, he didn’t joke. Instead, his voice lowered into something straightforward.

“I have a vision condition,” he said. “Light sensitivity.”

Her mouth parted. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he continued, adjusting the frames. “Bright spaces give me migraines. Nasty ones. So the shades help. I don’t always need them… but most of the time, it’s safer to keep them on.”

Something in her chest softened. He said it offhandedly, but she could hear the truth rather than the persona he usually tossed around like confetti.

“I… didn’t know,” she murmured, feeling a pang of something uncomfortably close to guilt for all her previous assumptions.

“How could you?” he said easily. “I don’t exactly walk around with a pamphlet.”

She gave him a sideways look. “You make fun of everything. I thought the sunglasses were just a - I don’t know - fashion choice.”

“It is a fashion choice. A practical one.”

Despite herself, Utahime huffed a tiny laugh.

He nudged her arm again. “See? Wasn’t a scary question.”

“No,” she admitted. “It wasn’t.”

“Good.” He leaned back, settling in. “Now maybe you can stop worrying about getting arrested for accidental face-contact.”

Utahime dropped her head back against the headrest. "Don't remind me."

She tried to angle herself away from him in a bid to reclaim her territory. But it was useless because every time the bus took a gentle curve or changed lanes, Gojo's shoulder would nudge firmly into hers again.

At first, she was convinced he was doing it on purpose. But a furtive glance confirmed he was just… big.

She thought bitterly why he was built like an overgrown cat tower, trying to shrink her own frame and claim at least two more centimeters of personal space. It was like trying to hold back the ocean with a teaspoon.

Meanwhile, Megumi’s patience was in its final death throes.

“Stop humming,” Megumi mumbled, frowning at his shoes.

“I’m not humming,” Nobara shot back, crossing her arms. “I’m buzzing with happy. It’s a different thing.”

“You’re buzzy and annoying,” he grumbled, slouching lower in his seat.

“HEY!” Nobara spinned to poke him in the arm. "You're just a grumpy-pants!"

Yuji, squished between them like a sunny teddy bear, waved his hands. “Guys, guys! Remember the rules! We’re going to the park! The park is for sharing! The park is for… for… not being mean!”

“Yuji,” Megumi interrupted, not looking away from the window. His voice was the same quiet it got right before he told on someone. “You’re eating the crayons. I gave those to Nobara so she’d color instead of talk.”

Yuji froze, a half-eaten purple crayon poised halfway to his open mouth. He looked down at it, then back at Megumi’s unimpressed profile, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

“…I got hungry,” he explained, as if this was a perfectly reasonable justification. 

And to think, Utahime mused, I could’ve been in a quiet library carrel right now. Studying. With coffee that wasn't instant.

As if summoned by her internal misery, her phone vibrated in her skirt pocket. She pulled the phone out, the screen bright in the dim bus. It was an email notification from Professor Hakamata.

Her breath hiked. She’d submitted that literature paper last week at 3:17 AM, half-delirious, her vision blurry. She’d convinced herself it was a mess, a cobbled-together disaster that would surely reveal her as the imposter she sometimes felt she was.

With trembling fingers, she opened it and skimmed the message.

Utahime, excellent revisions. Your argument is significantly stronger, and your citations are much tighter. I can see the direction you’re trying to sharpen here, and it’s promising. Attached are my line-by-line comments, but overall: very good progress. You’re pacing yourself well. Don’t give up.

Pacing herself well?

Was he sure? Was he looking at the same life she was living? She felt like she was doing the exact opposite - like she was sprinting uphill through molasses while juggling kindergarten chairs, a flaming copy of the MLA handbook, and the lingering scent of glue.

Still, her heart fluttered with something she so rarely allowed herself to feel. It was a tentative flame of pride, but it was there. Maybe she would have taken a private moment to let the validation sink in, if the man next to her weren't radiating idle curiosity like a sunbeam.

“What’s that?” Gojo asked, his voice a low rumble as he inclined closer. 

The warmth in her chest instantly crystallized into a defensive panic. Her first instinct was to deflect with a “Nothing, mind your own business,” and rebuild the walls he so easily swayed against. What would he, Gojo Satoru, the one who had the world handed to him, think of her pursuing a mid-level graduate literature course? She was a teacher, already out of college, supposed to be past this. He wouldn't understand the financial ruin that had hollowed out her middle years, making education an impossible dream. 

But the lie died in her throat. Something about the genuine curiosity in his posture, the lack of any pretense, put her at ease. With him, there was a startling sense of no judgment. He was refreshingly frank about his own path - his admissions of dropping out or his unashamed ownership of his own eccentricities. He never pretended to be anything other than exactly what he was.

A small and starved part of her, wanted him to know. So many of her achievements had been swallowed by the silent nights with no one to share them with. She had always been an overachiever in school, but the drive was to see the proud smile on her mother’s face and make the struggle feel worth it. What would okaa-san say now? she wondered, a familiar pang of grief and longing hitting her. She’d be so happy.

Her best friend Shoko was a solace, but their lives were a whirlwind of conflicting schedules with Utahime buried in lesson plans and Shoko drowning in med school rotations. Utahime didn't want to burden her with what felt like trivial academic victories.

But with Gojo, it was different. It had been a few months since she’d started seriously saving and secretly enrolled in this course. As much as she loved teaching, she wanted more. She wanted to contribute and have research papers and a thesis published, to finally earn her PhD in literature.

Taking a shaky breath, she looked down at the phone clutched in her fist.

“It’s a message from my professor,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.

“Oh? From your, uh… teacher school?”

“That’s not - ” She exhaled, the brief glow of pride flickering under the onslaught of his him-ness. “I’m pursuing a master’s degree. In literature.”

He tilted his head, the playful glint in his eyes (or where she assumed his eyes were) shifting into something resembling interest. “While teaching full-time? With this crew?” He gestured vaguely behind them. “That sounds brutal.”

“It is,” Utahime said, the admission pulled from her before she could stop it. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

He didn’t interrupt. His full attention was somehow more unnerving than his usual antics. It made the space between them feel charged and real.

She found herself trying to explain, to put words to a story she rarely told, without completely unraveling.

“I had to graduate early,” she said, her gaze fixed on the seatback in front of her. “Finished my bachelor's at twenty. My dad got pancreatic cancer. The treatments were endless. My mom worked as a seamstress, but it didn't pay nearly enough.” She let out a short breath. “We had no savings to speak of. The banks wouldn't give us a loan, and our relatives… well, they sent thoughts and prayers. Teaching was the quickest training-to-employment route. So I took it. And… I don’t regret it.” The words felt like ash in her mouth. A lie. A half-lie she told herself to make the compromise easier to swallow.

“But I always wanted to finish my degree properly. So when things finally stabilized at home, I enrolled.” Her fingers tightened around her phone, the professor’s words still glowing on the screen. 

“That email,” she continued, her voice dropping to a soft murmur, “was my professor telling me I’m doing well.”

The bus hit a pothole, a sharp jolt that sent their shoulders colliding once more. This time, she didn’t flinch away or try to reclaim her space. 

Gojo rested his head back against the seat, turning to look at her through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. 

“You’re doing a lot,” he said, his voice devoid of any mockery. It was just a statement. A fact. “More than most people your age. Hell, more than most people, period.”

Her cheeks warmed, a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy bus air. It was disarming to hear him say things like that.

“I’m not,” she protested, her voice thin and weak even to her own ears.

“You are.” He shrugged lightly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not hard to see.”

Something in her chest flipped, like a page in a heavy book turning over and revealing a blank sheet full of possibility. She looked away, but the flame of pride inside her burned a little brighter.

After a few minutes, the bus driver flicked the intercom switch. His voice crackled through the speakers in a monotone that suggested his soul had departed this earthly plane sometime around 1998 and had never bothered to return.

“Alright kids, we’re here. Kyoto Nature Reserve. Please gather your belongings and exit the bus in a single-file fashion. Do not push. Do not shove.”

The children screamed.

It was the unified, eardrum-piercing screech of elementary schoolers detecting the presence of open nature, their primal instincts kicking in like bloodhounds catching a scent.

Gojo, who had been a picture of unsettling quiet a moment before, perked up immediately.

“Field trip time~!” he chirped, stretching his arms high overhead with a satisfied groan before unfolding himself to his full height. “Everybody, you heard the man! Let’s line up outside! Form a line! A straight line! Preferably one that resembles, you know, an actual line and not a pile of wiggling spaghetti!”

Utahime stared at him.

What an idiot. What a sunshine-blasted, completely unpredictable idiot.

And now she was going to have to herd dozens of easily distracted students through a reserve forest while simultaneously preventing him from herding them all directly off a cliff in the name of "fun."