Chapter Text
***
The mission was over. The curses had been foul enough to warrant his attention, but not clever enough to delay the inevitable.
Satoru Gojo stood still in the dirt and blood of it and turned one last time, sweeping his gaze over the ruin behind him to confirm that the silence wasn’t a trick. That he could, at last, put his hands down.
He exhaled, and the tension that had wound tight around his bones began to loosen.
It wasn’t physical. He’d barely broken a sweat—even after being stuck here for three days.
But there was something unfamiliar in the way his knees bent, in the way his long frame folded into a crouch and then into a seated sprawl against the moss-slick base of a tree. He tilted his head up toward the sky—a pale wash of twilight threaded with copper clouds—and felt relief so profound, it startled him.
Relief, not because he had survived. That part had always been easy.
Relief because now, finally, he could go back.
He laughed, low and a little breathless, rubbing a hand over his face.
God, how she’d ruined him.
He unwrapped the white bandages from around his eyes, and when the cloth fell limp against his neck, he leaned back and closed them.
There had been a time—not long ago—when missions were the only thing that made him feel alive, made his blood surge with purpose. He’d linger at the site long after the cursed spirits were gone, analyzing the remnants of their residual energy, overseeing the cleanup, sometimes even falling asleep in the rubble. Not because he was too tired to warp back—but because there was nothing worth returning to in his empty Tokyo penthouse.
But not anymore.
Now, his body leaned toward the exit. Toward her.
As if every minute spent away from her was a precious minute stolen from his life.
This need—it unmoored him. Illogical. Maddening. Beautiful.
The wind combed softly through his hair, and as if summoned by it, her scent stirred in his memory—green tea, night jasmine, and a trace of her shampoo from the morning he’d buried his face in her neck and refused to let go.
He had made his own folly. That was the truth of it.
It started with the first time she laughed—really laughed—at one of his silly jokes. Not the usual eye-roll, not the exasperated sigh. Her face had lit up, her hand brushing his arm like she forgot she wasn’t supposed to enjoy him, and something in him had melted.
He’d always thought evolution was a slow and meticulous process.
He hadn’t known it could happen to a man in the span of three months.
The first time their lips met—her mouth, warm, unhurried, and certain—had pulled his soul straight through his skin. And the emptiness he hadn’t known he carried was suddenly, impossibly, filled.
And the first night she’d stayed—curled against him with the trust of someone who chose him, not just tolerated him—he hadn’t slept. He’d stared into the dark, awash in the staggering knowledge that his life would never be the same again.
That he had found its center. And it was her.
And it terrified him—how easily he could be undone.
Because the world still called for his strength and cruelty. For his light and his destruction. But now, always, there was a soft, feminine voice in the back of his mind, whispering—
Get it over with, Satoru. Come home.
It was… bothersome.
Glorious.
Gojo’s mouth curved into a smile, slow and helpless, as he rose to his feet.
The cleanup squad would arrive soon. His absence might be noted.
But he didn’t care.
Nothing in the world felt better than the thought of her smile lighting up the doorway when she saw him again.
God help him.
He was in love.
And—uncharacteristically, perhaps foolishly—he prayed that she was too.
***
“The dinner reservation is at 7, so don’t be late. Mei Mei’s already here at my place, and Nanami confirmed he’s coming.”
“How could I possibly be late? It’s only 4:30, and I’m already in the penthouse. The restaurant is 30 minutes away. Do you think I need 2 full hours to take a bath and do my makeup?”
“Well… senpai, your baths do take long.”
“That’s because I enjoy the finer things in life, Shoko. I’ve had a hell of a week—up at 5 every morning, thank you very much—and I think I deserve a bubble bath with scented candles, some cool music, and a good book. Maybe a glass of wine if the mood strikes.”
*A laugh echoes on the other end of the line* “You’re unbelievable. Save the wine for dinner.”
Pause.
“So, Gojo’s still MIA?”
“Haven’t heard a word in three days. No headlines or cursed site updates either. I’m guessing he’s still stuck in Bhutan—or whatever special-grade nightmare they threw at him.”
“Hmm. I see. (muffled) Mei Mei says hi and that she’s claiming the best seat at the table. Anyway, I need to go. Don’t be late.”
“Would you stop fretting? I’m the most punctual person you know.”
“That is a lie, and you know it.”
Click.
Utahime Iori plugged her phone into the charger and crossed the room, her bare feet soundless on the polished floors of the apartment—this apartment—this lavish, high-ceilinged space she still moved through as if someone might appear at the door and ask what she was doing there.
She opened the door to the walk-in closet—a ridiculous, echoing thing lined with sleek drawers and soft spotlights—and stepped inside. The scent of cedar and cologne lingered in the air—something expensive. His.
She reached for the ties at her waist and slipped out of her hakama, letting the kosode fall from her shoulders in soft cascades. Everything underneath followed—bindings, undergarments—until she stood in nothing but a towel cinched around her chest. She dropped the garments into the laundry basket, pausing only when something familiar brushed her knuckles.
Gojo’s clothes.
A black shirt crumpled beside his discarded pants, the cuff of one sleeve caught on the edge of the basket like it might wave at her. She stared at them for a long moment, motionless.
It still caught her off guard—how real this had become. How fast.
There was a key in her bag that opened the door to this apartment. This closet—this absurdly indulgent closet—had an entire wall now reserved for her things: her dresses, her casuals, her winter wears, a line of shoes.
And the laundry—God, even the laundry—had begun to tell stories she hadn’t yet dared to say out loud.
Their clothes were washed together now.
She swallowed and tightened the towel around herself, though the room wasn’t cold.
It was surreal. Intimate. A kind of slow, unspoken belonging that quietly took root in the shadow of him.
It hadn't been more than a month since he asked her to move in with him.
Her first instinct—sharp and reflexive—had been to lecture him. That he was too young to be this serious. That he was rushing, and someday, he'd look back and regret his decision.
But later, in the quiet hours when she finally found solitude, she understood the truth.
She hadn’t been protecting him from making a mistake.
She had been protecting herself.
Because she was growing far too attuned to the way he looked at her—as if she were already his. To the quiet thrill that lit his eyes whenever she entered a room. To the genuine smiles that curled his lips with the sheer delight of her nearness. To the warmth of his relentless affection that wrapped around her like sunlight. And to his hunger—smoldering, delicious—that stripped away every last ounce of her sense each time he touched her.
And she was afraid—terrified, really—that if she let him any closer, he would lay siege to her heart entirely. That she would be his in ways so deep, so absolute, she’d have no armor left should the day ever come when he no longer wanted her.
That if he left—
She would cease to exist.
Much to her dismay, he hadn’t budged—despite all her arguments.
Which prompted her to try reason. Then strategy.
She explained how impractical it would be for her to live in Tokyo while working full-time in Kyoto. What if there was an emergency at the school late at night, and he wasn’t available to warp her there, like he could in the mornings? Had he considered that?
More sensibly, she argued, if he insisted they had to live together, it would make far more sense for him to relocate to Kyoto. After all, he could teleport. It was only logical that he warp to Tokyo in the mornings, while she remained in her familiar space—where her work was just a short walk away. That way, she wouldn’t have to depend on him for her daily commute.
For a fleeting second, his electric-blue eyes—those mesmerizing things that held whole galaxies of stubbornness—had actually turned contemplative.
Sensing a crack in his armor, she’d seized the moment and proposed a compromise.
A trial run.
She would live in his apartment two weeks a month, and he would stay in Kyoto for the other two. Equal sacrifice. Rational. Adult.
He’d reluctantly agreed.
And for once, the universe—fickle thing that it was—had tilted in her favor.
The first month she moved into his absurdly sleek Tokyo penthouse, he was summoned to Bhutan for a multi-day mission.
She’d smiled at the timing, privately triumphant. Without his warping, she’d had no choice but to take the bullet train to and from Kyoto each day. It had been exhausting—physically, mentally.
Which was perfect.
Exactly the kind of ammunition she needed to bolster her argument that he ought to be the one relocating, not her.
She intended to present the case in full—complete with accounts of ungodly crowds at the station, train delays in the morning, and muscle aches—the moment he returned.
But the trouble with Satoru Gojo was that he always came back with new ways to disarm her.
If she was clever, he was brilliance incarnate—effortless, infuriating, and always one step ahead.
So, she told her heart not to get cocky.
With a soft sigh, Utahime turned and padded into the en-suite bathroom—a sprawling, marble-clad expanse that resembled a luxury spa more than anything a single person reasonably needed. The floors were heated, the twin sinks framed by backlit mirrors, and the deep soaking tub sat sunken beneath a tall window catching the late afternoon light. To one side, a pristine glass-walled rain shower gleamed.
She twisted her long hair into a loose top bun, her fingers catching in the strands. A few pieces escaped, falling to frame her face and clinging damply to her nape and collarbones. Her skin still glistened from the generous sweep of lotion she’d applied an hour ago. The plush towel wrapped around her hips shifted slightly with every step, trailing the scent of green tea and bergamot in her wake.
She lit the candles one by one—sandalwood, the faint honey of beeswax—and watched as the flames wavered in the quiet, warm air.
The tub was half full now. She reached in, tested the temperature with her fingers, and poured in a swirl of liquid soap. With slow, absent movements, she stirred the water, coaxing up clouds of pearly bubbles.
Then she walked out, humming to herself—something soft and old she couldn’t quite name—and crossed into the bedroom. Their bedroom. The thought still made her heart stutter, quite helplessly.
She grabbed the book she'd been meaning to read—spine soft, page marked with a fold at the corner—and turned back toward the bath.
She was only halfway there when she heard it.
A small, unmistakable whoosh.
Soft and very close. A sound she’d heard countless times over the last three months, always followed by impact—light, thunder, and heat.
Before she could turn around, two strong arms wrapped around her from behind. His breath landed warm against the nape of her neck as his face burrowed into the messy knot of her bun, inhaling deeply like a man starved.
“Utahime…”
***