Chapter Text
You reject my advances and desperate pleas
I won't let you let me down so easily
You gotta spend some time with me
And I know that you'll find love
I will possess your heart
{.⋅ ♫ ⋅.}
Utahime had entered Gojo's world standing stiffly in the training grounds in one of her pristine miko robes. Her posture was stiff, shoulders squared as though she were bracing herself against a world that expected far too much of her. She held herself like she had better things to do than acknowledge anyone else - especially him.
That was the thing. Everyone noticed him. Students whispered as he passed. Teachers sighed in exasperation but couldn’t stop watching, as if waiting for his next display of brilliance. The world tilted to his presence, light bending around him as if it had no choice. He thrived on it, lived for it.
But she didn’t look at him until he opened his mouth.
“Hey, priestess,” he’d called across the stone path, voice laced with the lazy grin stretching across his face. “What’s the outfit for? Planning on blessing me, or just praying I don’t outshine you too hard?”
That got her. She bristled immediately, snapping her head toward him with a scowl that promised she would happily silence him if she could. Her exasperated voice cut across the patio as she scolded him for his arrogance. She sounded frustrated and almost too easy to provoke.
Gojo found that sound addictive.
Her cursed technique had been weak, a joke compared to the endless horizon of his own power. He told himself that mocking it was sport, that making her flustered and ruffled was just something to pass the time. She was so easy to rile up, always giving him a reaction when others had long since stopped trying to keep up with him.
It made her interesting.
Because otherwise, Utahime Iori was nothing. She was just another face in the endless sea of sorcerers, a forgettable presence in his blindingly bright world.
It was the night he heard her sing that Utahime truly made a space for herself in his awareness.
He hadn’t expected it.
The evening had been Shoko’s idea - dragging him, Suguru, and a few others to a dingy karaoke bar wedged between two ramen shops off-campus. The neon sign outside flickered unevenly, buzzing like a dying insect, and the place smelled faintly of smoke and cheap liquor. It was exactly the kind of place Gojo normally enjoyed for the spectacle.
He sprawled in the vinyl booth, sunglasses tilted low on his nose, watching classmates scream into microphones with reckless abandon. Their voices cracked and stumbled, and he laughed at every missed note. It was entertaining to watch people make fools of themselves, basking in a glow he didn’t even have to generate.
Then Utahime arrived, tethered to Shoko’s side like a reluctant shadow. The sight of her still wearing those damn miko robes in a tacky karaoke bar made him snort. He leaned into Suguru, muttering something about how she probably couldn’t loosen up enough to even hold the mic, let alone sing into it.
But then Shoko shoved the microphone into her hands.
Gojo had prepared himself for a disaster. A timid mumble, maybe a squeaky note that would let him laugh for weeks. He was already winding up a new nickname for her.
Instead, she sang.
The first note startled him - smooth, fluid, not powerful like his cursed energy or sharp like her reprimands. It was something else entirely. Her voice carried easily through the smoky air, bypassing every defense he thought he had. It didn’t need to be flashy. It was warm. A sound that slipped under his skin before he could stop it.
He leaned back slowly against the booth, mouth parting just enough to forget his smirk. His sunglasses slid further down his nose as his gaze locked on her, as though the buzzing lights had suddenly shifted to center only her.
Utahime looked flushed, her cheeks touched with color, her eyes darting away from the crowd as though she couldn’t stand the weight of their stares. She didn’t even seem to know how much she glowed - how that voice of hers wrapped around the room until it felt like there was nothing else to hear.
Suguru nudged him, murmuring something low, but Gojo barely heard it. His focus was fixed entirely on her.
At that moment, something shifted. The girl he’d always mocked, dismissed, turned into a caricature for his amusement - she wasn’t boring. She wasn’t forgettable. She was more, and it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
He laughed it off later. Teased her about being pitchy and embarrassing herself. He pretended it hadn’t mattered, that he wasn’t still hearing the echo of her voice hours later when the night had ended and everyone had gone home.
The second time Utahime became impossible to ignore, she was dancing.
Gojo hadn’t planned on watching her. The mission was a routine assignment barely worth his attention. A scatter of lower-grade curses, the kind of job meant to test a green sorcerer’s endurance. His presence was only insurance, the silent safety net no one else could match. He was supposed to stand back, crack a joke or two, and step in if things went catastrophically wrong.
But then the boy - Kaito - began to falter. His blade wavered in his hands, his breathing turned shallow, and his cursed energy sputtered like a dying flame. Gojo had already started to move when Utahime stepped forward.
She walked into the clearing with a calmness that didn’t belong to someone fighting curses. Every line of her posture was measured, and there was a focus in her eyes that arrested him before he even realized he was paying attention.
Her hands lifted. Her body began to sway.
At first, Gojo thought she’d lost her mind - until he remembered her technique wasn’t a weapon that cut or exploded, but a ritual.
Soft incantations slipped past her lips. Her arms moved in arcs, fingers forming signs that locked the energy into shape. Her feet traced a rhythm into the ground, every step carving the invisible pattern of a circle wider and wider until even the earth seemed to hum.
Unlike his own instantaneous and devastating power - hers unfolded slowly. There was no blinding light or shockwaves to announce her strength. But as her movements layered upon one another, the effect became impossible to ignore.
Gojo felt it first as a subtle tug on the edges of his own cursed energy, a pull that urged it to flow sharper. Within her radius, the boy steadied. His blade no longer shook. His breathing evened out. His cursed energy, which had been leaking weakly, thickened into something stronger, steadier.
Gojo’s first thought, unwelcome and unfiltered, was that it was beautiful.
His second was that it was dangerous.
Because he saw what it was doing to the boy. Kaito’s eyes widened, his shoulders straightened, and the fear that had weighed him down evaporated. He looked at Utahime as if she were a beacon in the dark, as if her presence alone could drag him out of despair. That expression of raw gratitude, the shimmer of awe - wasn’t aimed at the power itself. It was aimed at her.
It was absurd, Gojo told himself. He knew it was nothing more than a side effect of her technique. Of course a sorcerer would feel buoyed, even euphoric, under her influence. It was designed to bolster confidence, to sharpen dulled instincts, to strip away hesitation. That look wasn’t real.
But it still made his skin crawl.
He clenched his jaw as he watched her. The way her hair shifted around her shoulders with each movement, the faint flush in her cheeks, the serenity etched into her face even as exhaustion tugged at her features. She hadn’t seen the boy’s rapture, the almost worshipful way he looked at her.
But Gojo had.
The strangest, ugliest thing bloomed in him: a sharp burn that he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t that he wanted her technique - he was Gojo Satoru, after all. He didn’t need help, least of all hers.
So why did it twist in his chest to see someone else bask in her light?
Why did he want to rip that look off the boy’s face, break it apart, and keep it for himself?
The thought stayed long after the mission ended and Utahime’s weary smile faded. It burrowed deep beneath his skin, even as he laughed it off the way he always did.
Weeks later, Utahime was in the courtyard outside the faculty hall - a space that looked nothing like its usual, empty self. Overnight it had been transformed into some strange blend of rehearsal stage and art project. Lanterns hung crookedly along the walkway, their strings sagging where the knots had slipped. Half-finished calligraphy banners leaned against the walls, drying in uneven strokes of ink. A pile of mismatched chairs had been shoved into one corner, and scattered supplies cluttered the flagstones.
At the center of it all stood Utahime, directing with certainty.
Nanami moved chairs under her instruction, as if he trusted her judgment without question. Haibara balanced on his toes to hang a paper chain overhead; it collapsed twice before finally sticking, and each time she encouraged him with patience until his grin split wide at her praise. Shoko sat cross-legged on the ground, brush in hand, painting with her usual detachedness, though every so often she tilted her head and called Geto over to steady a corner or weigh down a canvas before the breeze carried it away.
Gojo leaned against the outer wall, hands shoved in his pockets, sunglasses sliding low on his nose. He’d only been passing through, killing time between missions, waiting for something loud enough to distract him. But the sight rooted him in place.
A spike of irritation flashed hot and sharp in his chest
It didn’t make sense.
They weren’t fighting. They weren’t training. They weren’t doing anything that mattered. They were building something sentimental, of all things - a tribute. Yaga’s face had been sketched in heavy ink on one banner. Flowers, poorly arranged, drooped from clay pots. A stage was taking shape out of benches and rope. It was clumsy, uneven, and amateur.
And she hadn’t asked him.
Gojo’s jaw worked, teeth pressing together as he watched the scene. She could have. He could have made it easier. If she’d wanted lanterns strung, he could have had them floating in perfect formation in seconds. If she’d wanted banners, he could have painted them blindfolded with more precision than Nanami ever could.
But she hadn’t even thought to include him.
Instead, she’d asked them.
Nanami listened carefully as she corrected the tilt of a chair. Haibara all but beamed when she told him the paper chain was fine, even if it leaned too low on one side. Shoko laughed softly when Utahime rolled her eyes at a crooked kanji, and Geto - Geto - shifted a wooden beam into place at her request, his calm presence filling the space beside her as though it belonged there.
Why them?
Gojo told himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t care about banners. He didn’t care about tributes or ceremonies, about saying thank you to Yaga for every time he’d stood between them and death. Gratitude was meaningless - it didn’t erase scars or stop curses from breeding.
So why did it sting to watch her lean close to Nanami to point out a detail in the calligraphy? Why did it grate that she had looked at every one of them with that same small nod of appreciation, and never once thought to turn to him?
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers curling tight. The urge to tear the whole half-made setup down clawed at his ribs. It was stupid and irrational, but the heat rising through him didn’t fade. It only deepened when Utahime brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, the motion so simple and unremarkable - and then went right back to directing, her voice calm as if he weren’t even there.
It was absurd.
He didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t need it.
And yet, for the second time in as many weeks, he found himself staring at Utahime Iori and wondering why it hurt so much to be left out of her light.
It was one of those days where Gojo had, with a combination of wheedling and sheer audacity, managed to convince Geto to skip class again. The two of them strolled down the walkway, the chatter of the campus fading behind them. Geto was halfway through a story about some cursed object when Shoko’s voice cut him off.
“Suguru! A moment?”
He glanced at Gojo, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips, and then nodded. “Be right back.”
Just like that, Gojo was alone. He wandered further down the walkway, Geto’s voice fading into the distance. The evening light was catching on the old temple roofs, and the familiar pulse of cursed energy tugged at his senses.
He followed it curiously, until he reached the edge of the enclosed garden behind the main hall. That’s when he saw her.
Utahime hadn’t noticed him - she was too immersed in her own rhythm. She was sparring with an invisible opponent, her movements fluid and deliberate. Each pivot and strike was a controlled burst of energy. A glimmer of cursed energy trailed from a flick of her wrist, twisting through the air like smoke before dissolving into the dusk.
She was precise, elegant even in the smallest movement, the kind of control that came from years of discipline. But there was frustration too - an edge to the way she exhaled through her teeth after each strike, as if chasing perfection she could never quite touch.
The sight of it did something strange to him. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve called out, teased her, said something stupid just to watch her glare. But he just stood there, watching the way her body moved with the faintest tremor of exhaustion, the way sweat glinted at the curve of her neck, the way her cursed energy pulsed steady and alive beneath her skin.
His pulse quickened before he realized it.
Utahime finally froze mid-motion, her hand hovering over the ground, sensing the faint distortion of his presence.
“Gojo,” she said quietly, without turning. “You’re terrible at hiding.”
He smiled to himself, not bothering to deny it. “Didn’t know I had to.”
Her shoulders tensed slightly, then relaxed again as she straightened, brushing her palms against her robes. He could see the faint pink at the tip of her ear, and for some reason, that small detail made his breath catch.
He was watching her like she was some kind of secret he’d just uncovered.
“What?” she snapped, turning at last. “You done staring?”
Gojo tilted his head, the grin deepening. “Didn’t know you trained this late. Guess I’m not the only workaholic around here.”
“Don’t compare yourself to me,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “You’re the opposite of disciplined.”
“Harsh,” he said lightly, stepping closer. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”
Utahime crossed her arms. “You’re incapable of serious moments.”
“Am I?” He stopped a few feet away. Her cursed energy flickered in reflex, brushing against his, and he could almost feel her heartbeat in the space between breaths.
Gojo’s gaze drifted, catching the sway of her pigtails, still slightly undone from her spar. He’d teased her for those countless times - called them childish and outdated - but now, under the dim light, they looked soft, almost… endearing. He wasn’t sure when he’d started liking the sight of them.
Before Utahime could say anything, his hand lifted, and his fingers brushed against one of the ties.
“Gojo!” she exclaimed, stepping back instantly, cheeks flooding with color. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just checking if they’re real,” he teased, tugging lightly before she slapped his hand away. “You always act so grown-up, but these - ” he pointed at her hair, “ - kinda ruin your image.”
Her face burned crimson. “You - ! Stop touching me!”
“Relax,” he drawled, chuckling. “Didn’t mean to fluster you.”
“I’m not flustered!” she shot back too quickly, and that only made him laugh harder.
She turned away, muttering something under her breath, but Gojo’s grin softened a little. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, the tension in her frame a clear blend of irritation and shame. Then, after a pause, he said, “You were good, though.”
Utahime blinked, glancing at him warily. “What?”
“Your form,” he said. “You’ve gotten better. But…” He moved closer again, tilting his head as if studying her stance. “You’re pushing too much cursed energy into your lower swings. It throws off your center.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “You were watching that closely?”
He shrugged. “Can’t help it. You’re kind of hard not to watch.”
She looked away fast. "Do you ever stop analyzing everyone?"
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I could help you fix that imbalance.”
Utahime turned back to him, frowning. “You want to spar? With me?”
“As a truce,” he said, holding up his hands as if offering peace. “I promise not to mock the pigtails if you let me help.”
“You mock everything,” she muttered, but her tone had lost its edge.
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Doubtful.”
“Come on,” he coaxed, stepping back and stretching his arms. “What’s the worst that could happen? You lose to me again?”
That earned him a glare sharp. “Fine. But don’t cry when I land a hit this time.”
Gojo grinned, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’d let you hit me, Utahime. Just to see that little smile.”
Her cheeks flamed again, and she summoned her cursed energy with a flick of her wrist, the air around them tightening.
“Then prepare yourself,” she said evenly, though her pulse was racing.
Gojo, still smiling, lowered into stance. “Gladly.”
Utahime moved first. A flick of her wrist sent a pulse of cursed energy slicing through the air, the pressure sharp enough to make the lantern flames shake. Gojo stepped aside easily, the attack missing him by inches.
“Still relying on precision over force,” he said.
Utahime exhaled through her nose, refocusing. “Still relying on running your mouth instead of fighting,” she shot back, and lunged forward.
Gojo’s grin widened. Her movements were fluid and focused. He parried one strike with the flat of his hand, feeling the hum of her cursed energy against his skin. She was faster now. Every motion was trained - but there was emotion in it too, the kind that made her energy flare unevenly at the edges.
He ducked beneath her next swing, catching her wrist mid-motion. His fingers closed around her pulse, warm and quick against his palm.
“Careful, Uta,” he murmured, their faces close enough that he caught the faint scent of sweat and rain on her skin. “If you keep swinging like that, you’ll lose your balance.”
She twisted free, backing away instantly. “Don’t call me that.”
“You like when I do.”
“I don’t.”
He tilted his head. “Sure.”
She glared, gathering energy into her palm, but Gojo stepped forward faster this time. His hand brushed her shoulder, redirecting her stance before she could strike. The contact stayed longer than it should’ve. He could feel the warmth radiating through the thin fabric.
“Your footing,” he said quietly near her ear. “You’re anchoring too much on the back leg. It slows your counter.”
Utahime didn’t respond. She looked up at him, breath unsteady, eyes bright in the dim light.
For a second, the world around them stilled, and her cursed energy flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat. Then she stepped back quickly, breaking the contact.
“Stop getting so close,” she said, though it came out softer than intended.
“Why?” His tone was deceptively innocent. “You nervous?”
She huffed, summoning another wave of energy. “Of you? Never.”
Gojo barely blocked her next strike. Her energy cracked through the air, scattering dust from the ground. He laughed, genuine this time. “That’s better,” he said. “Now you’re fighting me, not yourself.”
She didn’t answer, only lunged again - and this time, when he caught her arm, their momentum spun them both off balance. They landed in the grass, Gojo bracing his weight above her before she could twist away.
Neither of them moved.
The light caught on his jawline and her flushed skin. His hand was still pressed to her wrist, holding her down just enough to feel her pulse thrum wildly against his palm.
Utahime’s voice came quiet, unsteady. “You can get off me now.”
He didn’t. His teasing melted into something reluctant. “You know,” he said, “for someone who claims to hate me, you’re a little too good at keeping my attention.”
She glared up at him, but it lacked its usual heat. “Maybe that’s your problem.”
“Or maybe I like problems like you.” he murmured, eyes tracing her face.
Her breath caught again, but before she could answer, he finally pushed himself up, brushing the dust from his uniform and offering a hand. “Truce?”
Utahime stared at the offered hand for a long moment before taking it, her palm warm against his. “Only if you stop calling me Uta.”
He smirked. “No promises.”
She groaned, glancing at the sky - already dimming into indigo - and cursed under her breath. “I’m late,” she muttered, gathering the training scrolls she’d left on the steps.
Gojo leaned lazily against the railing. “Late for what? Another secret sparring session? Or do you just not want to admit you liked spending time with me?”
Utahime exhaled, too tired to argue. “Bye, Gojo.”
He gave a mock salute. "Bye, Uta."
She didn’t even turn this time, and quickened her pace down the walkway, hair swaying with every hurried step. He could still feel her presence long after she’d gone, like her cursed energy had soaked into the air itself.
Then something small fluttered to the ground.
Gojo frowned, crouching to pick it up. It was one of her ribbons - the one that had been holding her left pigtail in place. It smelled faintly of her perfume, something light and clean.
He’d teased her for those old-fashioned ribbons for years, but right now, holding it, the thought caught in his throat, leaving him strangely wordless.
“She really does rush into everything,” he murmured to himself, tucking the ribbon carefully into his pocket.
Then he straightened, hands sliding back into his pockets as he turned toward the dorms.
Gojo was selective about the battles he chose to fight for others. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment Utahime had made that short list, but her place on it was now an undeniable fact.
The city was slick with rain, the neon signs outside the bar washing the puddles in liquid color. Gojo paused at the entrance, shoulders still tense beneath his jacket. He’d come straight from the cursed warehouse on the edge of town, a fittingly grim place for a meeting with a sorcerer who’d made a fatal miscalculation.
The man thought it was clever to corner Utahime after a mission three nights ago. He’d waited until she was alone, her energy depleted from an exorcism. Shoko had mentioned it offhandedly, a frustrated comment about unwanted advances, not realizing the fury it would ignite. Utahime hadn’t told him. She was too proud and used to handling such insults herself. But the moment Gojo heard, something inside him had gone still and dangerously quiet.
He hadn’t used Infinity or Hollow Purple. He’d wanted to feel it. The satisfying crack of his knuckles against the man’s jaw, the grunt of air forced from lungs as his knee met ribs. He’d dismantled the sorcerer with his hands alone, a brutal lesson in anatomy and consequence. Each blow was a punctuation mark: Never. Touch. What’s. Mine.
The words hung in the air alongside the dust motes. Mine.
He didn't know when he'd decided that. There was no single moment. It was a simple truth. She was the one who sparred with him, who talked to him with honesty, who trusted him enough to get messily drunk, knowing he was the one who would carry her back to the dorms. He was the one who kept her old ribbon, who made sure she went to karaoke nights and baseball matches so she wouldn't bury herself in work.
He was the one who lived for the sound of her voice, even when it was scolding him. More than that, he was the one who wanted to touch and feel her, to be close in a way words could never reach. His hands on her, holding her close, dragging her toward him whenever she got too far. Her shoulder, her waist, her arm - he wanted to mark her and remind her that she couldn’t escape him.
Looking down at the broken sorcerer, the last of his fury went away, replaced by a clarity that the violence was a boundary drawn in blood so that everything else could remain untouched and pure.
Now, though, as he stepped into the dim bar, that anger had burned down.
The place was half-empty. Utahime was sitting at the counter with her hair loose for once, one ribbon missing. A half-empty glass glowed amber in front of her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy with the kind of tiredness that wasn’t just from the drink.
Gojo’s jaw tightened when he saw the bartender leaning too close. The man said something that made her laugh.
He moved before he thought about it.
The door creaked shut behind him. The bartender looked up, faltering under the dangerous smile that Gojo wore when he was anything but calm.
“Evening,” Gojo said, voice light but laced with warning. “Mind if I cut in?”
The bartender blinked, then glanced at Utahime, who squinted up at him in confusion. “Gojo?” she mumbled, trying to focus. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he said simply, stepping closer. His hand brushed her shoulder as he leaned in, casual but protective. “You weren’t answering your calls.”
“I… was busy,” she said, the words slightly slurred.
“I can see that,” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to the bartender - who got the message instantly and moved away to another end of the counter.
Utahime frowned, blinking up at him. “You didn’t have to come.”
He gave a small shrug. “You say that, but you’d get lost without me.”
“I would not - ”
“You would,” he cut in softly, reaching for her glass and setting it aside. “You’re not built for this kind of night.”
She scowled faintly, though it lacked any real bite. “You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I think you’ve handled too much lately,” he said, voice quieter now,. “And you don’t need to do it alone.”
The fog in her eyes shifted into something rawer.
"Come on," he murmured, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hand found its place on the small of her back, a guiding pressure that steered her off the stool and through the crowd.
The night air hit them the moment they stepped outside. Gojo’s arm was steady around her as Utahime stumbled once, muttering under her breath about “the floor moving too much.”
Without commenting, he opened the passenger door of his car with an ease that made her glare at him like he was showing off.
“Don’t look so priggish,” she mumbled as he helped her in.
“I wasn’t,” he said, amused. “I’m just wondering how you always end up like this when I’m around.”
She shot him a sleepy look. “Maybe you’re bad luck.”
Gojo chuckled softly, closing the door once she was settled. He circled to the driver’s side, sliding in beside her.
She’d slumped against the seat, head tilted toward the window. He glanced at her for a second too long.
He’d seen her like this before. Utahime was a heavy drinker by habit, and when she did drink, it always ended the same way - with him driving her home before anyone could see. It had become an unspoken routine between them. She never asked; he never mentioned it.
Maybe it was because he didn’t want anyone else near her when she was this unguarded and a little bit lost.
The road glowed under the streetlights, the sound of tires on wet pavement the only thing breaking the silence. For a while, she said nothing, just traced invisible shapes against the fogged window. Then, out of nowhere, she sighed.
“You’re really irritating, you know that?”
Gojo’s brow lifted. “Yeah? I’ve heard rumors.”
She turned to him, eyes half-lidded, words a little loose with drink. “You drive me insane, Gojo. One day you’re teasing me until I want to throw a shoe at you, and the next you’re… doing things like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, glancing sideways at her.
“Being… nice,” she muttered, gesturing vaguely. “Showing up. Helping me. Pretending not to care but actually caring.”
He smiled faintly. “Sounds confusing.”
“It is!” she huffed, sitting up straighter, eyes narrowing at him like she was trying to solve some puzzle. “You’re arrogant and ridiculous and - ” she paused, squinting at him “ - weirdly… thoughtful. I don’t know what to do with that.”
Gojo kept his eyes on the road, but his grin softened. “So you’ve been thinking about me.”
She groaned, turning toward the window again. “Don’t make this about your ego.”
“I’m not,” he said, almost to himself. “Just nice to know you notice.”
She didn’t respond for a moment, shooting him a look that was supposed to be intimidating, but the effect was ruined by how flushed her cheeks were. “Your car’s too shiny. I don’t trust shiny things.”
Gojo chuckled. “You mean like me?”
“Yes!” she said instantly, pointing at him accusingly. “Exactly like you! You’re all - ” she gestured vaguely, “ - sparkly and smug and tall. So tall. Why are you that tall, anyway?”
He blinked, laughing. “I… ate my vegetables?”
She narrowed her eyes, then snorted into her sleeve, giggling.
The drive stretched out in comfortable silence for a bit - until Utahime started mumbling again, her head resting against the window. “You know… you’re annoying. Like… really annoying.”
“I’ve been told,” Gojo said easily.
“But then you do things,” she said, turning her head toward him, words slurring slightly. “Like… lending me your umbrella that one time. Or bringing me tea when you think I’m mad at you. Or…” she squinted, thinking hard, “helping me carry those mission reports even though you pretended it was ‘for fun.’”
Gojo’s grin softened. “You remember all that?”
“’Course I do,” she mumbled. “You’re loud and stupid, but you do nice things when you think no one’s looking.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said mock-seriously. “I’ve got a reputation.”
Utahime smiled, the alcohol making her words tumble out unchecked. “You give me so much whiplash. One second you’re teasing me about my hair, the next you’re - you’re putting your stupid jacket around me because I forgot mine.”
He turned his head slightly toward her. “That stupid jacket looked good on you, though.”
She groaned, covering her face with both hands. “See?! That! That’s what I mean! You’re nice, then you say something like that, and my brain just - ” she flapped her hands, “ - breaks!”
Gojo burst out laughing, the sound low and warm. “You’re adorable when you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not adorable,” she grumbled, sinking lower into the seat. “I’m terrifying.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
She peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.”
“Stop it.”
He turned the wheel lazily. “Can’t. You’re too fun like this.”
Utahime pouted. “You’re mean.”
“I prefer ‘charming,’” he said.
She leaned back, her eyelids drooping, words coming slower now. “You know… I think you like annoying me.”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the road. “Only because you make the best faces when you’re trying not to smile.”
Her head turned toward him, and for a heartbeat, the silence thickened. Gojo thought she’d drifted off until she suddenly spoke. “My family would hate this.”
He glanced sideways. “What, me driving you around?”
She gave a small, sleepy laugh. “No. Me being here. Drinking. Working. Living like this.” She sighed, her words coming slow. “They wanted me to stay in the shrine. Learn the chants. Be the perfect daughter. No Jujutsu, no danger.”
He didn’t interrupt. He knew enough about the kind of families that looked at cursed energy like a holy duty - something to be hidden and contained.
Utahime traced a finger on the fogged glass. “I used to sneak out to read my textbooks under the lanterns at night. My mother would scold me for smelling like ink instead of incense.” A tiny, wistful smile ghosted her lips. “Guess I liked ink better.”
“Good choice,” he said quietly.
She looked at him, eyes glassy but clear. “They said sorcery wasn’t for women like me. That I’d lose my place and worth. So I drank my first beer the night I left home.” Her laugh was small and shaky. “Maybe that’s why I still drink sometimes. Reminds me I left. That I can.”
She turned back to the window, her breath fogging the glass again. “I wanted to see what the world felt like when no one told me what I couldn’t be. I didn’t want to pray to the gods anymore. I wanted to fight them.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The wipers clicked softly, and the city lights spilled across her face in shifting patterns. She looked fragile and fierce at once, like the flame of a candle refusing to bow to the wind.
“That is,” he said at last, “the most Utahime thing you could’ve said.”
She frowned faintly. “Is that an insult?”
“It’s the opposite,” he said, smiling a little. “You’d make the gods nervous if they met you.”
She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re making fun of me.”
He shrugged, eyes still on the road. “But I mean it.”
Utahime fell quiet again, the sound of the rain filling the silence. Then she whispered, “You think I did the right thing? Leaving them?”
Gojo glanced at her. “You’re alive. You’re strong. That sounds right to me.”
Her shoulders eased, and for the first time that night, she smiled. “You say the dumbest things sometimes.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the faint ribbon still on the dashboard, “but every once in a while, I get it right.”
Utahime chuckled, resting her head against the seat, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t get used to me talking like this.”
“I won’t,” he promised, watching her drift into sleep again, “but I’ll remember it.”
He meant it. Because under all her discipline and restraint, he’d seen the fire that drove her. The kind of fire he couldn’t help but be drawn to.
There were very few things in this world that could make him hesitate. But as Gojo watched the morning sun rise, he had to admit that the feeling coiling in his chest was as close to dread as he'd ever known. The day he had been futilely wishing would never come, was here.
Kyoto. Utahime was going to Kyoto.
An assistant teacher position. A dream she’d worked toward since before she even realized how unforgiving the jujutsu world could be. A fresh start in a city she’d always whispered about with a quiet sort of yearning.
He told himself he should be proud. The reasonable part of him - the one he rarely listened to - nodded and thought, She deserves this. She’s earned it.
But the other part burned, because Kyoto meant distance. It meant she would wake up somewhere that wasn’t here. She would laugh at jokes he wouldn’t hear, make memories he wouldn’t witness, give her attention to people who weren’t him. She would live a life where he wasn’t first in her thoughts each morning, last before she slept.
He wanted to hate the city, the train, the whole damn world for taking her.
Utahime bent slightly, adjusting the strap of her bag, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind his sunglasses. For one wild moment, Gojo wanted to reach out, tug her back by the wrist, and force her to look at him just to keep her in place a moment longer.
But she didn’t glance his way. She was focused entirely on her own excitement.
The platform was nearly empty, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of metal beams overhead and the distant murmur of conductors preparing the train. Utahime shifted from foot to foot, suitcase at her side, her nerves showing in the restless movement.
Gojo pretended to study the tracks. He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch long enough that she finally glanced up, a frown tugging at her mouth.
“You’ve been… quiet,” she said softly. “Usually you’d be teasing me about something by now.”
He let a smile curve lazily across his lips. “I’m practicing self-control. You should be proud.” His tone was flippant, but the tension in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Her lips twitched. “Self-control? From you? That’s new.”
He pushed off the pillar, taking his time to circle closer. “Call it… courtesy. For old times’ sake.” His gaze dipped, catching on the nervous way her fingers toyed with the strap of her bag. Such a small thing, but it twisted his chest painfully tight.
“You’ll be fine there,” he said, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “Kyoto’s lucky to have you.”
She blinked, tilting her head. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not sure anyone should get you,” he replied. His grin returned, but there was an edge beneath it.
Utahime laughed softly, shaking her head. “You always know how to make me nervous.” Her gaze flicked to the tracks, conflicted, excitement mixed with guilt. “I… I won’t forget what you did for me. The sparring. The matches. Just… helping me sometimes.”
Gojo shrugged, looking away as if it meant nothing. “It wasn’t a big deal. You’d have figured it out eventually.”
But inside, the memory thrummed like a live wire. He did remember every exchange, every moment she’d trusted him, every flicker of vulnerability she’d let him glimpse. Each one tucked away like treasure he refused to share.
She stepped a little closer hesitantly. “I’ll… try to keep in touch.”
He forced his voice flat. “Don’t bother.” Then, “Just don’t forget who’s been watching.”
Her brows drew together. “Watching?”
“Always,” he murmured, the word low, a promise and a threat all at once. He didn’t flinch from the way it unsettled her. He wanted her to remember.
Utahime gave a small, nervous laugh, as if to shake off the odd gravity of the moment. “I’ll be careful. You don’t have to worry.”
But he did. He always would. The thought of her walking unfamiliar streets, smiling at strangers, living beyond his reach gnawed at him. He forced a nod, letting his grin slip back into place.
The whistle cut through the platform suddenly. Utahime lifted her suitcase, glancing back at the arriving train. For a moment she paused, looking at him one last time.
“Goodbye, Satoru. For now.”
He grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. For now.”
Not for long.
She turned away, boarding with brisk steps, her small white ribbon catching the breeze as she moved. The train doors hissed shut, sealing her away.
Gojo stayed rooted to the platform, watching. His hands itched with the urge to drag her back.
He ignored it, making his way to the campus. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he walked slower than usual, sunglasses dangling uselessly from his shirt collar.
Her laugh still rang in his ears. The little tilt of her head, the bright glint of her eyes before she boarded. He was so deep in the loop of it all that he didn’t notice Geto until the voice cut through his haze.
“Wow,” Geto drawled with arms folded loosely. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Gojo’s head snapped up, eyebrows arching high. “I am not in a mood.”
Geto stepped off the post with deliberate grace. “Sure you’re not. Just wandering around like a lovesick idiot.”
Gojo narrowed his eyes. “I’m not moping.” His tone was defensive. The kind of edge that, coming from him, was more telling than a confession.
The smirk on Geto’s face widened, amusement sparking in his dark eyes. “So does she know you’re carrying her ribbon around like a lunatic?”
Gojo froze mid-step. For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face - heat creeping up his neck, a tell he immediately tried to smother. His hand twitched in his pocket, not quite reaching or denying.
His lips curved instead. “And does Shoko know you keep her lighters?” His voice was airy, but his gaze was cutting.
That landed. Geto’s posture shifted. His smirk faltered, the corner of his jaw tightening. “That’s different - ”
“Is it?” Gojo cut in, stepping closer. His grin stretched wider, the kind that dared Geto to blink first. “Then tell me… does Shoko know the little tattoo you’ve got isn’t actually for yourself? Or does she think you’re sentimental like that?”
Geto’s composure cracked, if only a hairline fracture. His eyes hardened. “That’s not relevant.” His words were clipped, as if every syllable had been weighed before release.
Gojo tilted his head. “Mm. Thought so.” His laugh followed, curling at the edges like smoke.
Geto stayed rooted where he was, lips pressed into a thin line, gaze fixed on Gojo’s retreating back.
The dynamic between Geto and Shoko was a language he observed but did not speak. They were two of the most nonchalant people he knew, masters of the casual deflection. But he knew about the lighters, the same way Geto - as he’d just discovered - knew about the ribbon. And Shoko didn't have to know that he knew about the countless sketches of her that Suguru filled his notebooks with, the ones she would patiently watch him draw before secretly tucking the finished pages into a locked drawer in her medical office. Or the unspoken rule that she was the only one allowed to touch Geto’s hair, or that her ever-present lighter was only ever offered to Suguru's waiting cigarette.
He saw it all. He could see the entire world in infinite detail and could map the unspoken bond between his two closest friends. Yet he still didn't have what they were building. He didn't have Utahime by his side.
The victory over Geto turned to ash in his mouth. For all his power, he was still just a man watching a woman walk away, her absence a hollow space the Six Eyes could recognize but never fill.