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The plan, in all its glorious simplicity, was to be drunk by now. Not just tipsy, not just buzzed, but dignity-melting, memory-erasing drunk. Instead, here she was, nursing a single, lukewarm beer in what her friends had affectionately dubbed the "Jurassic Pork" izakaya—a place so steeped in tradition and old men that you could practically smell the fossilized regrets.
It was, for the record, her absolute favorite place to host a pity party. A party of one.
The air hung thick with the ghosts of grilled chicken, stale beer, and the rumbling murmur of conversations that respected the neighborhood’s ten o'clock curfew. Shadows clung to the corners where empty tables waited like patient old friends. Middle-aged salarymen, their ties loosened and their shoulders slumped, huddled around the counter, their hushed tones a world away from the rowdy bars closer to the school. This was her secret. It was true to her branding: Utahime Iori, the sorcerer from the sticks. The last thing she needed was to be spotted in a place that practically screamed "I own a collection of commemorative plates."
She’d broken her rule once, though when she dragged her closest colleagues here after a nightmare of a mission. Nanami, Shoko, even a perpetually flustered Ijichi. And him. Gojo Satoru. Not that she’d ever use the word “close” to describe whatever the hell he was to her.
They’d been called in for what was supposed to be a milk run — a Grade 3 curse spooking kids at a local elementary school. It turned out to be a Special Grade that had spawned a nest. The afternoon was marked by blood, grime, and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Afterward, sitting with a few traumatized high schoolers who suddenly weren't so sure about this whole jujutsu sorcerer gig, they’d all needed something. This place was two blocks away.
The oji-chan who ran the place loved them. Or, more accurately, he’d loved the sound of Nanami’s corporate card and the sight of Gojo’s limitless wallet paying for bottle after bottle of the good stuff. Gojo, of course, had charmed the old man instantly, flashing that thousand-watt smile and leaving a tip that could fund the man’s retirement. Even now, years later, the first thing the oji-chan ever asked was, “How is that tall, handsome friend of yours? The one with the white hair?”
He’d asked it tonight, too.
Unfortunately for the dear oji-chan, Gojo Satoru was currently the last person on Earth she wanted to think about.
Her fingers traced the smooth, now-tepid glass of her beer bottle. She took a long swallow, the taste flat and bitter on her tongue. It was a match to the acid churning in her gut. It wasn't nearly enough to distract her from the screen of her phone, which lay face up on the dark wood of the table.
The screen was lit, displaying a screenshot Shoko had sent without comment. It was simply that: a Facebook announcement, all cheerful blue and white.
Hiroshi Kamada is engaged to Sakura Tanaka.
Hiroshi Kamada. Grade 2 Sorcerer. Her ex. The man who, ten months ago, had told her they were on "different paths." Now he was engaged to the woman he’d sworn was "just a friend from work."
A wet, heavy thud echoed in the quiet bar as she dropped her bottle back onto the table. A few of the salarymen glanced over, their eyes wide with the mild alarm of men whose peace has just been disturbed. She offered them a tight, unconvincing smile. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a woman’s entire life imploding. Quietly, of course.
“Don’t worry about this Grade 2 loser, Hime. It’s good riddance,” Shoko had texted a minute later. This was the topnotch attempt of her friend at comforting her. Utahime didn’t have the heart to text back the truth: that in the grand, cosmic joke of the jujutsu world, she felt just as stuck as him. She was a Semi-Grade 1 sorcerer. The "semi" was the universe's way of patting her on the head. Almost there, kiddo. But not quite. A truth that had been brutally reinforced just last week in Tokyo, when they told her the promotion was, once again, being delayed.
It was like her whole life was a list of things just beyond her fingertips.
A stable relationship leading to marriage? Unreachable.
A promotion to Grade 1? Unreachable.
The door chimed, a sudden, sharp jangle of bells that sliced through the izakaya’s gentle murmur.
“Oji-chan!”
She didn’t need to look. That voice—that infuriating, self-assured, six-feet-of-arrogance voice—was always trouble. But she turned anyway, a moth drawn to a blindingly bright, utterly chaotic flame.
There he was, framed in the doorway, all long legs in gray slacks and broad shoulders in a pale blue button-down that made his eyes look like bits of the summer sky. He filled the space, owned it, the way he did every room he walked into.
Gojo Satoru. The most unreachable thing of all.
The question came out flat, stripped of all warmth. “Gojo? What are you doing here?”
His name hung in the quiet air like a curse. Those impossibly blue eyes of his found hers across the room, and he broke into a grin so bright it felt like a violation of the izakaya’s moody lighting. He was a supernova crashing a séance, and he was heading straight for her.
She groaned internally.
“Utahime! What are the odds?” His cheerful, syrupy voice that sounds like it belonged on a Saturday morning cartoon, boomed in the small space as he slid into the chair opposite her. The legs of the stool scraped against the wood floor, the sound making her teeth ache. For a split second, exhaustion washed over her. Of all the people in the world to have to deal with right now, it had to be the one who required the most energy.
“Seriously, Gojo. This isn’t your scene. And you don’t drink.”
He ignored the accusation entirely. Instead, he plucked a long, thin spoon from the ceramic holder on the table. With the delicate precision of a surgeon — or a bomb disposal expert, she couldn’t decide which — he tapped the rim of her beer bottle four times.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
“Oji-chaaaan!” he called out in a theatrical singsong that now caught the attention of everyone in the room. From behind the curtained doorway to the kitchen, the old man’s head emerged, wreathed in steam.
“Ah, Satoru! You’re here. Are you going for the usual?”
“You know it!” Gojo chirped back, giving the owner a two-fingered salute.
“Give me ten minutes.” And just like that, the curtain fell shut.
“When did you become close to oji-chan like that?!” She said, absolutely surprised.
Gojo turned back to her. He leaned forward, propping his chin in his hands. “What you fail to appreciate, my dear Utahime, is that this fine establishment makes the single best sake flan in all of Tokyo.”
She stared at him, unmoved by his sudden endearment for her. “You. Don’t. Drink.”
“Details, details,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s about the idea of sake, Hime. All the sophisticated flavor, none of the messy consequences.” He winked with an infuriating flash of white eyelashes. “You should try it sometime.”
The only response she could muster was an eye roll so profound it felt like it started in her toes. A tiny part of her felt a pang of guilt — he was, by some accounts, a friend, and she was being overtly hostile. But that part was quickly shouted down by the much larger part of her that had meticulously planned a quiet evening of wallowing, only to have a six-foot-three, perpetually smirking hole blown through it.
“Though,” Gojo said, his playful tone dropping just a fraction, “my Six Eyes are getting a pretty clear picture of why you’re drowning your sorrows in what I can only assume is beer-flavored water.”
She arched a single, skeptical eyebrow. “And what is that, exactly?”
He leaned forward again, and the space between them vanished. The faint, clean scent of his cologne— the one he wore when he was out and about —filled her senses. He didn't just look at her; he looked into her, and the sudden, focused intensity of his gaze was terrifying. It felt less like sight and more like an active scan of her soul.
Of her mind.
Or her heart.
For one wild, heart-pounding moment, she was utterly convinced he wasn't bluffing. That his cursed technique could actually see the fizzling circuits of her brain — the words DELAYED AGAIN flashing in neon, the image of her ex’s stupid, happy face, the entire, sprawling blueprint of her own inadequacy.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out. His long, graceful fingers bypassed her hand and tapped the dark screen of her phone.
The screen flared to life, illuminating his face from below and throwing her own into shadow. There it was again. Shoko’s message of the smiling, newly-engaged couple.
He finally blinked, the intensity in his blue eyes dissolving as he leaned back. “Huh,” he said, his voice casual again. “I really never figured that bastard was the marrying kind.”
All the fight drained out of Utahime in a single, ragged exhale. Her head fell back, and she stared up at the dark, worn-out ceiling beams, feeling boneless and spent. “You didn’t have to know this, Gojo.”
“Oh, I know.” He sounded entirely too pleased with himself. “But tragically for your privacy, Sakura—the fiancée of said centipede, by the way—has been on an absolute rampage in the work group chat.” He picked up his spoon again, examining it as if it held a fascinating secret. “We’re talking engagement ring selfies from seventeen different angles. I think she wants us to chip in for the honeymoon to Bali. It’s been a lot.”
She employed the Gojo Satoru survival strategy: strategic silence. She took a slow sip of her beer, praying that if she didn’t offer him any conversational fuel, his engine would eventually stall. Maybe the impending headache would recede. Maybe he’d get bored and move on.
“Seriously though, Hime, I’m shocked this is hitting you so hard.” Nope. No chance. “You truly loved that guy? The one you called a ‘good-for-nothing sorcerer who couldn’t exorcise a fly without you holding his hand’? I seem to recall the phrase ‘sentient wet sock’ being used. You wanted to marry the sentient wet sock?”
A sigh of pure defeat escaped her lips. “I didn’t want to marry him ,” she mumbled. “But the idea of getting married… yeah. I wanted that. We’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“So you actually think about stuff like that?” There was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice that made her look at his face.
“Of course I do,” she snapped, a little too defensively. “Look, I know our job doesn’t exactly come with a 401k and a fairy-tale ending, but a girl can dream of settling down someday, can’t she? It just sucks to be beaten to the finish line by a guy who cheated on me.”
Gojo didn’t reply. He just stared at the dark, scarred wood of the table, his long fingers tracing the rim of an imaginary glass. The silence stretched and for a blissful moment, Utahime thought he’d finally dropped it. She found herself relaxing into the quiet.
“But you still want it?” he asked, his voice softer now. “To settle down?”
She looked at her beer bottle, swirling the amber liquid inside. She hadn’t even made it halfway through, but her thirst was completely gone. “Sure,” she said, her voice lifeless. “Someday. If things… if only things ever stop feeling so unreachable. It feels like everything I really want is always just out of arm’s reach.”
His head snapped up. The shift was so sudden it made her flinch. The usual mirth in his eyes that jumpstarted their banter was gone, replaced by something still and deep and serious.
…and worrying. Curiously worrying.
He rested his chin on his steepled fingers, his face now inches from hers, and the whisper that came out was for her alone.
“What do you mean, ‘unreachable’?”
And despite everything —the wound of her ex, the sting of her stalled career, the sheer exhaustion of it all— she was amused at his question. She allowed herself to smile, and wished he didn’t notice it.
Because of course. Of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t understand the concept of unreachable. This was a man born at the finish line. A man whose very technique was called Limitless, who wrapped himself in a literal Infinity that said you cannot touch me . He would never know scarcity, never know what it felt like to hit a wall you couldn’t break, to want something so badly and know, with bone-deep certainty, it wasn't made for you. Add to that the stupid, genetic-lottery perfection of his face, and the world was basically his for the taking.
She remembered with a twitch in her chest the days of being younger and dumber. She remembered nursing a crush on him so big and stupid it felt like it took up all the oxygen in the room. A crush that was methodically, painfully extinguished every time he treated her like an annoying older sister, every time she saw the effortless way he moved through the world, a world in which she was just a minor character. She had learned then, the hard way, that fostering feelings for a man like that wasn't just pointless. It was a special kind of sacrilege.
That stupid, hopeful part of her had eventually starved to death from neglect. Mostly. Every now and then, the ghost of that crush would rattle its chains—usually when he did something unexpectedly kind or looked at her for a second too long. But she was older now. She knew better. She knew to shove that ghost back into the dusty, locked attic of her heart where it belonged.
And this man, this living, breathing monument to attainable desire, was asking her to explain the concept of ‘unreachable.’
The curtain to the kitchen swayed open, and the oji-chan emerged carrying a lacquered wooden tray with the reverence of a priest presenting a holy relic. On it, glistening under the dim light, sat not one, but five perfect, cream-colored ramekins of flan, each swimming in a pool of dark, glistening caramel. The sweet, intoxicating scent of sake and burnt sugar wafted across the table.
He set the tray down with a flourish. Gojo clapped his hands together softly, his eyes sparkling like a child on Christmas morning.
Utahime stared at the small army of desserts. “Are you planning on hibernating for the winter?” she asked, her voice dry. “What is all this?”
“Perfection, Hime. This is perfection,” Gojo declared, already sliding one of the ramekins toward himself. “Oji-chan, you’ve outdone yourself. The wobble is magnificent today. A true work of art.”
The old man beamed, wiping his hands on his apron. “You say that every time, Satoru. I’m starting to think you just like dessert.”
“It’s not just dessert!” Gojo protested, pointing his spoon at him for emphasis. “It’s an experience. A culinary journey.” He took a bite, and his eyes fluttered shut in exaggerated bliss. “See? Transcendence.”
The oji-chan chuckled. “Just try not to beat your record. I was worried after you had seven last time.”
Utahime’s jaw practically hit the table. “Seven? You won’t get drunk off that?”
“This one?” the old man scoffed good-naturedly. “He walked out of here as sober as a monk. He burns it all off, I think.”
Watching them, Utahime felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. This wasn’t Gojo the untouchable prodigy, or Gojo the infuriating colleague. This was Satoru, the sweet-toothed regular who had a running joke with the owner of a quiet neighborhood izakaya. It was disarmingly normal. Almost charming. She found herself smiling into her beer, the first genuine smile of the night.
The oji-chan’s gaze then drifted from Gojo to her, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his wrinkled face. He looked back at Gojo, eyes twinkling.
“Well,” he said, his voice low and with meanin. “It’s about time. You finally got the pretty lady to sit with you alone. All those times swinging by trying to catch her here were worth it, eh?”
The playful atmosphere shattered.
Gojo’s spoon, halfway to his mouth, froze in mid-air. His smile didn’t so much fall as it was wiped clean from his face, leaving behind a blank, startled expression. A faint touch of pink crept up his neck.
“Okay, oji-chan, that’s enough,” he said quickly, his voice an octave higher than usual. He stood up, placing a hand on the old man’s back and steering him, with surprising force, back toward the kitchen. “I’m sure you have very important kitchen things to do. Thanks for the flan!”
He practically shoved the man through the curtains before returning to his seat, looking anywhere but at her. The silence that fell was thick and awkward.
Utahime tilted her head, the gears in her mind whirring, trying to make sense of the words. All those times swinging by?
“What was he talking about?” she asked, the question soft but direct.
Gojo picked up his spoon again, focusing on it with an intensity it did not deserve. “Ah, you know old guys,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s probably getting me confused with another tall, handsome, white-haired regular of his.”
Gojo cleared his throat, pushing one of the ramekins around with his spoon, suddenly fascinated by the way the caramel clung to the sides. “Okay, so… back to the question.”
Utahime’s voice was wary. “About me feeling like everything I want is unreachable?”
“I’d love to hear about it, yeah.”
She narrowed her eyes, trying to summon her usual armor of suspicion. “Is this a trap? Are you trying to get me to reveal an emotional weakness so you can make fun of me for the next decade?” The words were right, but they lacked their usual bite. They felt flimsy, transparent. She knew, in a part of her that she rarely acknowledged, that he wasn’t that cruel.
“Hime.” He set his spoon down on the table with a soft, definitive click. The playfulness was gone. “What do you think I am? I just… want to understand.”
She took a shaky breath, and the words began to spill out, quiet and rough.
“It’s just… I feel like I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for everything. I wasn’t born into some fancy clan where my path was paved in gold. I had to claw my way into this world, to be good enough, to be noticed .” She unconsciously lifted a hand, her fingers gently tracing the silvery line of the scar on her face. “To the point of risking my life. I don’t have some legendary, all-powerful technique. Every single promotion, and every scrap of recognition I’ve had to lay my life on the line for it. And it’s the same with people. It always feels like I have to put in double the effort just to get them to stay.”
Another breath shuddered out of her, this one heavy with a frustration so deep it made her chest ache. She was so, so tired.
Her eyes finally lifted to meet his. Her voice dropped to a vulnerable whisper.
“Can’t I just have one thing ? Just one thing in my life that’s easy? Something that feels like it was meant for me? Something I only have to turn around for, and it’s already there… because it wants me, too. Something that’s just 100% mine.”
As she held his gaze, the entire atmosphere in the quiet izakaya shifted.
He was no longer looking at his dessert. The spoon lay forgotten. His hands were flat on the table, completely still. He was leaning forward, his entire body angled toward her, and on his face was an expression she’d only seen a handful of times in her entire life.
It was the look he’d had in the chaotic aftermath of the mission that gave her this scar, his bearing something terrifyingly close to panic. It was the look that had flashed across his features for a single, fractional second in the school hallway when she’d told him she was dating Hiroshi, before the teasing smirk had snapped back into place.
It was a look stripped of all ego, all mirth, all infinity. And seeing it now, aimed directly at her, felt like a jolt of lightning to her system.
The ghost of her old crush didn’t just rattle its chains. It kicked the door off its hinges. The air between them suddenly felt thick. She was completely, utterly disoriented, caught in the intense gravity of his gaze.
He looked at her as if she were a complex equation he was finally beginning to solve. The silence stretched, thick and charged, until she couldn’t bear it another second.
“Gojo?”
He blinked once. The expression on his face softened, replaced by a look of contemplation. His gaze dropped from her face to the last, untouched ramekin of flan on the tray. He picked up his spoon and gently nudged the perfect dessert, making it wobble.
“I just realized,” he said, his voice quiet and even, still focused on the flan, “we’re not so different, you and I.”
Out of all the impossible, infuriating, and unbelievable things he had said to her tonight, this was the one that broke her. A sound erupted from her chest — a loud, sudden, and slightly hysterical bark of a laugh. It was a joke, right? Gojo Satoru, the pinnacle of the jujutsu world, thought they weren't so different. The joke was so cosmic, it was hilarious.
But when her breathless laughter finally subsided and she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, she saw his expression hadn’t changed. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t waiting for a punchline. He was watching her with that same, unnerving sincerity.
The humor evaporated, leaving a cold knot of confusion in its place. “Wait,” she said, her voice small. “You’re serious?”
He nodded slowly. With a deliberate, careful motion, he pushed the last ramekin across the table until it stopped directly in front of her.
“Yeah.”
Then he picked up the clean spoon he had set down earlier and placed it neatly beside the flan. He looked up, and his eyes, clear and direct, found hers once more.
“This one is one hundred percent yours, Utahime. Just for you.”
The flan sat between them like a peace offering. Utahime stared at it, her heart hammering against her ribs because it knows she was stepping into a new zone with him. This was dangerous. His gaze was now stripped of all its usual mockery and softened into something she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—name. It was setting off every alarm bell in her system. This was uncharted territory and Gojo Satoru was with her.
She had to get out of here. Now.
With a jolt, she pushed her chair back, the legs screeching in protest against the floor. “It’s getting late,” she announced, her voice a little too high, a little too bright. “It’s a Tuesday. We have that budget meeting tomorrow morning. I should go.”
Gojo didn’t look surprised. He just leaned back in his chair, his signature cool guy smile returning to his face. “Cool,” he said, as if her panicked retreat was the most normal thing in the world. “You can ride with me.”
Her blood ran cold. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not? It’ll be faster.”
She stepped closer, leaning over the table so she could hiss the words in a whisper. “If you mean that awful, stomach-churning warping thing you do, I will pass. I am emotionally and physically unstable right now, and I will one hundred percent throw up on your shoes, Gojo. I swear to God.”
He stared at her for a beat, and then he threw his head back and laughed. It was such a genuine, delighted sound that made the oji-chan peek out from behind the curtain. “Silly,” he said, shaking his head as he stood up and tossed some bills onto the table. “Come on.”
“Oji-chan, we’re leaving.”
He led her out of the warm, smoky izakaya and into the cool, crisp night air. And there, leaning against the wall, was his ride. It wasn’t a sleek, expensive car as she might have expected. It was a bicycle. The typical Japanese mamachari , complete with a basket on the front and a sturdy silver rack over the back wheel.
“Oh,” was all she could manage to say.
He patted the seat on the back rack. “What do you say, Hime? Care for a ride?”
“To the school?” she sputtered. “That’s miles away!”
“Fine,” he conceded with a dramatic sigh. “Only to the playground near where I got this. Then we can call a taxi. Deal?”
She hesitated, her mind racing. A lonely taxi ride home to her empty apartment, or this? This absurd, unexpected, strangely charming version of the night? She looked at him, standing there so pleased with his ridiculous bicycle, and felt the last of her resistance crumble. He was safe. And if she were being brutally, terrifyingly honest with herself, she was starting to enjoy his presence.
“Okay,” she agreed, and he beamed like he won more sake flans.
Getting onto the back of the bike felt clumsy and foreign. She sat stiffly. She made sure her hands were planted firmly on her own knees, determined to maintain a respectable distance. He kicked off, and the bike lurched forward, the world dissolving into a pleasant blur of passing streetlights and dark, quiet houses. The wind whipped her hair across her face, and the rhythmic whir of the wheels was the only sound between them.
She refused to hold on. She would not. She was a grown woman, a Semi-Grade 1 sorcerer, and she would not cling to Gojo Satoru like some…
The front wheel hit a pothole.
The bike jolted violently. Utahime yelped, her body lurching to the side. Before she could even process that she was falling, a strong hand shot back, grabbing her wrist. With an effortless tug, Gojo pulled her forward, taking her hands and wrapping them securely around his waist.
“Hold on, senpai,” he said, without letting go of her hands.
Her entire body went rigid. Her face was now just inches from his back, close enough to feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the cool night air. Her heart, which had just started to calm down, was now a full-scale drum solo against her ribs. She was acutely aware of every point of contact: her hands clasped over his stomach, her chest pressed lightly against his back, her knee bumping against his leg. A furious blush crept up her neck and set her cheeks on fire.
By the time they coasted to a stop at the edge of a small, deserted playground, she felt dizzy. He swung his leg over, steadying the bike. “End of the line,” he announced cheerfully.
She practically scrambled off the back, needing the space. The playground was quiet, perfect for her jumbled thoughts. The only sound was the gentle creak of a swing moving in the breeze. Gojo walked over to the monkey bars, hoisting himself up to sit on top of one of the high beams, his long legs dangling down. He looked down at her.
“So,” he said, his voice softer now, losing its teasing edge. “You were saying something about things being hard to reach?”
"You're not calling a taxi?"
He hopped down from the monkey bars, landing silently on the wood chips below. "And leave already? I thought we could hang out for a bit. You know, like the old days." He flashed a smile at her. "I really enjoyed those days with you… I mean," catching the slip, he corrected himself, a fraction of a second too late, "with you guys."
Her heart didn't just backflip. It stumbled, fell down a flight of stairs, and landed in a dizzy, breathless heap at the bottom. With you. The two words pushing away the silence in her head.
She swallowed, trying to steady herself. "And you want to continue where we left off? Back at the izakaya? Do you really want to spend your Tuesday night talking about my inability to get things, Gojo?"
"No," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He started walking toward the swing set, his hands shoved in his pockets. "I want to talk about it because I know how it feels." He paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Quite deeply, as a matter of fact."
This time, the laugh that escaped her was short and sharp, completely devoid of humor. "You? The Gojo Satoru, the man the entire jujutsu world practically worships? The one non-sorcerers would probably build a shrine for if they knew you existed?" She walked past him and settled into one of the swings, the cold plastic a shock against her legs. The chains let out a low, rusty groan.
He followed right after her, taking the swing to her left. The proximity felt both comfortable and charged.
"I believe," she continued, looking straight ahead into the dark, quiet park, "that with everything you have, Gojo, it would take a single wave of your hand to get anything you could possibly want."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he kicked off the ground and glided forward. He wasn't looking at her, but at some distant, invisible point in the darkness.
"You think so, Uta?"
The nickname – rarely used and dangerously soft – made her breath catch. "Yep," she managed with a tight voice.
His swing drifted back. "You think I can get whatever I want? Anything at all?"
"I think so."
He let out a short, hollow laugh that was swallowed by the night. "Ha. How terribly wrong you are."
A spark of her old, defiant energy returned. She gave a small push with her feet, setting her own swing into a lazy motion. "Indulge me, Gojo," she said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm she wielded like a shield. "By all means, let me know your case, oh, Honored One."
She kicked her feet again, a frustrated little motion that barely disturbed the air. The swing set was clearly designed for children, and the height ratio was all wrong, leaving her unable to get a proper push. It was a small, stupid problem, but it felt like a perfect metaphor for her entire life: putting in the effort, getting nowhere.
A shadow fell over her. Gojo stood up from his swing and walked around to stand directly behind her. The wood chips crunched softly under his feet.
“May I?” he asked, his voice low.
She couldn’t find the words, so she just nodded hard.
His hands landed on the small of her back. The touch sent an unadulterated heat straight through her clothes. He gave a gentle, powerful push, and suddenly she was flying, wind blowing her hair.
“When I was a kid,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to come from right beside her ear as she swung back toward him, “there was a flower in our garden. A Tsukikage. It only bloomed once every few years, under a full moon. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I was obsessed with it.”
He pushed her again forward, into the cool, clean night. Then back, into the warm pocket of air where he stood, so close she could feel the whisper of his breath against her neck.
“But every time I reached out to touch it, the petals would curl up. Sometimes, if I was too eager, it would just wither. Right in front of me.”
Forward. Back. The rhythm was lulling her, making her defenses feel sleepy and slow.
“I tried everything,” he continued. “I’d try to be gentle. I’d talk to it, like a complete idiot. ‘Hey. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.’ But it never trusted me. Always elusive. Always just… out of reach.”
He fell silent for a few pushes, the only sound the squeaking chains and their shared breathing.
“That feeling,” he said, his voice harder now, “I hated it. I decided then that I would never feel that way again. If I was strong enough, if I was powerful enough, I could have anything I wanted.” He pushed her, and this time she could feel the raw power coiled in his arms. “And I did it. The great clans listen when I speak. The higher-ups piss themselves if I raise my voice. I bent the whole damn world to my will, just to make sure nothing would ever be denied me again.”
He let the swing’s momentum die down, the arcs getting smaller and smaller until she was barely moving.
“But the universe has a sick sense of humor,” he whispered. “Because after all that, there’s still one thing. A flower. The most stubborn, beautiful, infuriating flower I’ve ever seen. And for more than a decade, it’s been completely out of my reach.”
Her own heart was roaring like a storm in her chest. “What… what do you mean?”
He didn’t push her again. Instead, his hands came up to grip the cold, metal chains on either side of her head, his arms caging her in. He leaned in closer, and his hand deliberately brushed against hers on the chain. The touch was electric, and it made her hyperaware at how this was something new. He brought the swing to a complete, gentle stop.
“No matter what I do,” he murmured, his breath against her ear making her shiver. “It doesn’t care that I’m ‘The Strongest.’ It doesn’t trust me. It thinks I’m playing a game. The harder I try to show I'm serious, the more it convinces itself that it’s unreachable for me.” He paused, and she could feel him take a breath. “And the most frustrating part? It’s been right here. Right in front of me, all this time. And I still can’t figure out how to touch it without it pulling away.”
His breath stirred the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. The world had shrunk to the space she occupied on this swing, trapped between the cold metal of the chains and the impossible warmth of the man standing behind her. It could be her. The thought was a wild. Sacrilegous. Preposterous. A decade of deeply ingrained logic, of knowing her place in his orbit, refused to let it land. It couldn't be.
She kept her back to him, her knuckles white where she gripped the chains. “And this flower… it never showed any sign that you might be able to reach it one day?”
A soft huff of a laugh was all he could afford.. “Are you kidding?” he murmured. “It’s one feisty flower. The feistiest I’ve ever seen.”
Feisty.
The word hit her with a wall of realization. The teasing insult he’d thrown at her a hundred times. The label he gave her after every argument because she refused to back down. The word he used always sounded like a complaint but felt like a compliment.
Oh.
Oh, God.
It was her.
A decade’s worth of buried feelings and misinterpreted moments came crashing over her like bricks. The air was stolen from her lungs, replaced by a swirling storm of disbelief, shock, and a terrifying, soaring elation that felt exactly like panic. The heat that had been in her cheeks now consumed her, a full-body blush of profound, earth-shattering understanding. Everything was realigning, the entire history of them clicking into a new, terrifying, brilliant shape.
And with that clarity came a new strength. She was not some passive prize to be won. She had a voice in this story, too.
“But what if you’re wrong?” she asked, her voice steadier now, cutting through the quiet night. “What if that flower isn’t feisty? What if it’s just scared?”
His hands tightened slightly on the chains. “Scared? Of what?” His confusion was genuine.
She still didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to see his face for this. He needed to hear it.
“Of you,” she said simply.
She let the words settle, then continued, painting the picture for him. “You’re like the sun, Gojo. Do you understand that? You’re brilliant and powerful and everyone, everything , revolves around you. We all feel it. But you can’t get too close to the sun. You can’t reach out and touch it.” Her voice dropped, thick with an old, familiar ache. “You can only ever admire it from a safe distance. Because you know, instinctively, that if you ever tried to get any closer… you would just burn.”
The world tilted on its axis. She was desperate for her need for space, for distance, for a single moment to process the fact that the sun was confessing it revolved around her. But he gave her none.
He moved with her, closing the small gap she’d created. She felt his forehead come to rest gently on the crown of her head. Her breath hitched. Her heart was beating painfully. This was the closest they had ever been. There was no shield, no shimmering barrier of cursed energy between them. His Infinity was gone. He was letting her in.
“Hime,” his voice was a ragged whisper that traveled down her spine. “Are you?”
Her lips quivered. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Am I what?”
“Scared of me?”
She bowed her head, the movement dislodging his forehead but trapping her under his chin, his scent, his presence. “I’m not entertaining that question,” she choked out. “I don’t want to know where it could possibly lead.”
“But I do,” he insisted with a desperation that doesn't fit The Strongest. “I want it to lead everywhere. I want to open every fucking question. Every single fucking door. Every possibility.”
“I’m not scared of you, Gojo,” she finally admitted, the truth sharp and painful. “But I am perpetually puzzled about where I stand in your life.”
That was it. The heart of the matter. The uncertainty that loomed between the two of them for a decade. She pulled away, turning to walk into the darkness, away from the terrifying hope that was blooming in her chest. She remembered that secret, stupid crush and how she’d buried it, prayed over its grave, begged it not to resurface. Because losing a hopeless crush was one thing, but losing Gojo Satoru, the most constant and infuriating person in her life, was unthinkable.
She didn’t get two steps before his hand clamped around her wrist. He didn’t yank or pull, just held her. Then he gently led her away from the swings, toward a covered, dome-like play structure that resembled a giant anthill, pulling her into its deep shadow, away from the prying eyes of the empty road.
And then he turned her around and simply fell into her.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against the his chest, enveloping her so completely she felt like she might just be integrated into him. His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his face buried in her hair. He was holding her like a man clinging to a lifeline after a decade at sea.
His voice was a broken, muffled thing against her skin. “How else am I supposed to show you, Utahime? What else can I possibly do?” He squeezed her tighter. Possessive. “You hold so much of me. You have to know that. Being near you is like breathing. Being away from you… it’s suffocation. How, Hime? How do I make you see?”
At the moment, she had a thousand words begging for her to put them to life. But in his arms, all she could say was “I… I’m not sure, Gojo.”
“You talk about things being unreachable,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Hime… for ten years… you .” He shook his head, and she caught a glimpse of the deep frustration on his face. “You were the one thing I could never reach.”
The air around them grew thick and heavy because the immense power he always kept so perfectly leashed was churning like a brilliant storm around them. This unguarded version of him was too much, knocking her completely sideways, and an instinct she didn't know she possessed took over.
Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to hold him. They found his face with a quick, sure touch, her fingers sinking into the silk of his white hair as her thumbs traced the sharp line of his jaw. She held him fast, meeting his wide, frantic eyes and forcing him to see her, truly see her. Because if he was going to say these things—if he was going to detonate her entire world—then he had to do it while looking right at her.
And oh, her heart. Her poor, battered heart was a complete and utter mess. It was a wildfire burning through a decade of denial. The stampede of her emotions are kicking every locked door in her soul from its hinges. It was a disconcerting chaos, and yet, it was the most real and true thing she had ever felt.
Her hands were still cupping his face, her thumbs tracing the sharp, beautiful lines of his jaw. The chaotic energy around him had calmed, but the air between them still hummed, thick and alive. She took a breath, and the name that had lived in her head for a decade finally crossed her lips, soft and full of a new, terrifying weight.
“Satoru…”
His breath hitched. His eyes—those brilliant, impossible blue eyes—went wide, at the sound of his given name on her tongue.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice barely there. “Why didn’t you ever... just… try?”
He swallowed, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. “Call it cowardice,” he murmured. “I figured acting on it would just be a faster way to confirm that you wanted nothing to do with me. I couldn’t risk it.”
What could she possibly say to that? What words could bridge a decade of misunderstanding? There were none. So, she acted. Slowly, she drew his face toward hers, closing the last inch of space until the tips of their noses brushed. His breath ghosted across her lips, warm and shaky.
“All you had to do,” she whispered, “was try.”
A wry, sad smile touched his lips. “You didn’t exactly make it easy on me, Hime.”
“But why now?” she pressed, needing to understand. “What changed?”
He searched her eyes, his own expression raw and honest. “That loser finally let you go,” he said, the words simple and fierce. “I missed my chance for ten years because I was afraid. I watched you with him and punished myself every single day for it.” He took a shuddering breath, his resolve hardening. “I can’t be stupid twice, Utahime. Not when the girl I’ve always wanted, the only girl of my dreams, is finally standing right in front of me.”
The confession took her breath away. And in that moment, she knew she had to be just as brave.
“You should have been stupid sooner,” she whispered, ready to be vulnerable. “Because honestly? I think I’ve always, always been a goner for you.”
That was it. That was the spark that lit the fuse.
Her name was a groan on his lips, “ Utahime ,” and then his mouth was on hers.
It was a desperate, messy collision of a kiss like their mouths are finally coming home, knowing fully well they belong to each other. For a breathtaking moment, it was everything. The feeling of the kiss was visceral – the nibbles, the urgent prodding for her mouth to welcome his tongue. It was passion in every move, every turn, every sigh, and every bite.
Then, just as quickly, they broke apart, pulling back an inch to stare at each other, breathless and bewildered. Their chests heaved in the cool night air as the impossible reality of the moment crashed down on them.
His bright blue eyes – even in the dark – searched hers. He leaned in again, but this time his lips peppered frantic, feather-light kisses at the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, on the tip of her nose. “You’re not a dream, are you?” he murmured against her skin, his voice ragged and pained. “Because I think I’m going crazy, and this has to be real.”
His desperation was her undoing. Her own want that crested inside her bared her truth. Her hands shot up, her fingers balling into tight fists, grabbing the front of his shirt as if it were the only thing holding her to the earth.
A low, breathless groan rumbled in his chest as he felt her grip, as he saw the raw, mirrored desire in her eyes.
Fueled by a sudden, fierce boldness, she rose onto her toes, pulling him down. He met her halfway, his head ducking lower, giving her access. She captured his bottom lip between her teeth in a soft, possessive bite. Over and over again.
That was all it took.
The kiss that followed was ferocious. He devoured her mouth, a moan escaping her throat as his tongue met hers. The sound sent a visible heat through him, and he turned the kiss deeper, more carnal, more hungered. His hands slid down her back, gripping her backside and lifting her against him, in some moments lifting her above the ground. He was molding her body to his until there was no space, no thought, no reality left. He was kissing her to make up for lost time, to claim every part of her, to ensure she knew, without a single doubt, that she was finally, completely, his.
The world had dissolved into nothing but this. His hands started easing under her shirt, and his kisses began to trail lower until a distant, piercing wail sliced through the haze. A siren.
Specifically, a police siren roving the area for kids who were foolish enough to go past their bedtimes.
They broke apart as it drew closer, dazed and breathing heavily, their lips swollen, their hair a mess. The red and blue lights of a patrol car swept across the far end of the park.
Panic, immediate and mortifying, replaced the heat that was melting Utahime. “Oh my God,” she hissed, her face burning a shade of red that had nothing to do with his kiss. She grabbed his hand, pulling him deeper into the shadows of the dome-like play structure. “The last thing I need is to get a citation for public indecency. I am far too old for this.”
She let go of his hand as she started power-walking toward the edge of the park, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and her complete lack of composure. Gojo caught her in two easy strides, his long fingers lacing through hers, slowing her frantic pace.
He was grinning with a mischievous smile she’s known for years.
A smile that bears new truth now.
“Hey,” he murmured with a teasing drawl. “Slow down.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re not so easy to reach after all.”
He saw the moment the realization caught up to her, the way her eyes widened as his teasing words finally clicked into place. A handsome smile spread across his face. He reached for her hand, the one not currently pulling him deeper into the shadows, and brought her knuckles to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss.
An exasperated huff escaped her. She was still trying to hide from the receding glow of the patrol car, her cheeks burning with a shame from her recklessness. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull her hand away. The new, easy way his fingers laced through hers felt both terrifying and unbelievably right.
“Alright, Mr. Loverman,” she muttered. “Get us far away from here, and then you can continue… whatever this act is.”
His grin turned wicked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What act?”
“ Satoru! ”
“Alright, alright,” he laughed, the sound warm and free in the quiet park. “I hope you’ve changed your mind about warping, because that’s our fastest ticket out of here.”
She looked at him, at his open, waiting arms. The old hesitation was gone. She took a deliberate step forward, right into his space, into his embrace. He hugged her with a new kind of comfort that told her everything she needed to know.
This was allowed now. She could do this, melt into him, and he wouldn't just let her; he would hold her like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, “There’s this place I’ve been meaning to show you.” The words, and the warm puff of his breath, sent pure hunger straight to her core, making her go soft and pliant in his arms. “I’ve always wanted to take you there.”
She was ashamed of her need, truly.
“Gojo Sato—”
Whatever she was about to say, whatever protest or question was on her lips, dissolved into nothing. The world around them fractured into a weightless rush of color and sensation. Held safe in his arms, it felt less like falling and more like flying.
And then, stillness.
The first thing she felt was solid ground beneath her feet. The first thing she smelled was the clean air of the mountains. The first thing she heard was the peaceful silence of being high above the world.
He was still holding her, his arms a firm, secure circle around her. She opened her eyes.
They were standing on a wooden veranda, part of a small, forgotten shrine perched on a cliff’s edge. Below them, the city was a breathtaking carpet of a million glittering lights, and beyond that, the vast, dark ocean stretched out to meet a sky dusted with more stars than she had ever seen.
She looked up at him then, at his face illuminated by the soft moonlight, and the last of her fear, the last of her doubt, simply melted away. He hadn't just brought her to a place with a beautiful view. He had brought her to his side of infinity, a place where the world felt quiet and small. For a decade, they had been two separate people with an agonizing, unreachable distance between them. But now, held safely in his arms, she understood.
The chase was over. The game was done. They were no longer unreachable.
They simply, finally reached each other.