The night was quiet, the faint hum of city life barely audible through the closed windows of Aimi's small home.
Humming softly, she soaked in the warm bath, the sound of the faucet a soothing backdrop. She leaned back, letting the heat ease the tension in her muscles. Steam curled around her, cocooning her in serenity.
"Aimi-chan~!"
The tranquility shattered as Gojo's unmistakable sing-song voice rang through her house. Her eyes opened slowly, her fleeting peace replaced by resigned exasperation. She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
"Aimi-chan, where are you?" His footsteps echoed through the hall, growing closer.
"Satoru," she called out flatly.
"Ah—there you are!" His voice brightened, accompanied by a light knock on the bathroom door. "You in there?"
"Yes."
"Good. I thought you weren't home yet. That'd be sad."
"I'm bathing. Go sit somewhere."
"Okay~"
Sighing, Aimi sank deeper into the water until only her face remained above the surface. She closed her eyes again, pretending he wasn't there. But no amount of wishful thinking could erase Gojo Satoru from her life. She had learned that much by now.
Thirty minutes later, Aimi stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in an oversized shirt and shorts, her damp hair cascading around her shoulders. She found Gojo sprawled lazily on her couch, flipping through a book from her shelf with one hand.
"You're getting water everywhere," he remarked without looking up.
"And you're trespassing," she replied, towel-drying her hair.
"Not trespassing if you leave your window unlocked."
"Windows are not invitations."
"To me, they are." His oceanic eyes peeked over the rim of her book.
Aimi plopped onto the armchair across from him. "Why are you here?"
"To see you, of course." He shut the book and tossed it onto the coffee table. "You're always so busy. I missed you."
"Missed…" She furrowed her brow. "You saw me three days ago."
"So? Three days is too long." He stretched, his limbs taking up far too much space. "You should feel honored. The great Gojo Satoru has decided you're interesting enough to visit regularly."
"I am so happy," she deadpanned, standing to grab her hairdryer from the cabinet.
Gojo tilted his head, watching her with an amused smile. "You're not even trying to kick me out this time. Is Aimi-chan finally giving up?"
"I realized there's no point."
"Extremely smart." He walked over, plucked the hairdryer from her hands, and guided her to sit in front of him. "Let me."
She didn't resist as he began drying her hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers weaving through her damp locks with care. But then his hand snagged on a tangle.
"Ouch," she shot him a glare. "That hurts."
"My bad," he said with a laugh. "Didn't realize you were made of paper."
"Give it back." She tried to snatch the hairdryer, but he held it out of reach.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, turning to face him.
"Doing what?"
"Drying my hair."
"Because I want to."
"Why do you want to?"
"I like your hair." He twirled a strand between his fingers before resuming. Drying her hair felt oddly soothing because of the aura of positive energy she exuded. Unlike the reverse-cursed energy sorcerers generated to produce positive energy, hers was natural, almost otherworldly.
When he finished, Aimi returned to her armchair while Gojo reclaimed his spot on the couch. The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable. He flicked the coin between his fingers while Aimi leaned back, her eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, the soft hum of the room felt peaceful.
He broke the quiet. "Do you have any snacks?"
"Kitchen," she mumbled without opening her eyes.
He bounded off the couch with far too much energy. Aimi listened as he rummaged through her cupboards, muttering something about her being "way too boring for good snacks."
He returned a few minutes later with a bag of chips, plopping back onto the couch with a satisfied crunch. "You need better snacks."
"Go buy them."
"Let's go." He stood up, pulling Aimi to her feet.
"What?" She resisted briefly before standing.
"Let's go buy food," he said, holding her hand. "You haven't eaten dinner, have you?"
"Why are you holding my hand?" Her eyes were fixed on their connected hands.
"I like holding your hand," he intertwined their fingers.
"Are you in love with me or something?" she asked flatly.
"I told you. I like you," his tone casual, smile never faltering.
"…"
"You ask so many questions, Aimi-chan," he commented with a rather defeated tone. "So what? Have you eaten?"
"I haven't."
"Let's go then."
Without another word, he led her out the door, their hands still clasped. Aimi rarely shared such moments with anyone. She didn't know that holding hands feel so warm.
As life carry on smoothly for everyone, a landed an airplane landed at Tokyo's Narita Airport; passengers filtering out into the bustling terminal. Among them were two figures who moved with a quiet intensity.
Riwaka Shikumi and Riwaka Fukazu had returned.
It had been eight long years since they left Japan. They were entrusted with an international mission to strengthen ties between the jujutsu communities of Japan and the United States. Renowned for their unparalleled strength and precision, legends only second to Gojo Satoru.
They exchanged a bitter look.
"You sure she still lives at 'home'?" Shikumi adjusted the lapel of her sleek black coat
"I know as much as you do." Her husband stepped out of the airport, "After she took down the cameras, we barely know if she's alive."
"She is. She's our daughter after all."