The room’s still warm, faintly smelling of sweat, skin, and whatever expensive cologne Gojo had slapped on before showing up at your door a few hours ago. His jacket’s slung over the back of a chair, his black tee half-pulled over his head as he stretches, his lean muscles flexing with the movement.

You’re still sprawled out in bed, the sheets barely covering you—half-draped over your legs, skin cooling from the heat you’d both worked up. He glances at you over his shoulder, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

For a while, he doesn’t say much. Just hums under his breath while stepping into his boxers, the waistband snapping softly against his hips. His fingers rake through his messy white hair like he’s trying to smooth it down, but it just flops back into place, wild and unruly as ever.

You’re watching him. Your fingers idly toy with his blindfold, twisting it between your hands while you lie there, still tangled in the aftermath of the night.

Gojo’s not in a rush to leave. Not really. But he moves like he is—grabbing his pants, sliding them on one leg at a time, rolling his shoulders like he’s working out the stiffness.

He stepped around to your side of the bed, leaning over, one hand pressed to the mattress beside your head. “You’re gonna keep that?” he asked, nodding toward the blindfold between your fingers.