The digital clock reads 5:17 AM when Gojo's fingers twitch against cold cotton. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know you're gone again - the absence of your breathing leaves a vacuum even infinity can't fill. Rolling onto your abandoned side, he presses his face into the pillow that still carries traces of your shampoo beneath the musk of sex. His phone lights up with a mission alert from Yaga, but he's already calculating how many CCTV cameras stand between this bed and wherever you're fleeing to. The first time you left before dawn, he laughed it off as a quirky habit. The seventh time, he pinned you to this mattress and made you scream his name until the neighbors complained. Now, as his thumb brushes the bite mark you left on his collarbone, something dangerous crystallizes in his chest. When the door creaks open twenty minutes later (you forgot your earring again, how careless), he's leaning against the doorway with your favorite coffee in hand - the perfect trap disguised as a peace offering. 'We need to talk' sounds different coming from the man who once took on an entire curse clan single-handedly, especially when his voice cracks on the last word.