Chapter Text
THE sound of bamboo swords clashing echoed through the warm autumn air of Tokyo Jujutsu High. The tall trees surrounding the training field rustled lazily in the breeze, casting dappled shadows across the dirt. A group of second-years stood scattered around the field, some practicing, others watching or chatting idly.
Utahime Iori wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve, jaw clenched, stance firm. Her foot slid across the ground as she advanced, aiming her bokken at the sparring dummy. Each strike was precise, deliberate the product of hard, focused practice.
"You're hitting that thing like it owes you money."
Utahime stopped mid-swing.
From the sidelines, Gojo Satoru leaned against a tree, his stupid sunglasses tilted just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes. His uniform jacket was undone, collar loose, white hair catching the sun like it had its own spotlight.
She sighed through her nose and turned away, readying another strike.
"You're not funny, Gojo!"
"But I am," he said with a grin, pushing off the tree. "That was a solid eight on the rage-o-meter. Ten if you’d actually hit me instead."
"I’d need an actual reason to waste energy on you."
"You being mad is reason enough." He stepped closer, watching as she swung again. This time, clean, strong, perfect form.
"You’ve gotten sharper. Guess that extra tutoring from Mei Mei is paying off." He teased again.
Utahime frowned, surprised by the compliment, until—
"Too bad your personality's still as prickly as a sea urchin."
There it was.
"Why are you even here?" She turned, finally lowering her weapon and jabbing it toward his chest, not hitting, but not exactly gentle.
"Why does anyone go anywhere? Destiny. Boredom. A deep, soul-crushing need to mock you."
Utahime groaned and walked toward the bench where her water bottle sat. She didn’t even get to touch it.
"Hydration break? Don’t mind if I do." Gojo snatched the bottle before she could reach it.
“Are you serious?” she said, exasperated, watching him tilt the bottle dramatically and take a long gulp.
Gojo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he was in a commercial. “Ahh. Tastes like effort. Also maybe a hint of your shampoo?”
Utahime looked like she was mentally preparing to kill him. “You have your own water, you menace.”
"True, but it’s not the same. Yours is full of...what do they call it? Determination. And unresolved rage."
Before she could respond, Shoko Ieiri called from her perch on the railing of the nearby porch. “You two are exhausting to watch, you know that?”
She was half-asleep, legs swinging lazily, a manga open on her lap.
Gojo beamed. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re both so dramatic,” Shoko muttered, flipping a page.
Utahime threw her towel over her shoulder and started walking toward the dorms. “I’m going to take a shower. Don’t follow me.”
“Who, me?” Gojo pointed to himself with a mock-wounded look. “Would I ever—”
Utahime turned slightly, eyes narrowed. “One more word and I’ll introduce your face to a wall.”
Gojo winked. “You say that like it’s not already my love language.”
She groaned and stormed off.
Gojo watched her go smirking, sure, but there was something quieter behind it. His eyes lingered on the swing of her ponytail, the way her shoulders stiffened like she was trying not to stomp.
Shoko didn’t miss the look.
She didn’t comment either just flipped another page and muttered under her breath.
“Idiot.”
Later that evening, the setting sun spilled golden light across the wooden floor of the common room, painting everything in amber. Utahime sat with a towel wrapped around her neck, hair still damp, flipping through her training log with a deep scowl. Across from her, Mei Mei leaned against the windowsill, sipping tea and watching her younger junior with vague amusement.
“You’re going to burn a hole through that page.”
“He’s so infuriating,” Utahime said, not looking up. “I was trying to focus. Just a normal day. And then—bam—he’s there. Talking nonsense. Drinking my water.”
Mei Mei raised an elegant brow. “Ah. Gojo again?”
“He doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s like he’s allergic to being normal. And why does he always...always...show up when I’m trying to train?” Utahime let out an irritated grunt.
“Maybe he’s drawn to strength.” Mei Mei’s voice was calm, unreadable.
“Or maybe he just likes the way you yell his name like you’re about to murder him.”
Utahime groaned again and dropped her head onto the table.
“I hate him.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Mei Mei said, pouring herself more tea. “Especially from someone who remembers his favorite snack. And his cursed technique preferences. And the way his voice changes when he’s being genuinely helpful.”
“I do not—!” Utahime sat up sharply, cheeks reddening.
Mei Mei smirked. “Mmhm.”
Silence hung for a second too long.
“…Okay, maybe I’ve gotten used to him,” Utahime admitted, her voice quieter. “But only in the way people get used to loud trains passing their house. Eventually you stop flinching.”
Mei Mei didn’t answer right away. She simply sipped her tea again, glancing toward the garden. “Well, you’d better get ready to see him even more.”
Utahime blinked. “What? Why?”
“There’s an announcement tomorrow. Yaga’s planning a school event. Something about unity. Games. Forced team bonding.” She tilted her head. “Sounds like hell. You’ll love it.”
Utahime groaned. “If Gojo ends up on my team, I’m quitting school.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Mei Mei asked, gaze sharp but knowing.
Utahime hesitated.
“…I might just enjoy the silence,” she said. But her eyes flicked toward the window, toward the field where she knew Gojo had been training earlier.