Chapter Text
The sunlight filtered softly over the stone courtyard of Tokyo Jujutsu High, casting a warm glow on the gravel paths and making the polished windows shimmer like they were in on some secret. It was one of those rare, peaceful mornings where the air smelled faintly of dew-kissed cherry blossoms, even if it was a bit too early for them to be blooming. Utahime Iori adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Morning air, she thought, is fine. Quiet. Peaceful. She savored it for exactly three seconds before—
“Morning, Hime!”
Utahime froze mid-step, her heart doing that annoying little skip it always did when he showed up. Of course. Gojo Satoru had arrived, his white hair gleaming in the sun like he'd personally hijacked every ray of light in Tokyo. He grinned from ear to ear, mischief practically radiating off him as he sauntered over with that effortless bounce in his step.
“Morning,” she replied, voice flat as she kept her eyes glued to the ground. She knew the drill—meet his gaze, and he'd notice something. A stray hair, a smudge on her uniform, the way her cheeks heated up just a fraction. It always ended with some ridiculous comment or a challenge she didn't have the energy for at 7 a.m.
Gojo didn't seem fazed. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and flopped down on the bench beside her like he owned the place—which, in a way, he kind of did. “You look… tired.”
Utahime blinked up at him, caught off guard. “I got up early. Studying techniques. You should try it sometime.”
He tilted his head, studying her with those piercing blue eyes hidden behind his shades. It felt like he was peering right through her, cataloging every little detail.
“Mm, yeah, but you look tired in a… serious-professor way. Like you've been solving world curses in your sleep.”
“I am not a professor,” she shot back, crossing her arms. But there was no real bite to it. Just the familiar exasperation that came with Gojo.
“Close enough.” He leaned in a little closer, propping his chin on his hand. “Serious. Smart. Very Iori-like. It's cute.”
Utahime felt her face warm despite herself. She pressed her palms against her cheeks, muttering, “You are impossible.”
His grin widened, all teeth and trouble. “But you love it.”
She shoved his shoulder lightly—more reflex than anything—and stood up. “Come on. Class starts soon.”
The first class dragged on in its usual mundane rhythm: cursed energy drills, a dry lecture on low-level exorcisms, the shuffle of papers and half-hearted notes from students who were still shaking off sleep. Utahime sat in front of gojo, learning a basic reinforcement technique, Yaga's voice steady and precise. She tried to focus, really she did. But Gojo's presence in the back of the hall made it... difficult.
He lounged against the wall like a king surveying his kingdom, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he was humoring the whole thing.Halfway through, he stretched lazily, his long legs unfolding as he muttered—just loud enough for her to hear—“This is boring. Don’t you agree, Hime?”
Utahime shot him a glance over her shoulder, keeping her tone professional. “I suppose some of us enjoy learning.”“Mm-hm.”
That signature smirk curled his lips. He tilted his head, shades slipping down his nose just enough to flash those eyes. “Some of us? What, you’re not bored too? Admit it—this stuff's basic for you.”
“I am focused,” she hissed back, turning to the class to hide her flush. A couple of students were staring, but she powered through, trying to focus again with extra emphasis.
Gojo hummed, pretending to be convinced. Then, as one student fumbled their cursed energy manipulation—sending a weak burst of energy fizzing out like a dud firework—he whispered, “Wow. They’re hopeless. But I guess that makes me look even better, huh? The bar's so low.”
Utahime rolled her eyes so hard she was sure they'd stick. Infuriating. But as she watched him chuckle softly to himself, she couldn't deny the spark of amusement bubbling up. He was like a human-sized distraction spell—annoying, but impossible to fully ignore.
Lunch rolled around with the usual cafeteria buzz: trays clattering, students chattering about weekend missions, the faint scent of miso soup and grilled fish wafting through the air. Utahime found a quiet corner table, methodically arranging her bento—rice perfectly portioned, tamagoyaki sliced just so, a few pickled veggies for color. It was her ritual, a small anchor in the chaos of jujutsu life.
She poked at her food, her mind wandering back to the morning. Gojo. Always Gojo. He’s… annoying, she thought, stabbing a carrot. But… not that bad, I guess. Occasionally helpful. Sometimes even considerate, in his own chaotic way. Like last week, when he'd casually reversed a curse that had snuck into her lesson prep. No big deal for him, but still.
It was just a passing thought. Casual. Honest. She didn't even say it out loud—or so she thought.
Mei Mei happened to be passing by, her sharp eyes catching the mutter. She froze mid-stride, tray balanced perfectly in one hand, a sly smile creeping across her face.
“Wait,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. “Did Utahime Iori just say Gojo's… not that bad? Oh, this is gold.”Utahime didn't hear her. She was too busy savoring a bite of rice, oblivious to the spark Mei Mei had just lit.
By the end of lunch, the whispers had started. Subtle at first—a giggle here, a knowing glance there. Mei Mei, ever the opportunist, “casually” dropped the intel to a cluster of second-years: “You hear? Utahime's got a soft spot for our favorite sensei. 'Not that bad,' she said. Can you imagine?”
The rumor bloomed like wildfire in dry grass. By afternoon break, it had twisted: Utahime likes Gojo. Like, likes him. A few sly embellishments from Mei Mei—“I saw her blush!”—and suddenly, everyone at school was in on it. And apparently, that someone was Utahime.
She didn't notice at first. Not until a first-year shyly asked during cleanup, “utahime-senpai, is it true about you and gojo senpai?” Her brain short-circuited. What?
That evening, Utahime trudged back to the dorms, exhaustion settling into her bones like cursed residue. The courtyard lights had flickered on, casting long shadows, and the air had cooled to that perfect post-sunset chill. She flopped onto the edge of her bed, burying her face in her hands. The rumor hadn't faded—it had grown. Students whispering behind hands, knowing smirks in the halls. Do you like Gojo? Is it true?
“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”Shoko Ieiri's voice cut through the haze, smooth and amused. She lounged back in a rickety dorm chair, flipping a pencil lazily between her fingers, cigarette dangling unlit from her lips.
Utahime lifted her head, groaning. “It’s… ridiculous. I didn’t even say I liked him. I barely muttered something under my breath. How did this even spread?”
Shoko’s grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, technically, you did. Kind of. In a very vague, Utahime way. But now everyone thinks you’re head over heels for Gojo. You're welcome. Instant popularity boost.”Utahime threw a pillow at her.
“This is a nightmare. Everyone's staring. Mei Mei probably started it—she was lurking at lunch.”
Shoko caught the pillow effortlessly, shrugging. “Details. Minor details. Listen, we fix this. Easily.” She leaned forward, pencil twirling faster. “We invent someone else. Someone imaginary who ‘likes’ Gojo. Call her Akemi. Super generic, totally believable. You ‘confide’ in Mei Mei tomorrow—vent about how this Akemi girl's always mooning over him. Mei Mei spreads it like gospel. Boom. Rumor redirected. Crisis averted.”Utahime stared, brain catching up. “Akemi? Like… just Akemi?”
“Yes! Akemi.” Shoko snapped her fingers. “Perfect cover. Harmless. Mei Mei's gullible enough to bite— she'll love the drama. Trust me.”
Utahime hesitated, chewing her lip. The idea was absurd. Childish, even. But after a day of endless “Do you like him? whispers
Anything seemed better. “Fine. But if this backfires—”
“It won't,” Shoko said, already plotting. “Now spill: on a scale of one to 'marry him tomorrow,' how mad are you at Gojo for being so... Gojo?”
Utahime buried her face again. Don't think about it. Don't think about the grin, or the way he tilts his head.
Meanwhile, out in the courtyard, Gojo strolled casually under the string lights, hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his hair. He could feel the eyes on him—students whispering, glancing his way. One second-year even blushed furiously when he waved.
He tilted his head, curiosity flickering behind his shades. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he overheard a snippet: “...Akemi's the one who likes Gojo-senpai, not Iori...”
“Akemi?”he murmured to himself, pausing to lean against a stone pillar. “Who’s Akemi?” No one he knew. Sounded made-up. But the way they said it... tied to Utahime somehow? Interesting.
He chuckled softly, gaze drifting toward the dorms. Deep down, in that rare quiet corner of his mind, he thought this would be very interesting. Maybe tomorrow he'd poke the bear.