Chapter Text
The Night the Paper Burned
The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of silk and the soft creak of wood as the paper doors slid closed behind them. A warm amber glow from the lantern lit the traditional tatami mat floor. Shadows danced on the wall—two figures in pristine ceremonial wear, bound not by love, but a contract.
Gojo stood by the low lacquered table, loosening the stiff collar of his white montsuki, the family crest embroidered proudly on his back. His silver hair, barely tamed for the ceremony, had begun to fall messily over his forehead again.
Across the room, Utahime sat silently, back straight, the long sleeves of her uchikake crimson and gold; folded over her lap.The embroidered cranes at the hem shimmered faintly in the warm lamplight. She hadn’t changed out of it yet, but she moved when Gojo closed the door behind them with a soft click.
The ceremony was over, but the air between them still held a formality more rigid than their silk robes.Utahime walked slowly toward the dressing table at the far end of the room, the soft rustle of her clothing the only sound between them. She didn’t glance back at Gojo. Her posture was measured, as always — not guarded, but never loose. The mirror on the table caught her face as she sat down, framed by the dim light, her features composed like a portrait. Her fingers moved to remove the ornate hairpin holding her bun in place.
Gojo turned to her with a lazy grin. “Come on, don’t act like you weren’t a little flattered. You looked like a royal painting—very tragic and composed. The scar even gave you a touch of...dramatic flair.”
Her eyes flicked to him—sharper now.
Gojo raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Not even a soft ‘thank you’ for the compliment? You wound me, Oksama.”
Utahime’s lips pressed into a line. The title was still strange in her ears.
Gojo cleared his throat, stretching his arms lazily. “Well… this is awkward.”
Her reply was dry. “You know, you don’t have to keep talking just because there’s silence.”
“Oof,” he chuckled. “Already attacking the groom? At least wait till I commit a crime.”
“You already did. You dragged me into this circus.” She turned to face him, her scar catching a slash of light—bold and unhidden, like her words.
Gojo didn’t flinch. Instead, he flopped onto his oversized bed, arms wide, looking absurdly at ease in his montsuki haori hakama . “Come on, Utahime. You made your choice. Cold feet now?”
“I didn’t say I regret it,” she said sharply. “But don’t pretend this is normal.”
“I’d never.” He looked at the ceiling with a sigh, then tilted his head toward her. “But hey, you looked really beautiful today. Just saying.”
Utahime looked away, swallowing. “You don’t need to say that.”
“I didn’t say it for you,” he smiled. “I said it because it’s true.”
She stood, smoothing her robe, and walked to the window, pushing it slightly open. Cool night air brushed against her face. For a while, she said nothing.
Then softly, almost to the night, “I agreed to this, but it doesn’t mean I’m...comfortable. With any of it.”
Gojo's voice dropped, sincere for once. “I know.”
She turned halfway, not quite facing him. “Do you? You joke all the time. You keep it light so you won’t have to acknowledge anything deeper.”
Gojo tilted his head. “Yeah. That’s sort of my specialty.”
A pause. She folded her hands in front of her. They stood in silence for a moment. The distant murmur of servants padding outside filtered through the thin door, too faint to fill the tension between them.
Utahime walked to the sleek marble counter and poured herself a glass of water, her back to him. “I won’t be a burden. You’ll have your space. I expect the same.”
“You think I’m worried about that?” Gojo leaned back on his elbows, watching her.
“No,” she said without looking. “I think you don’t worry at all.”
He smiled at that. “Touché.”
She turned, glass still in hand, her gaze direct. “I don’t know what kind of marriage you imagined, Gojo. But I’m not going to play house. This is a contract. You asked for something. I gave it. That’s all.”
Gojo’s smile faltered—just a little. “Understood. No rose petals and pillow fights.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said quietly. “I didn’t marry you to make your life harder. I just needed someone real. Not someone who sees my name and thinks of inheritance.”
Utahime’s expression softened ever so slightly, her voice dipping. “I don’t know what kind of man you are yet, Gojo. But I’ll keep my word.”
“And I’ll keep mine,” he said, nodding. “No touching. No overstepping. And if at any point you want out…”
“I won’t run from something I said yes to,” she cut in.
Gojo studied her for a long moment. His voice dropped low. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want love… you sure carry a lot of loneliness.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass. She didn’t answer.
“…I’ll take the couch,” he said after a beat, rising to grab a pillow from the bed.
Gojo had just arranged the couch cushions with the enthusiasm of a kid building a fort when he heard her voice again.
"We should… get it done."
His hand froze mid-fluff.
“…Get what done?” he asked, eyebrows raised, turning toward her.
She didn’t meet his eyes. “The… consummation.”
He scratched the back of his neck, standing awkwardly. “You mean tonight?”
“Yes.” Her tone was clipped. Controlled. “The agreement. Your family expects an heir.
Gojo blinked. Hard. “Oh.”
Silence.
“I thought it’d be you who brought it up first,” she said, finally glancing at him. “You don’t seem the type to shy away.”
Gojo opened his mouth, then closed it again, his usual smirk faltering. “Yeah, well… I'm many types, apparently.”
She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, facing away from him. Her fingers tugged lightly at the edge of the sheet. “It’s fine if you want to refuse.”
“Refuse?” he blinked again. “Why would I—? No! No refusal here, I just… wasn’t expecting it from you tonight. Not that I’m complaining. I mean—God, shut up, Gojo—”
She turned, startled by his own muttered scolding. He looked sheepish. “This isn’t how I imagined it would go. Then again, nothing about this is normal.”
“No,” she admitted softly.
A stretch of quiet passed before he walked over, slow and careful, and sat beside her on the bed. Not touching. Just close enough to feel her presence.
She sighed, frustrated—at him, at herself. “Because this is not how I pictured my first time.”
His head turned toward her so fast she could hear the shift in the sheets.
“You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Gojo blinked again. He let out a low whistle- “Mine too, actually.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Everyone thinks I’m some wild party guy because of the glasses and the hair. But surprise—turns out, saving yourself for a contract marriage is just peak Gojo behavior.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. You think I’m the type to just hand this glorious body to anyone?” He smirked, then paused, noticing her face.
The heat in her cheeks was unmistakable now. She was so still, it was as if she had turned into stone.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re so weird.”
He smiled. “I know.”
A silence fell between them again. Not heavy. Just uncertain.
He peeked at her. “That scar… has nothing to do with it, right?”
She stiffened. His voice softened.
“I mean, if it did , then everyone else is just stupid. Because it doesn’t take anything away. At all.”
“I didn’t ask for compliments.”
“Yeah, well, tough. They’re free tonight.”
She inhaled, slow and shaky. “I thought it would be mechanical. Just… something to tick off.”
Gojo didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was uncharacteristically serious.
“I don’t want it like that. Not with you looking like you’re preparing for battle.”
She looked down at her hands.
He reached out, carefully, like testing water—then gently brushed the back of his fingers against hers.
“Let’s… just try something else,” he said. “Like… maybe lying down? Facing the same direction? Breathing?”
“That’s your solution?”
“Baby steps.” He stood, holding out his hand. “Come on, warrior bride.”
She rolled her eyes but slipped her hand into his. His palm was warm. Comfortably rough.
They settled into bed, facing each other with far too much stiffness for two people who’d just gotten married. After a few seconds, Gojo raised a brow.
“We’re literally lying here like wooden planks. It’s a crime.”
“You said baby steps.”
“I didn’t know your steps were for toddlers.”
That earned a small laugh. Then, slowly, Utahime shifted closer. Her forehead rested gently against his chest, and his arm curled around her like instinct.
The moment was quiet. Fragile. Real.
Her hand clutched his shirt just a little.
“We don’t have to rush,” he said, more to himself than her. “But if we’re going to be each other’s home for a while… I want it to be warm. Not just signed.”
Gojo’s arm draped around her cautiously, her back against his chest as she turned around. The room was quiet save for their synchronized breathing. He was warm. She smelled faintly of jasmine and parchment—clean and comforting.
His voice rumbled softly. “Let’s get used to this first. The closeness. The breathing.
“I don’t know how to get used to this.”
“Me neither,” he whispered into her hair.
Her shoulders relaxed. “Just… don’t joke all the time. Let me breathe.”
“No jokes,” he agreed. “Only breathing. And maybe a compliment or two when you least expect it.”
She huffed, but he felt the small smile she didn’t let him see.
They stayed like that—entangled, not in passion, but in something quieter. Warmer. More patient.
For the first time since the wedding, it didn’t feel like a contract. It felt like a promise.
The night passed gently. No fireworks. No grand declarations.
A Face Too Close
The light hadn’t fully entered the room. It was that slow blue-grey hour where shadows softened and time didn’t move. No birds yet. No noise.
Utahime stirred quietly, the weight of a blanket barely remembered, her body unusually warm—not from the covers, but from the presence beside her, like being cocooned inside a sigh.
Gojo's arm was still loosely draped around her waist, as though it had wandered there sometime in the night, casual yet… natural. Her back was pressed to his chest, her legs lightly tangled with his like they’d done this for years. They hadn’t.
The memory of last night returned like a whisper: the awkwardness, the talking, the choice to simply hold . Not to do, not rush. Just… be.
Her breath caught in her throat as she slowly, carefully turned in the crook of his arm, half afraid he’d wake at the slightest movement. But he didn’t. His chest rose and fell with the calm rhythm of someone completely at peace, as if sleep had only ever found him in fragments—until now.
His face was closer than it should’ve been—absurdly so. For a man who filled every room with his voice, Gojo in sleep was… silent . Too silent. His lashes were long, his lips gently parted, one hand curled near his jaw. He looked younger somehow.
She stared—longer than she meant to.
It was ridiculous, honestly. Messy strands of white hair falling across his forehead.And the blindfold was gone. She hadn’t even realized when he removed it. Without it, his face was painfully symmetrical—soft at the mouth, sharp at the jaw, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with sorcery. Too soft for someone with so much power.
God. He was handsome.
Objectively. That’s what she told herself.
Her eyes roamed carefully— curiously —across the line of his nose, the faint hint of a dimple on one side, the veins along his wrist where it lay beside her. His lips were slightly parted, pink, and relaxed. There was no teasing smirk, no irritating comment hovering on the edge. Just him.
His chest rose and fell with a rhythm so peaceful it felt wrong to interrupt it.
Was this the first time he’d slept like this? So still, so undisturbed?
Something in her chest tightened—quietly, tightly—because it looked like it was .
A strange ache. Admiration? No. She wouldn't call it that. Curiosity, maybe. Fascination?
Or was it just the surreal intimacy of waking up beside someone who wasn’t a stranger anymore, even if he technically still was?
She didn’t realize her fingers had curled around a fold in the bedsheet, gripping it just a little—anchoring herself, maybe.
He looked….. almost.. vulnerable.
It was maddening.
He was supposed to be loud, annoying, constantly making her roll her eyes. Not— silent . Not peaceful . Not someone who could make her feel seen in a way no one else ever had.
Her gaze dipped lower to the line of his jaw, his throat, the gentle pulse there. Every part of him looked sculpted, alive, human . Not the untouchable sorcerer people gossiped about. Not the unshakable force with power beyond comprehension.
Utahime swallowed. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He is just a man.
Her husband.
Utahime blinked hard at the thought.
The word still didn’t sit comfortably in her mind, let alone her mouth.
Husband.
What an absurd twist of fate.
And yet here he was, sleeping like he hadn’t in years. Because she had held him. Because he had held her .
She reached out, cautiously, stopping just shy of brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face. Her fingers hovered, trembling slightly. She didn’t know if she wanted to touch him or just remember the way he looked in this moment—unburdened. Unaware of her gaze.
He was handsome. Infuriatingly so.
But she would never tell him that. She didn’t want to feed the monster of his ego.
And yet…
Somewhere deep in her chest, something quietly whispered: Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, getting used to this.
Not today. Not entirely.
But maybe… eventually.
He stirred slightly, his lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile even in sleep. Her breath caught.
Was he dreaming?
Did he always smile like that when he wasn’t trying so hard to be charming?
Before she could wonder more, she gently closed her eyes again, turning back to face away, her heart oddly steady.
Beneath the Layers of Morning
Later in the early hours of the morning,Gojo stirred slowly, waking not with the groggy resistance he was used to, but something softer. He didn’t open his eyes right away—no alarms, no cursed calls, no shouting. Just warmth. Gentle, weightless warmth wrapped around his chest and trailing across his limbs.
For a long, unmeasured second, he just breathed.
And then—he remembered.
Oh. Right.
His eyes opened, lazily at first, and adjusted to the dim light. He turned his head slightly to the left—and there she was.
Utahime.
Still as a painting. On her side, facing away, her hair spilling softly across the pillow. Her breathing steady. No tension in her shoulders. No snide remark waiting at the edge of her lips. Just— quiet .
The real kind.
Not the silence she used as armor.
His mouth quirked up into the beginning of a smile.
She wasn’t made for this softness. Not at first glance. She always moved like a soldier in disguise, guarded, distant. Her words, her posture, her measured tone—even when she was angry with him (especially when she was angry with him)—it was all so contained . Like she was holding something back. Protecting something.
Peace, maybe.
Her peace.
Gojo blinked slowly, letting his eyes trace her features without shame. He never had shied away from looking at her. He enjoyed the way it unnerved her. The slight narrowing of her eyes, the quick turn of her head, the way her fingers would rise— every single time —to check if something was stuck on her face.
God, she used to fidget so adorably when he’d go still and just watch .
But this… this was new.
He wasn’t staring to tease now. He wasn’t playing.
He was observing.
She looked… safe . Like her body had finally stopped guarding itself from the world. From him .
Her scar, the one just barely lit by the soft morning glow, curved delicately along her cheek. And where others might have seen flaw, he only saw something honest. Earned. Not hidden. Like her.
If anything, he thought with a quiet smirk, it looked like a final flourish on something already artful.
And maybe, just maybe—he felt a little proud.
She trusts me enough to sleep like this.
Gojo didn’t dare move. He wanted to bottle this up, this moment, where she didn’t hate him, didn’t bark at him, didn’t raise her brow like he was beneath her patience.
She was just… here .
In his space.
And she wasn’t shrinking or hiding or biting back.
He tilted his head a little, admiring the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck, the way her breathing caught slightly when she shifted in her sleep.
His hand was so close to hers, he could feel the warmth radiating through the few inches of space. He didn’t touch. Wouldn’t. Not now.
Not when she’d finally let her walls down enough to let him exist beside her.
That alone felt like a damn victory.
He exhaled quietly, letting his gaze linger just a bit longer.
He could get used to this. Waking up with her. Breathing the same air. No sarcasm. No curses thrown his way. Just her presence.
He wouldn’t say it out loud—not even if someone tortured him with a cursed technique—but something in his chest felt… full.
And warm.
But he wouldn’t name it.
Not yet.
He shifted the slightest bit closer, careful not to disturb her, and let himself soak in the aura around her. She smelled faintly of something floral—jasmine, probably—and maybe a little bit like temple incense. It was soothing. A scent he could learn to crave.
He grinned to himself.
She’s gonna kill me if she finds me staring.
But for now?
She was asleep.
She was calm.
And she was his wife.
That last thought hit him like a snowflake—gentle but cold.
Wife.
He rolled the word around in his head. Felt it sink somewhere behind his ribs. It still didn’t feel real.
But then again, nothing about her ever felt simple.
Maybe that’s what made this whole thing so damn intriguing. So dangerous.
And so, without reaching for her or even whispering a word, he closed his eyes again.
Content to just be beside her.
For once, not wanting more than this morning had already offered.
Gojo was still admiring the sleepy morning calm, the comfort of Utahime breathing beside him, when—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
His entire body jolted, eyes snapping wide open.
Shit.
He didn’t move at first, brain racing. Another knock followed, more polite than urgent, but heavy with the kind of intent he knew too well in this house.
He sat up abruptly, cursing under his breath. “Damn it… I should’ve known.”
Of course. Of course someone from the estate would come. It was their first morning as a married couple, and the Gojo clan never believed in privacy—especially not when they were dying to know if the heir had done his duty.
He threw a sharp glance toward the door, jaw tightening.
They’d probably report everything to his mother. Every detail. Every wrinkle on the sheet. Every hair out of place.
He turned back toward Utahime. She had stirred, her body shifting slowly beneath the silk. The pale kimono robe she wore slid ever so slightly off one shoulder as she pushed herself upright.
Gojo felt a sudden rush of heat flood his cheeks.
She didn’t notice.
She was brushing her hair back, blinking sleep from her eyes, and trying to orient herself. Her scar caught the faint light now, but there was no defensiveness in her posture. Just calm, soft grogginess.
She looked… lovely.
Too lovely for anyone else to see her like this. Especially a clan servant looking for proof.
Something tightened in his chest.
Possessiveness?
“Hey,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice low, “you can sleep more. I’ll handle it. It’s probably just some nosy—uh—ritual check.”
Utahime blinked at him, expression still relaxed but mildly amused. “I wake up early, remember?” Her voice had that slightly rough, morning hush to it. “It’s fine.”
Before he could argue again, she was already gathering the fabric around her more tightly and gracefully standing. The layers of her bridal robe shifted over her body with each movement, the silk catching on her skin for a brief second.
Gojo looked away. Too late.
His throat dried up, and he cursed again in his head.
Why are you blushing? Stop blushing. What the hell is wrong with you?
He tried to play it cool, focusing instead on folding the edge of his robe around his waist more tightly, like it could hold his dignity together.
Utahime, completely unaware of the havoc she was creating in his brain, padded toward the bathroom with a quiet, “I’ll be quick.”
She disappeared behind the door.
He stared at the closed space for a second longer than necessary.
Then—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Again.
His jaw tensed. This time the knock was paired with a delicate voice—one of the older attendants, likely under direct instruction from his mother.
“Gojo-sama,” she called softly, “is everything all right? Shall I bring in breakfast?”
Translation: Did you complete the marriage rites? Is the bride still here? Did anything happen?
Gojo rolled his eyes. Unbelievable.
He moved to the door, pulling it open just a crack . His tall frame filled the space immediately, cutting off any glimpse inside the room.
“Good morning,” he said with a polite smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “You don’t need to bring anything. We’ll come out when we’re ready.”
The woman bowed slightly but didn’t move. Her gaze darted—not at him—but past him, subtly trying to scan the room.
Gojo tensed.
She’s looking at the bed.
He shifted forward half a step, subtly widening his stance, his shoulder leaning just enough to block any remaining angle. His arm pressed into the frame like a physical barrier.
“You can go now,” he added, this time with a slight edge in his tone. Not a threat—yet. Just enough to remind her who he was.
The servant blinked once, bowed again, and turned to leave.
He closed the door with a quiet sigh and leaned against it, running a hand through his hair.
He hated this. Hated the way they all wanted to inspect her. As if she were a symbol of his status now. A vessel. Not a person.
He glanced toward the bathroom door, still closed.
She didn’t even know what he’d just shielded her from.
And for some reason… he was glad she didn’t.
He took a breath.
Something tight in his chest stayed knotted.
He couldn’t name it. Wouldn’t. But it was there.
She wasn’t just another woman in his orbit. Not anymore.
Not when she looked so calm next to him in sleep.Not when she trusted him enough to breathe without caution.
His hands fell to his sides.
The soft creak of the bathroom door pulled Gojo from his thoughts.
He turned.
And paused.
Utahime stepped out, her movements calm but precise. Her dark hair was damp—not dripping, but heavy and cool, the way silk holds water. Thin strands clung gently to her neck, and a few droplets traced down the curve of her collarbone, vanishing beneath the slightly loosened neckline of her robe.
The morning light caught her in just the right way, outlining her in silver-blue.
Gojo’s breath hitched.
It wasn’t as though she was provocatively dressed—not at all. In fact, she looked modest, careful, respectful. But that carefulness… only made him notice more. Every drop of water, every exposed inch of skin—her wrist, the delicate slope of her neck, her bare feet padding lightly on the tatami.
It was real . Intimate in a way he’d never experienced with anyone before.
He’d seen women dressed up. Watched them flirt and flaunt and pose. But none of it ever made him feel like this.
Utahime didn’t even look at him.
She was adjusting her sash, tucking her damp hair behind her ear, completely unaware of the storm she was stirring just by existing.
“Your turn,” she said softly, her voice returning to its composed tone, though her gaze flicked to the closed door he’d just stepped away from. “Before another knock comes. You don’t want to be half-soaked when they drag us out for breakfast.”
Gojo blinked. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”
He made it halfway toward the bathroom when—
KNOCK-KNOCK.
He turned, already sighing.
Utahime rolled her eyes.
This time, a younger female voice called out, polite but firm, “Ojou-sama, I’ve been sent to assist you with dressing. Okusama has requested that the bride be presented at the morning table… appropriately.”
Gojo cursed under his breath.
Utahime’s brows lifted slightly, then she glanced down at herself.
She didn’t look improper, but of course , nothing would be enough for the Gojo clan’s curated expectations. Wives weren’t just wives. They were ornamental titles, carried and dressed to match power, reputation, perfection.
Utahime turned to him, and for the first time that morning, Gojo saw her hesitate.
It wasn’t obvious.
Not to anyone else.
But he saw it in the slight movement of her fingers. In the twitch at her jaw. The way her scar tensed.
He stepped forward without thinking. “You don’t have to let her in.”
Utahime shook her head gently. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not—”
“They’ll keep knocking until I answer.” Her voice was firm now. Calm. Strong. “It’s easier this way.”
Gojo frowned. The protectiveness rose in his chest again— hot and sharp. He didn’t like it. The way they reduced her to protocol. To checklist items. As if her worth needed dressing up to be acknowledged.
But Utahime was already walking to the door, tying her robe more securely. She paused, hand on the handle, and glanced back at him.
“Go freshen up. I can handle this.”
He watched her, the strength in her posture, the grace she wielded even under scrutiny. There was a pride in her, quiet but unshakable.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and slipped into the bathroom.
And yet as he closed the door, he paused for a second, hand still on the frame.
Something inside him twisted.
He wasn’t sure what it was.
But it was growing.
Porcelain Rules and Silver Spoons
Utahime thought she would be expected to cook.
It seemed like the kind of ridiculous tradition the Gojo clan would keep—test the new bride, humiliate her softly behind veiled customs. She’d prepared herself mentally for kneeling by some fire hearth, sleeves rolled, her scar catching whispers.
But instead, she found herself seated. Formally.
On a long lacquered floor table with velvet runners and gold-embroidered cushions, side by side with Gojo—no, her husband —facing a sea of well-dressed clan elders, distant relatives, and perfectly silent servants.
The weight of her attire was unnatural. Richly layered silks, stiff with embroidery and tradition, dug into her collarbones. Her hair was set high and ornate, decorated with pins so delicate she feared breathing would unbalance them.
And yet, she sat perfectly still. Composed. Straight-backed. Not betraying a hint of discomfort.
Gojo, of course, was not nearly as graceful.
“Who designed this—” he muttered under his breath, tugging subtly at the collar of his own elaborate robe, “... medieval armor disguised as fashion?”
His mother, seated directly across the table, eyed him sharply. Her back straighter than steel, mouth thinned into a flawless line.
Utahime nearly choked on her breath. She dropped her gaze just fast enough to hide the curve of her smile.
He’s unbelievable. But… a small, part of her felt grateful. He made the absurdity feel less lonely.
The priest at the head of the room began a soft chant. The entire room bowed, eyes closed. Utahime followed, hands folded delicately in her lap.
The prayer was long but calm. A blessing for new beginnings. For family. For fertility. That word made her fingers twitch.
When it ended, she felt dozens of eyes on her again.
An elder cleared his throat and addressed them both. “As is custom, the newlyweds will share the first bite. Then only may we proceed.”
Utahime’s body tensed slightly.
Gojo leaned toward her just a little, voice low. “Guess we’re feeding each other now, huh?”
She glanced at him sideways. “You’ve done worse in public.”
“True. I once mooned the Kyoto Principal in my first year.”
She nearly bit back a laugh. Nearly.
A small tray was placed between them with tiny, ornate dishes. Something sweet and delicate. One bite each.
Gojo picked up the small golden spoon first, then paused.
“For the lady,” he said with a wink, louder than necessary.
She took the bite, steady but shy. Then accepted the spoon and returned the favor, carefully guiding it to his mouth.
He didn’t break eye contact. Of course.
“You’re supposed to chew, not stare,” she muttered under her breath.
“I multitask,” he replied with a wink.
The rest of the table began to eat only after the ritual was done. Servants stepped in gracefully, replacing empty trays with newer, hotter dishes.
Dozens of items. Hundreds, it felt like. Every few minutes something new appeared—fruits carved into birds, soups with edible gold leaf, steamed buns shaped like flowers.
Utahime did her best to eat small portions. The weight of eyes on her hadn’t lessened. She answered polite questions with equally polite distance. A smile, a nod, a formal phrase.
The only real hiccup came when his mother leaned in with a sip of tea and a voice dipped in poison.
“I trust… you both had a fruitful night?”
Utahime’s chopsticks paused mid-air.
Gojo choked on his rice.
“Mother,” he said too casually, wiping his mouth. “How forward of you.”
His mother didn’t flinch. “It’s a necessary concern.”
Utahime managed a respectful smile. “It was peaceful. Thank you for your concern.”
Another sip. Another nod. Nothing more.
Breakfast continued.
Eventually, people began to rise.
Utahime made to stand, but the weight of her attire was no joke. A younger servant rushed in, hands light but steady at her elbow, helping her up with grace.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Gojo stood beside her, stretching subtly, then bowed to the elders.
He was being pulled away—likely summoned for some man-to-man clan discussion.
But before the servant could guide him fully out, Gojo spun halfway back toward Utahime, He leaned close, under the excuse of adjusting her sleeve. “Corner” he murmured near her ear.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
He stood straight gesturing with both hands in a sort of awkward sign language.
He frowned, gave up, and loudly declared, “Excuse me! I’d like a word with my wife. Urgently. Very romantic”
Utahime froze, heat rushing to her cheeks as every elder turned with interest.
He motioned toward the hallway. “Just a moment. Really important.”
She looked sheepish, tried walking toward him with all the dignity the heavy attire allowed. Her steps were short and uneven, the silk layers tripping underfoot.
Gojo winced. “Okay, no, wait, stop. I got you.”
He strode back over and took her hand without hesitation, steadying her as if she were made of glass.
Their fingers brushed and locked. Utahime didn’t dare look up.
He led her around one of the screen panels near the hallway exit.
The moment they were hidden, Gojo exhaled in mock exhaustion. “Okay. That was brutal. I think I aged three years just chewing that gold soup.”
Utahime folded her arms. “You’re exaggerating.”
He grinned. “You didn’t stab anyone with your chopsticks. That’s progress.”
She tilted her head. “And you didn’t flirt with the food. That’s your progress.”
Gojo laughed, softly this time. But then, his smile gentled.
“Hey,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You handled that room like you owned it.”
She blinked. “…What?”
He shrugged. “Just wanted to say that.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
And before she could speak, he added, “Also, if anyone ever tries to make you wear that pile of fabric again, I will commit arson. Politely.”
She snorted, and he looked far too proud of himself.
But then the clan servant called from around the corner, “Gojo-sama, they’re waiting.”
He sighed, already stepping away. “Duty calls. But don’t think you’re done being fed by me. I’ve got plans.”
She shook her head. “You’re insufferable.”
He grinned. “You married me, sweetheart.”
And with that, he disappeared down the hallway.
Utahime stood there a moment longer, heartbeat too loud in her ears, trying to figure out why his words… didn’t feel like just jokes anymore.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading this one-shot! 🤍
Whew, that got a little softer than I expected… 👀
Thank you for sticking around till the end! If you’d like to see more of Gojo and Utahime fumbling through marriage, teasing their way into actual feelings, and maybe finally figuring out what to do with all that tension—drop a comment or hit that kudos button!
Basically: yell at me nicely and I just might write more 💌
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