𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter VIII

The alarm blares, and I groan, slamming it off with more force than necessary. My head feels heavy, my limbs stiff.

Somehow, at some point in the night, I managed to crawl into bed. I remember crashing on the floor, but here I am, tangled in silky sheets that smell like Gojo's stupidly expensive cologne.

Dragging myself up, I stumble to the bathroom. The second I open the door, I stop in my tracks.

The bathroom is enormous, bigger than my entire bedroom back home. It's so clean it sparkles, and I almost feel guilty stepping inside.

Almost.

I shuffle to the mirror, catching a glimpse of Gojo's face staring back at me. It still feels so wrong, seeing someone else's reflection.

His eyes are slightly puffy, though. I squint, leaning closer. Has he cried before? Probably not. What could someone with a perfect life like his even cry about? He's rich, has a mansion, no nagging parents to deal with.

I let out a big sigh, rubbing my—his—eyes. I should be used to this by now, but I'm not. Not even close.

Gripping the edge of the sink, I let the cold marble ground me. It's a new day, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive it.

I reach out and turn on the faucet, letting the water rush out in a steady stream. The sound fills the silence of the room, and for a moment, it's oddly soothing.

I tentatively push my fingers under the flow to test the temperature. It's warm, comforting even.

I keep my hand there for a minute, just letting the warmth spread. It's the first time in a while I've felt something calm me down.

My eyes drift to his hands—my hands, for now. They're pale, smooth, almost too perfect. Not a single scar or callus. He's really pale, like he's never been out in the sun for more than a minute.

I glance back at the flowing water and sigh. Everything feels so strange, so wrong. How long am I supposed to live like this?

I glance back at the mirror, at the messy white hair sticking up in every direction. It's so him. I groan internally. I should really take a shower. But then my eyes drift downward, and I freeze.

How do I even take a shower? The thought makes my face heat up instantly, my skin practically burning. Has Gojo respected the clothed shower rule we talked about? Or has he—?

I groan, louder this time, and cover my face with my hands. This is so humiliating.

Forcing myself to move, I step into the shower, fully clothed, and turn the water on. The spray hits me, soaking through the fabric and plastering it to my skin.

It feels ridiculous, but at least it gives me some sort of comfort.

The water falls in steady streams, and I let it drown out my thoughts for a little while. How is this my life now?

I grab the wet shirt, hesitating for a split second before yanking it off, the heavy fabric sticking awkwardly to me. I avert my eyes, trying not to look too much at anything. This is so weird.

Turning back to the shower, I'm met with an overwhelming lineup of bottles—shampoos, conditioners, body washes, all perfectly arranged. He's so organized, it's almost unsettling.

I blink against the water streaming down my face, barely able to keep my eyes open as I grab one of the conditioners. It smells expensive, like a mix of fresh citrus and something herbal. I mutter under my breath, "Of course he'd have fancy stuff."

Squeezing the conditioner into my hand, I start working it into his—my—hair. The strands feel softer than I expected, even under the water.

It's all so surreal. How does someone even maintain hair like this? It's like it's from a shampoo commercial.