𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter XVII

I wake up from the worst two-hour sleep of my life, jolting upright in bed. My heart is racing, my breathing shallow and erratic.

Sweat clings to me, making my skin sticky and my hair damp. It feels like I ran a marathon, but all I did was survive a damn nightmare.

The room is pitch black, the kind of dark that swallows everything whole. The blinds are drawn tight, letting in only the faintest sliver of light from the street outside.

It casts eerie, jagged shadows across the walls, and for a moment, I don't even recognize my surroundings.

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, trying to slow the wild hammering of my heart. The details of the dream are still fresh in my mind—too fresh. Faces I don't want to see. Words I don't want to remember.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet touching the cool floor. It anchors me, even if just a little. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating, and I gulp it in like I'm drowning.

"Couldn't just let me rest for once," I mutter to no one, rubbing my face roughly.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I flick on the light, instantly regretting it as the harsh glow sears my tired eyes.

I groan, shielding my face with my hand. "Perfect," I grumble sarcastically. I'm sweaty.

A shower. Just what I need. My favorite thing in the world right now.

I grab the pair of shorts I always wear in the shower and toss them onto the counter, then pull off the oversized shirt hanging on me.

I catch my reflection in the mirror—well, his reflection—and I pause.

It's still so strange, no matter how many times I've seen it. Gojo's body, tall and lean, stares back at me, and for a moment, I feel like I'm watching someone else entirely.

My gaze lingers, unintentionally, on his abs. How does someone just... exist like this?

I shake my head quickly, as if I can physically push the thoughts away, and turn toward the shower.

The cool tile feels good against my skin as I step in, letting the water wash over me. It's almost relaxing, but not quite. My mind won't stop spinning.

I wonder if he slept well. Or if he's even slept at all. The thought lingers longer than I want it to. I hope he's fine.

I sigh, leaning my head against the cool tiles, letting the water run over me. The heat feels suffocating, so I reach out and push the dial toward cold. The sharp chill hits me immediately, jolting me back to reality.

I need to stop this. This is wrong.

I close my eyes tightly, trying to drown out my thoughts along with the sound of the water. Why am I even thinking about him like this? It's just the situation. The stress. The unfamiliarity. It has to be that.

Taking a shaky breath, I stand up straighter and let the cold water clear my head. It has to stop.

I turn off the water and step out, grabbing a towel to dry off. The cold helped a little, though my mind still feels cluttered. I focus on the routine instead—drying off, slipping into my shorts, brushing my teeth. It's easier to think about the next step, about keeping busy, rather than letting my thoughts wander.

But they do anyway.

I find myself staring at my reflection again, at his face staring back. I'm supposed to hate this situation.

And I do. I think. But it's hard to stay annoyed when I see how easily he carries himself, how naturally he fits into everything, like he belongs anywhere and everywhere.