𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter XIX

I wake up feeling like I've slept through an entire day. The room is dark, the air heavy, and I'm drenched in sweat.

My head pounds, my throat is dry, and every muscle in my body aches like I've been hit by a truck. Did I really sleep in the same position?

Groaning, I try to stretch, wincing at the stiffness in my joints. As I turn my head to the side, my eyes land on... my face. Peaceful, relaxed, and completely unaware.

Oh. Right.

I had completely forgotten we were sharing the same bed. I guess we must've just drifted off.

My eyes linger on the steady rise and fall of my—no, his—chest. It's surreal, seeing myself like this. For a moment, I just watch, caught between fascination and discomfort.

I narrow my eyes and lean closer, brushing a few strands of hair away from his—my—face.

The expression is so calm, so unbothered, it feels weirdly detached from the chaos in my head. "Do I really look this peaceful when I sleep?" I mutter under my breath.

Gojo stirs slightly at the movement, his brows furrowing before he relaxes again. I freeze, holding my breath, not wanting to wake him. The last thing I need is some cocky remark about how I'm admiring my own face.

I sit back, running a hand through my hair—well, his hair—and sigh. The room is quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. My throat feels dry, and the ache in my muscles hasn't gone away.

Carefully, I slide out of bed, trying not to make any noise. My legs feel stiff, like I've been frozen in place for hours.

I glance back at Gojo—still sleeping soundly in my body—and shake my head.

How does he look so unbothered about all of this? We've got a week left to figure this out, and he's sleeping like he doesn't have a care in the world. Typical Gojo.

I head toward the door, my bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. A glass of water and some fresh air might help clear my head.

I glance back one more time before stepping out, the weight of the situation pressing down on me again.

We're running out of time. And the longer we stay like this, the more I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly down the hall as the maids rush about, their voices low and hurried. Dinner preparations, cleaning—it's like a perfectly choreographed performance.

I watch them for a moment before letting out a sigh. It doesn't faze me anymore. What felt absurd and foreign just a week ago has somehow become... normal.

My fingers absentmindedly brush through the strands of white hair. Soft.

I twirl a small strand between my fingers, my thoughts drifting as I play with it.

For someone who seems larger than life, Gojo really does take care of himself. It's annoyingly perfect—like everything else about him.

I don't have the luxury of getting used to this. This isn't my life, and it never will be.

Still, I can't stop my fingers from weaving through the hair again. Maybe it's comforting. Maybe I'm just tired. Either way, I let myself stay like that for a moment longer, my gaze distant.

My throat is dry, and knowing Gojo, he'll probably wake up parched too. Might as well bring him a glass while I'm at it.

The kitchen is bustling with activity as I walk in. Pots clatter, and the smell of something rich and savory fills the air. I duck past a maid carrying a tray and grab a glass from the counter, filling it with cold water.