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The lights in Tokyo Jujutsu High’s morgue - which doubled, somewhat questionably, as Shoko’s office and break room - were surgically bright. Shoko was crouched before an open steel cabinet, the shelves an archive of medical instruments, sealed specimen jars, and boxes labeled in her slanted handwriting.
“I came to hand over the mission reports,” Utahime announced, placing her folder carefully on a cleared corner of the autopsy table. “What are you looking for? A lost cause?”
“Sterile bone saw blades. The new ones are inferior,” Shoko said, her voice muffled as she peered into the back of the cabinet. “And the vial of concentrated moxa solution. It’s here somewhere. It has to be.”
While Shoko’s attention was fully consumed by her search, Utahime’s eyes caught on a small box that had been pushed to the side, its lid slightly ajar. Inside, nestled against a fold of black velvet, was a slim tube of lipstick. The case was obsidian and capped with a finial of cool metal. It was strangely elegant, almost beckoning.
Utahime picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. She traced the embossed characters along the side: Spirit Kiss No. 6.
“This is beautiful,” Utahime said, more to herself than anything.
“Hmm?” Shoko didn’t turn around, one arm still buried in the cabinet. “What is?”
“This lipstick. It was in that little box. Is it yours?”
“Probably. I don’t remember. Stuff accumulates.” There was a clatter of metal on metal from the depths of the cabinet. “Ah, found the blades. Now, the moxa…”
Utahime turned the exquisite tube over in her fingers. “Can I borrow it? Just for today. I have that training session at Tokyo campus.”
“Take it, take it,” Shoko said, her voice now edged with the frustration of the still-missing vial. “My stuff is your stuff, you know that. Just don’t drink it. Probably cursed or something.”
That gave Utahime a moment’s pause. She examined the tube again. It looked expensive, not ominous. “Cursed?”
“Everything in here is, technically. But it’s probably fine. Mostly.” Shoko finally emerged, triumphantly holding a small amber vial. “Got it.” She finally glanced over, her eyes landing on the lipstick in Utahime’s hand. “Oh, that. Yeah, vault surplus. Should be harmless. Might even be moisturizing. Could contain traces of whale blubber and regret, but hey. Long-lasting color.”
Utahime hesitated, but the weight of it in her palm was pleasing. “So… I can just have it?”
Shoko was already turning back to her instruments, wiping the vial with a disinfectant cloth. “Please do. One less thing to catalog. If it melts your face off, don’t blame me. You were warned about the blubber.”
“Your generosity is overwhelming,” Utahime said dryly.
“I’m a giver,” Shoko agreed, her tone flat as she prepared a syringe.
Spirit Kiss No. 6 sounded a little dramatic, but Utahime had a training session with the Tokyo students soon, and she refused to look tired in front of Gojo, of all people. If that man sensed even a whiff of weakness, he’d nourish himself on it for months, like a humanoid mosquito.
She applied it quickly, blotting her lips together. The color was a deep crimson and surprisingly flattering.
Shoko watched, her expression as informative as a blank page. “It actually suits you.”
That should have been the warning siren. But Utahime was in a hurry. She offered a terse thanks, and headed out the door.
By the time she reached the Tokyo training field, she had her posture set to ‘professional.’ The second-years were already warming up. Today would be productive.
Today would be -
“Wow, Utahime. You put effort into your appearance today.”
Gojo was leaning against the doorway, his white hair catching the sun as if he’d negotiated with the light beams to make him look good. He gave her a thorough once-over, his delight radiating off him in waves.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” he was already smirking, because he could apparently smell her suffering from a mile away. It was his favorite perfume.
“Leave,” she said tightly.
He did not leave. Instead, he pushed off the doorframe and sauntered closer, each step oozing more unnecessary confidence than the last.
“I’m just making an observation,” he continued, beginning to circle her like a shark that had spotted a flustered fish. “New lipstick? Fresh eyeliner? That’s at least a crush level three investment. Maybe a four.”
She resisted the urge to scrub her mouth with her sleeve. He couldn’t possibly know. He was just being his typical, unbearable self.
Gojo leaned in, invading her personal space. “You smell nice, too. Floral. I’m intrigued.”
She considered testing if a training staff could be used for impromptu spearfishing.
Behind them, the students watched the spectacle with open fascination. Someone whispered, “Sensei is glowing,” which was ridiculous. Utahime wasn’t doing anything mystical.
“Get out of my training session,” Utahime said.
Gojo’s grin somehow widened. “You look adorable when you’re flustered. Your eyebrows do this little twitchy thing.”
Ignoring him, Utahime marched to the center of the training mat.
“Alright,” she barked. “Warm-up drills. Gojo, step out.”
He stepped in.
She snatched up a staff. “Get. Out.”
He tilted his head. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll just be a silent observer. A humble admirer of your - ”
“Fine!” she snapped, cutting him off. “We spar. Right now.”
The fight began with simple, testing exchanges. Utahime swept low; Gojo drifted back, his hands still stuffed in his pockets like this was a leisurely stroll. He dodged one strike by leaning so close his hair brushed her temple.
“Is that perfume?” he murmured.
She swung harder, the staff whistling through the air.
He spun away, laughing. “Is it for me?”
Her grip on the staff turned white-knuckled. She was no longer aiming to incapacitate. She was aiming to commit a very justified homicide.
He ducked under her next swing. She cursed internally. The only way to win was to physically shut him up.
She feinted left, moved right, and grabbed a fistful of his collar, intending to flip him onto his back. His body jerked forward in surprise. As she pulled, her knuckles brushed his jaw. When she whipped him over her shoulder, the corner of her mouth just barely grazed the warm skin of his neck.
She kept fighting.
He caught her next staff strike with two fingers.
She yanked the staff back and went for his collar again. This time, as she leveraged him over her hip, their faces brushed. She didn’t notice. He did, but only registered the surprise of the contact.
They fell into a fast rhythm after that, moving too close for any normal sparring session. Utahime stepped in to sweep his legs; her forehead bumped his cheek. Gojo reached around to grab her wrist; his palm pressed against her jawline. She shoved him back; her fingers slid across his throat. He pinned her for a split-second; her lips brushed the side of his neck as she twisted free.
None of it meant anything. It was just a very aggressive, very close-quarters fight.
Utahime blocked another strike, their chests nearly touching. It was too close, but she refused to be the one to retreat.
“Why’re you staring?” Gojo asked, amused.
She pushed him back with a huff. “I’m calculating the exact velocity needed to knock you unconscious.”
His face lit up. “Aw. You do think about me.”
She almost punched him right then.
~
The Tokyo second years had regrouped in the training hall, buzzing with the leftover energy from the sparring session. Utahime stood stiffly beside them, arms crossed, trying to project the authority of a professional who had not just spent twenty minutes trying to murder her colleague with a training staff.
Gojo strolled to the front of the class, spinning a staff with a flourish that suggested he thought this was his personal variety hour.
“Alright, kiddos,” he announced. “Demo time! Pay close attention to my exquisite cursed energy control. Watch and learn.”
Utahime didn’t even glance his way. She was busy mentally crafting her resignation letter and planning a life of solitude in a remote mountain village.
Gojo took a breath and activated his cursed energy.
The world simply… stopped.
Because the moment his energy flared to life, his entire upper body lit up.
His jaw. His cheek. His neck. His throat. The backs of his hands. Even a few spots on his shirt where she’d grabbed the fabric.
All of them were glowing.
Small, shimmering, unmistakable pink-gold kiss marks. Dozens of them. They shone like little lanterns against his skin, a map of every accidental touch from their fight.
Nanami removed his glasses.
“…What,” he said, “the hell.”
Yuta's eyes widened. “Sensei… are those - are those lip prints?”
Maki turned her back to the scene, as if witnessing a war crime.
Panda leaned toward Inumaki and whispered, far too loudly, “He’s glowing like the cover of a cheap romance novel.”
Inumaki simply stared, his face pale, before uttering a horrified, “Salmon…”
Gojo looked down at himself.
“…Huh,” he said, a masterpiece of understatement.
Across the room, Utahime tried to subtly sidestep behind a student, hoping to use them as a human shield. It did not work.
The moment Gojo recovered from his brief, uncharacteristic confusion, he turned his head toward her.
The expression that spread across his face - Utahime had never seen that level smugness before. It was transcendent. His smile was a tactical weapon.
“Utahime~” he sang, the syllable dripping with delight.
Utahime backpedaled so fast she thumped solidly against the wall. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”
He stepped closer, radiant in every conceivable way. He spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself as the main exhibit in a museum of scandal.
“So,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the silent room. “You did kiss me that many times. I lost count! You should’ve told me you were keeping a tally.”
A strangled noise escaped Utahime’s throat. She seriously considered summoning a cursed tool just to end her own suffering and escape this horrific timeline.
“I DID NOT - THAT WASN’T - IT WAS THE SPARRING - YOU - ” Language abandoned her.
Gojo leaned in, his eyes sparkling with malicious joy. “Utahime,” he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You left a really bright one right on my throat. That feels… intentional. Pretty committed, if you ask m - ”
She lunged forward and slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up!”
He grinned against her palm, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
Muffled but perfectly clear, came the words: “ - total wife behavior.”
Utahime screamed internally for what felt like forty-seven consecutive seconds.
~
The moment the class had seen Gojo glowing like he’d been attacked by a swarm of lovestruck, radioactive fireflies, the whispering began. By lunchtime, it was a lost cause. Rumors swept through Tokyo Jujutsu High like a pandemic engineered by gossip demons.
“Gojo-sensei and Utahime-sensei are secretly dating.”
“I heard they were making out during the training demo. While we were watching.”
“Did you see the marks? She covered him. It was like an art project.”
“Utahime-sensei is apparently… wild. Who knew?”
“Gojo walked into the cafeteria just beaming. It’s creepy and suspicious.”
Yuji, ever helpful, had already texted the students: BREAKING: Strongest sorcerer got kissed to death today. Film at eleven.
Nobara had sent a tentative inquiry about whether Gojo needed any ‘respect-proof’ amulets.
Someone, likely Mei Mei’s crow, had already circulated crude fanart.
Utahime sat in the dimmest corner of the faculty room, her head buried in her hands. “I’m moving to another country,” she muttered into her palms. “Somewhere with no sorcery, no phones, and definitely no white-haired men.”
Gojo chose that moment to stroll in, glowing faintly because he’d refused to properly disperse the cursed energy traces. He moved like the newly crowned king of scandal.
He spotted her and beamed. “There you are. Fame really suits us, doesn’t it?”
“Us?” she hissed. “There is no ‘us.’ There is only you, and a massive, glittering lie.”
He leaned down, his mouth far too close to her ear. The students pretending to loiter outside the door let out a collective gasp.
“Utahime,” he whispered. “You missed a spot. The left side of my neck is looking a little bare and lonely. It’s unbalanced.”
She grabbed the nearest object - a stapler - and hurled it at his head.
He dodged without looking, caught it mid-air, and placed it back on her desk. “Violence,” he announced to the room at large. “is her love language. I’m fluent.”
Utahime was two seconds from committing a public felony.
Shoko peeked over the top of her medical magazine. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” she said, her voice bored.
Utahime froze. “Figure… what out.”
“The lipstick,” Shoko said, as if reminding her about a forgotten lunch date. “I just recalled it's a tracking implement. Old-school sorcerer couples used it during joint missions so they wouldn’t lose each other in crowds or cursed fog.” She took a slow sip of her drink. “Pretty romantic, if you think about it. In a codependent way.”
Utahime stared. The world tilted on its axis.
Shoko just nodded, as if she hadn’t just detonated a magical truth-bomb in the middle of the faculty room.
“SHOKO - ” Utahime screeched, her face erupting in flames.
Across the room, Gojo’s entire being lit up with a new understanding. The faint glow on his skin seemed to brighten in sync with his realization.
“Oh,” he said softly, wonder in his voice.
He turned to Utahime, his grin shifting from teasing to something devastatingly pleased.
“So we’re an old married couple,” he said, the words triumphant. “That’s… adorable.”
Utahime launched herself at him with a wordless roar of rage.
Gojo yelped with glee and sprinted out of the room, her furious footsteps echoing behind him.
Shoko turned the page of her magazine.
~
In the evening, Utahime stayed late in the Tokyo guest office, pretending to grade papers but mostly drafting elaborate plans to fake her own death. The cursed glow had, thank every power in the universe, finally faded from Gojo’s infuriating skin.
The rumors, however, had metastasized.
She pressed her cool palms against her burning cheeks. “Just kill me,” she muttered to the empty room. “A curse, a paperwork avalanche, spontaneous combustion. I’m not picky.”
A familiar knock sounded at the door.
She didn’t need to look up. Only one person in all the realms knocked like he was doing the door a favor by gracing it with his presence.
“Hime,” Gojo greeted, stepping inside without waiting for a reply. “Hiding from your scandalized husband?”
“Get. Out.”
“Nah,” he came closer. She gripped the edge of her desk like it was a lifeline.
“Everyone teased me all day, you know,” he said lightly. “Nanami refused to stand next to me. Said I was ‘shining like a rejected festival lantern.’ Hurtful.”
“Good,” Utahime grumbled, staring fixedly at a knot in the wood.
“And my reflection in a window momentarily blinded a first-year. I might get a complaint.”
“Hilarious.”
“ - but.”
His voice softened. He knelt down slightly, just enough to meet her downcast eyes directly.
With two fingers, he tapped the side of his flawless jaw - right where the first, most damning glowing mark had been.
“I didn’t hate it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The evidence. It’s a keepsake.”
Utahime’s chest felt too tight. A fresh wave of heat stormed up her neck, setting her ears on fire.
“Satoru - shut up,” she managed, but it lacked its usual force.
He smiled. It was something almost shy - if the word ‘shy’ could ever be applied to a force of nature like him.
He leaned in a fraction. “…If you ever want to put a real one right here, though,” he murmured, tapping the spot again, “I wouldn’t exactly… protest.”
Utahime’s hand flew up to cover his mouth. “STOP TALKING.”
His laughter vibrated against her palm. Slowly, he curled his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand down. He moved slowly enough that she could have stopped him - could have yanked away - but she didn’t.
His face was close now. Closer than during the spar. Closer than during the height of the glowing scandal.
“Just say the word, Utahime,” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze dropping to her lips for a heartbeat. “I wouldn’t mind earning the real thing. I’m a very dedicated student.”
Utahime punched him hard in the shoulder, making his whole frame rock back and her chair rattle.
But her voice, when it came, was very quiet. “Go home, Satoru.”
He grinned as if she’d just read him poetry. “Satoru, huh?” he said, standing up. “That’s progress. I’ll take it.”
“GET OUT.”
He left, his laughter trailing behind him like a happy ghost.
Utahime stared at the closed door long after the sound had faded. Her heart was pounding a runaway rhythm against her ribs, so loud it drowned out all her plans for caves, mountains, or distant planets.
She slumped forward, forehead meeting the cool wood of the desk.
“…A different galaxy, maybe,” she whispered into the silence, a fluttering feeling stubbornly alive in her chest.