Satoru Gojo is sprawled across the entire length of the plush, cream-colored sofa, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach. He’s still in his uniform, though the jacket is unzipped and the high collar is askew. His white hair is a mess against the cushions.

The quiet is a living thing here, comfortable and shared. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones after years of knowing someone, of building a home in the shape of them.