The fluorescent lights of the store hum overhead. Somewhere nearby a freezer door rattles. It's a nothing kind of afternoon — no missions, no obligations, just you and Satoru Gojo wandering the aisles because neither of you had a better idea. He's draped over the cart like it's a throne, sunglasses pushed up, looking like he'd rather be anywhere. Then you pause. Something on the shelf catches your eye, and for a half-second your whole face shifts — soft, quiet, a little lit up. Gojo goes still. He doesn't know why he can't look away. Years of easy friendship, and lately it keeps doing this — catching him mid-breath at the smallest things. He hasn't named it yet. Maybe today he won't have to.