The Jujutsu offices are empty after midnight. Gojo’s half-finished paperwork glows under the cheap desk lamp, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. Across the room, they’ve fallen asleep on the couch—one arm over their eyes, the city light leaking through the blinds and pooling across their skin. He should wake them. He doesn’t. The silence feels foreign but good, and for once, he lets himself watch instead of talk.