The impression of the infinite

Outside, the sound of water running between the stones; inside, silence broken only by the gentle patter of the small private onsen and the slow breath of the evening.

Yuzu draped a towel over her shoulders. Her hair, still slightly damp, fell neatly down her back. She wore a simple, elegant, cream-colored swimsuit. The fabric wrapped her body delicately, leaving her back and part of her shoulders bare. Her bare feet on the warm wood.

Gojo sat in front of her, just outside the tub. Loose black swim shorts, a classic cut. The white blindfold over his eyes, his hair a little tousled by the heat of the water. He looked relaxed, almost absorbed, but his hands kept playing with the rim of the glass of water set beside him.

Yuzu watched him for a moment. Eyes closed behind the blindfold, his profile oddly serene. But there was something in the tension of his shoulders, in the muscles of his neck.

"You haven't been sleeping much lately," she said softly.

Gojo raised an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"

"Your shoulders. They're at war with the rest of your body."

"Then we should declare a truce," he replied, smiling.

She didn't laugh. She took a step forward. "May I?"

Gojo hesitated. Just a moment. Then he turned, sitting up straighter.

Yuzu knelt behind him. She set her hands on him the way you lay down a promise: first a light touch, then her fingers seeking the shoulder blades, her thumb tracing slow, patient circles. The warmth of his skin rose to meet her, and she followed the line of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the descent of his spine, returning with the same care, one brushstroke after another.

Gojo didn't speak; but his breathing changed. It became fuller, deeper. The tense muscles yielded a little under that measured attention. Yuzu increased the pressure just a touch, unhurried: the rhythm was soft, steady, like music kept low so it comes through more clearly.

"If you keep that up," he murmured, his voice now deeper, "you'll make me believe in reincarnation."

Yuzu smiled without a word and repeated the movement: up, down, pausing for a moment where she felt resistance, then easing it with gentleness. Gojo tilted his head, letting himself go, and after a moment, more softly:

"Do you know what I'm missing now?"

"What?"

"Seeing you. The way you look at me while you do it."

She traced his profile with her gaze: the bridge of his nose, the shadow of his lashes under the blindfold, his relaxed mouth.

"Then take it off," she said softly. "The blindfold."

He hesitated, just a moment. He brought his hands to his face and lifted the fabric with two fingers.

The light reached him, and the blue of his eyes flared as if the room had held its breath for that moment. He turned slightly toward her; Yuzu still had her hands on his shoulders, ready to begin again. He took one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist.

"This is better," he whispered. She nodded and resumed with the same gentle precision, while his gaze stayed fixed on hers. The blindfold fell to the floor.

Yuzu looked up. She saw his eyes. Up close.

They were impossible.

An icy blue, cut by a deep, unnatural light. They weren't human. But they weren't anything else, either. There was something childlike and ancient all at once. Like a sky you've watched for too long. Like a god who's forgotten he is one.

Yuzu didn't look away. And for an instant, her heart stopped. Not from fear—no. She trusted him. But from absolute beauty.

Gojo looked at her. Slowly. In silence.

Then he lifted a hand and brushed her. Just one finger on her cheek.

And it was enough. He leaned in, with that light certainty that set him apart, and kissed her. The kiss was slow and overwhelming at once, like a warm current heading out to sea: no hurry, no needless theatrics. Only his mouth seeking hers with a polite, precise hunger; one hand supporting the nape of her neck; the other, instinctive, sliding to her waist to draw her a little closer. Yuzu answered with confidence: she opened the kiss and guided it for a moment, then let herself go. The water lapped at the rim; the wood creaked beneath their knees.

There were no promises. No explanations. Only two people suspended in the perfect moment between desire and tenderness. She lowered her gaze, a smile surrendering at the corner of her lips. They parted for just a moment: just long enough to put the blindfold back on, retake their place on the edge, and let the wave they had raised pass.

Later, on the way back, they didn't say much. They walked slowly along the path of damp gravel, their hands brushing now and then as if testing each other's gravity.

The lanterns in the garden traced warm circles on the stones. They stopped in front of the villa's door. Gojo turned. Eyes uncovered, but calm. No magic trick, no scene.

"If you dream of anything tonight," he said softly, "call me."

Yuzu nodded. And smiled at him.

***

The next morning, the air tasted of filtered light and silence broken only by footsteps in the corridors. The sky above the Institute of Occult Arts was clear, yet there was a quiet tension in the air, as if everything—trees, stone, wind—were holding its breath.

Yuzu walked through the classroom with her usual measured pace, hands clasped around her folder, a light scent of vanilla and pink pepper following her down the halls.

She hadn't slept much. Not from fatigue, but from that kind of agitation that doesn't hurt, only vibrates. The previous evening's kiss—brief, controlled, and yet inevitable—returned to her mind like an echo just under the skin.

At nine, the class was ready.

Arranged in a circle as always, the chairs created a living, breathing space. Yuzu set three reproductions in front of her: a ballerina sketch, a rehearsal scene in a theater, a blurred detail of a tutu. All Edgar Degas.

The students barely murmured, but she didn't need to raise her voice. It was enough that she began to speak.

"Today we won't talk about dance," she said, quietly. "We'll talk about discipline. About what hides beneath elegance."

She moved among them without looking at her notes, only at the images.

"Degas wasn't in love with ballerinas. He was obsessed with the gesture. With tension. With the boundary between grace and strain."

A curious silence fell over the room. The windows let in an oblique light that stroked the papers spread on the floor.

"Look at the feet. Look at the hands. Look at how the body reaches for perfection and fails… always by a detail. A crooked line. A misplaced shadow."

A student raised her hand, hesitant. "Why does he keep drawing them, if he sees only the flaw?"

Yuzu smiled softly. "Because that's where truth lives. In that millimeter of imperfection that makes us human."

Behind the open door, someone had stopped to listen. Suguru, leaning against a column, nodded slowly. And next to him—Satoru.

Standing, motionless, hands in his pockets and the white blindfold. But his eyes, beneath it, followed Yuzu's every movement. Every pause. Every inflection of her voice.

She, without looking at him, felt him. A presence. A warm wave.

And when she turned to take another sheet, she saw him.

He gave her the slightest nod. Not theatrical. Not ironic. Just true.

Yuzu lowered her gaze for an instant. Then she returned to her students. But something had changed in her voice. In her hands. In that strong fragility that, from that day on, no one in the room ever forgot.

After the lesson, the students filed out one by one, amid light chatter and tired steps. The papers were still scattered, the light had grown clearer. Yuzu gathered the prints slowly, arranging the sheets in a quiet, precise order.

Then she heard it.

Behind her, the familiar sound of footsteps too light to belong to anyone else. She turned, and Satoru was there. Leaning against the column, arms crossed, the usual smile halfway between innocent and impertinent. But he didn't speak right away.

For a second, he just looked at her.

That second was enough to make the silence slightly charged. Like the moment before a sour note. Or before another kiss.

Yuzu lowered her gaze to the papers, seeking a handhold in the motion.

"Don't you have a class to save or a lecture to give?"

Satoru pushed off the wall with a half-smile.

"I figured today I could risk my life… or come let you torture me. I chose the more dangerous path."

Yuzu lifted her eyes. Calm, but with that glint at the edge of her iris.

"Caution isn't your strong suit."

"No. But when it comes to teachers who explain Degas as if they were talking about the human heart, I'd say yes."

She sighed, unable to hide the hint of a smile. "I feared you'd gotten more serious after yesterday."

"Serious?" Satoru arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. "Yuzu… yesterday I just lost my balance. It happens. Especially if someone looks at you like you're about to disappear."

"I wasn't looking at you like that."

"No. But you're good at not showing things. That's your talent. Mine, on the other hand…"

He reached out and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead.

"…is pretending I don't notice anything, when in reality I've already seen everything."

She didn't pull away. But she didn't move either.

"You should stop talking like that."

"Like what?"

"As if words always had a hidden layer."

Satoru took an exaggerated step back. "All right, I'll retreat. But I'll make it up to you tonight. I intend to buy you an ice cream. And I have excellent arguments."

"Do me a favor."

"Anything."

Yuzu looked him straight in the eyes again. "Don't wear the blindfold. I want to see if you can be convincing even without mystery."

Gojo smiled. Slow. Sincere. And left without answering, leaving behind only a light trail of irony and something that looked very much like desire.

Yuzu went back to her prints.

But her hands trembled, just a little.

***

Evening slipped away; the air, now milder, brushed her arms. The sunset spun the clouds into pink and copper bands, lighting the windowpanes one after another. From some balcony drifted the scent of jasmine; from the street, the distant chime of a bicycle.

Gojo was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with his sleeves rolled up. One hand in his pocket, in the other a cup glossy with condensation; the little plastic spoon tapped lightly against the rim. When he saw her, he lifted his chin a fraction: the smile reached his eyes before his mouth.

"Emergency ice cream," he said, offering it to her. "Strawberry and yuzu. I couldn't resist the poetic coincidence."

Yuzu looked at him sideways, her eyes just barely smiling.

"I hope fate doesn't taste like artificial strawberry."

"Afraid it's too sweet?"

She took the cup. Their fingers brushed. A second, no more. But it was enough.

"No. I'm afraid I'll like it."

They walked slowly, with no destination. Only steps and silence. From time to time, Satoru said something meaningless. But he watched her from the side, like someone measuring the distance between a joke and a confession.

A small empty park welcomed them with cold benches and the scent of wet grass. They sat. Yuzu ate calmly, brought the spoon to her mouth; she touched it first with her tongue, slowly, her lips kissing the strawberry before eating it. A simple, unconscious gesture. And yet deeply intimate.

Gojo no longer spoke. He watched her.

First her hands—the way they held the cup with natural grace. Then her mouth—that measured rhythm, the glossy shadow of her lower lip. He bit the inside of his own, once, to withstand the impact. His free hand ran through his hair, as if to shake off one thought too many; it didn't work.

Under the blindfold, his eyes were fixed on her.

Hungry, yet controlled.

Yuzu noticed the silence and looked up. She saw it. The restrained desire. The irony giving way to something more bodily, urgent.

"You know," he said, his voice lower, "there are things that only have a taste when you're with the right person."

She didn't answer right away. She lifted her gaze, with an expression that was no longer merely elegant.

It was presence. Awareness.

"Then I hope you're savoring every second."

Gojo half-closed his eyes. A slow, indecipherable smile.

Then he lowered his voice.

"More than you imagine."

And from that moment, the silence was no longer just a pause. It was a promise.

The drive was slow. Not because of traffic or obstacles, but because of the rhythm of their silences.

Yuzu looked out the window. Tokyo's lights streamed past like thoughts she didn't want to name. Satoru drove with one hand, the other resting casually between the gearshift and his knee. Now and then, he turned his face toward her. A second. Two. Too many.

"That ice cream," he said softly, "had side effects I didn't foresee."

"Like what?"

"Like now I'm having trouble focusing on the road."

"Do you need new glasses or more discipline, Gojo-sensei?"

He laughed, softly. "I could use a closed room. And you inside it."

Yuzu lowered her gaze. A smile brushed her lips, but it wasn't embarrassment. It was a choice. Slow.

Deliberate.

They reached the villa. Gojo opened the gate with a quick motion, but this time he wasn't joking.

No quips. Only bright, steady eyes, heavy with something that had been held back too long.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind them. He took off the blindfold and turned.

An instant.

A heartbeat.

Then he drew her in.