Marry me

The tea had gone cold, a thin film of oil shimmering on the surface of the matcha like a bad omen. Mimi stared at it, her hands folded primly in her lap, trying to channel every ounce of the "refined bride" energy her family had spent years beating into her.

It was difficult to remain refined when the man sitting across from her was currently balancing a sugar cube on his nose.

"Satoru," Mimi said, her voice trembling with the effort of not shouting. "The elders are watching us from the veranda. Could you please act like a human being for five minutes?"

Satoru Gojo tilted his head back further, the blindfold over his eyes making him look like a particularly stylish, albeit insane, statue. "I am acting like a human, Mimi-chan! Humans eat sugar. I am simply... preparing to eat it with flair."

"You are thirty years old," she hissed, her small frame vibrating with a temper that was notoriously short. "You are the head of the Gojo clan. You are the strongest sorcerer in the world. And you are currently making me look like I’m marrying a circus performer."

The sugar cube slid off his nose, and with a lightning-fast movement, Satoru caught it in his mouth. He crunched down with a grin that was far too bright for the somber atmosphere of the Zenin estate gardens.

"They’re just jealous," Satoru said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his palm. "They want to be as relaxed as me, but they’re all stuck with sticks up their—"

"Don't finish that sentence!"

Mimi stood up, her silk kimono rustling sharply. She was small—barely reaching his chest even when he was sitting down—but she carried an intensity that usually made lower-grade curses flee in terror. Her face, which Satoru often described as 'aggressively cute,' was currently flushed a deep shade of pink.

"This is an arranged marriage, Satoru. I know you didn't choose this, and I certainly didn't choose to be tethered to a man who thinks a formal meeting is the time for party tricks. But for the sake of our families, can you at least pretend to respect the tradition?"

Satoru’s grin didn't falter, but something in his posture shifted. He stood up, his towering height casting a long shadow over her. To anyone else, he was an untouchable god, the man who held the balance of the world in his palms. To Mimi, he was just the most annoying person she had ever met.

"Tradition is boring, Mimi," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped into her personal space, the Infinity between them ensuring that even if he leaned in, they would never truly touch. "And you're much prettier when you're angry than when you're playing the role of the perfect little doll."

"I am not a doll," she snapped, poking a finger toward his chest, only to have it stop a fraction of an inch from his fabric, met by the invisible barrier of his technique. "And I am not your entertainment."

She turned on her heel and marched away, her small steps quick and furious. Satoru watched her go, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest.

"She’s definitely not a doll," he murmured to the empty garden. "Dolls don't have teeth like that."

***

The weeks that followed were a blur of wedding preparations that Mimi handled with a grim, military-like efficiency. She picked the fabrics, she vetted the guest list, and she ensured the security seals around the venue were impenetrable. Satoru, meanwhile, showed up only to complain about the lack of dessert options.

It was a marriage of political necessity. The Gojo and Zenin branches needed a bridge, and Mimi was the sacrificial lamb chosen for her high cursed energy reserves and her "malleable" personality. Her family had clearly lied to the Gojos about the latter.

One evening, two weeks before the ceremony, Mimi found Satoru on the roof of the high-rise apartment the clans had provided for them. He wasn't wearing his blindfold; instead, dark sunglasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He was staring out at the Tokyo skyline, the neon lights reflecting in the blue of his eyes.

"You're late," Mimi said, stepping onto the gravel. She was carrying a box of high-end mochi she’d picked up from a shop in Ginza. "I told you we had to go over the seating arrangements for the Jujutsu High faculty."

"I was busy," Satoru replied, not turning around. "A special grade popped up in Roppongi. It was a mess."

Mimi paused. She often forgot that behind the jokes and the sugar addiction, he carried the weight of the entire world. He looked tired. It was a subtle thing—a slight slump in his shoulders, a stillness that wasn't usually there.

She walked over and sat down on the ledge a safe distance from him. She opened the box of mochi and held it out.

"Eat one. You get cranky when your blood sugar drops."

Satoru looked at her, surprised. He took a strawberry-filled one and popped it into his mouth. "You bought the expensive ones. Are you trying to bribe me into behaving at the wedding?"

"Is it working?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

"Maybe a little." He chewed slowly, looking back at the city. "You know, you don't have to do this, Mimi. If you really hate the idea of being 'Mrs. Strongest,' you could just run away. I wouldn't stop you. I’d probably tell the elders I accidentally erased you with a Hollow Purple."

Mimi snorted, a very un-ladylike sound. "And let you have all the fun? If I ran away, who would be there to tell you when you’re being an idiot? The world needs me, Satoru. I’m the only one with the courage to call you a brat to your face."

Satoru laughed, a genuine, warm sound that reached his eyes. "That’s true. Everyone else is too scared or too busy worshipping me."

"I'll never worship you," she said firmly. "I might marry you, but I’ll never think you're anything more than a giant, white-haired headache."

Satoru turned toward her, his expression unreadable. For the first time, he deactivated the Infinity. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were cool, and the suddenness of the physical contact made Mimi’s heart skip a beat.

"Good," he whispered. "I don't need a worshiper. I have enough of those."

Mimi felt her face heat up. She swatted his hand away, though her heart wasn't in it. "Don't get touchy-feely. We aren't married yet."

"But we will be," he said, his smirk returning. "And then I can be a headache for the rest of your life."

***

The wedding day was a chaotic affair of white silk and heavy expectations. Mimi felt like she was wearing a suit of armor rather than a kimono. The ceremony was long, steeped in ancient rituals that felt suffocatingly cold.

When it was finally over and they were left alone in the traditional estate that served as their new home, Mimi slumped against the sliding door of their bedroom.

"I am never doing that again," she groaned, reaching up to pull the heavy pins from her hair.

"Agreed," Satoru said. He had already discarded his formal overcoat and was sitting on the tatami mat, looking remarkably relaxed. "Though you did look very cute. Like a very angry marshmallow."

Mimi threw a hairbrush at him. He didn't even move; it simply hit his Infinity and dropped to the floor.

"I am exhausted, Satoru. If you make one more joke, I will find a way to curse your sweets so they all taste like broccoli."

Satoru held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay! No jokes. Just... come here for a second?"

Mimi eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Just come here."

She sighed and shuffled over, sitting down beside him. The room was quiet, the only sound the chirping of crickets in the garden outside. Satoru reached out and took her hand. This time, he didn't use the Infinity. His palm was warm against hers, his long fingers wrapping around her smaller ones.

"I know this wasn't what you wanted," he said, his voice unusually serious. "And I know I’m a lot to handle. But I’m glad it was you. If I had to be tied to someone, I’m glad it’s the girl who isn't afraid to throw hairbrushes at the most powerful man in existence."

Mimi looked down at their joined hands. Her anger, which usually felt like a shield, was starting to crumble. She had spent so long bracing herself for a life of misery with a man she thought was a narcissist, but in the quiet moments, she saw the loneliness he tried so hard to hide.

"You're still an idiot," she whispered, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles.

"Your idiot," he countered.

"Don't push it."

She looked up at him, and for a moment, the distance between them felt non-existent. Satoru leaned in, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She didn't. When his lips met hers, it wasn't the earth-shattering explosion she had expected. It was soft, hesitant, and strangely sweet—like the mochi she bought him.

When he pulled back, he was grinning again, but this time it was different. It was softer.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Does this mean I don't have to sleep on the porch?"

Mimi’s eyes snapped wide, her blush returning with a vengeance. She shoved him hard in the shoulder. "One kiss does not grant you bedroom privileges, Satoru! Go find a futon in the guest wing!"

"Eh? But Mimi-chan! It’s our wedding night!"

"Out!" she shouted, pointing toward the door.

Satoru laughed as he stood up, backing away from her flying slippers. "You're so mean to me! I’m telling the elders you’re abusing the Six Eyes!"

"Tell them! See if they care!"

As he disappeared down the hallway, still chuckling, Mimi sat back on her heels. She touched her lips, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with her temper.

She had married a man she couldn't stand, a man who drove her to the brink of insanity every single day. But as she looked at the empty space beside her, she realized with a sinking, terrifying feeling that she didn't want him to be anywhere else.

"Stupid Satoru," she muttered, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The arranged marriage had been a trap, a political move designed to chain them both. But as the moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, Mimi realized that for the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a prisoner.

She felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Even if her husband was a giant, sugar-addicted brat.