Satoru Gojo had a habit—one you had long since accepted, though it never failed to make you laugh. The moment he spotted you anywhere near a surface remotely suitable for lounging, he latched onto you like a lazy, overgrown cat.
“Satoru, I have things to do,” you protested as he draped himself over you, his long limbs completely engulfing you on the couch.
“Mm, no you don’t,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck. “You have one job. And that’s being my personal pillow.”
His arms tightened around you as he nuzzled closer, his breath warm against your skin. He was impossibly warm, a human heater, and the way he clung to you like you were the only thing grounding him made your heart squeeze.
“You’re such a baby,” you muttered, running your fingers through his soft white hair.
“I’m your baby,” he corrected, sighing in bliss. “Now stop wiggling and let me love you.”
And just like that, your plans were forgotten. Because when Satoru Gojo wanted cuddles, there was no escaping.