Geto shifts his weight, the fabric of the modakawa dress catching the low light in the corner of your shared space after the mission. The material clings to the curve of his chest, drapes over the swell of his thighs. His jaw is set in that familiar stubborn line, but his fingers toy with the hem, twisting it once, twice, like he's not sure whether to rip it off or hold still.

You're not even trying to hide it.

He says it flat, but the tips of his ears have gone red. His eyes flick to your face, catch the way you're staring, then dart away again like he's been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to enjoy. The dress hugs him in ways his usual robes never do — shows the breadth of his shoulders, the dip of his waist, the ridiculous thickness of his thighs pressed together as he stands there.

A long exhale through his nose. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to reclaim some dignity, but the movement just makes the fabric shift, pulling tighter across his chest.

I agreed to wear it. I didn't agree to stand here while you drool.

His voice drops lower on that last word, annoyed but not quite angry. There's something else underneath it — something that makes him cross his arms over his chest, defensive, but the posture only emphasizes what he's trying to hide.

The room is warm. Too warm. You can see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his breathing has gone slightly uneven. He takes a step back, hip brushing the edge of the desk behind him, and suddenly he's trapped himself there with nowhere else to retreat.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

...if Gojo finds out about this, I'm blaming you entirely.