The court was empty again.
Late night. Lights dimmed. Just the distant hum of vending machines and the whisper of sneakers on polished wood.
Gojo stood near the free-throw line, taking shots with lazy grace. He wasn't trying to score. He was just there—something about the quiet rhythm grounding him.
Kuroko entered silently, like always. But Gojo didn't need to turn around to know he was there.
"You move like a ghost," he said, catching the rebound one-handed. "I thought I was the one with cursed energy."
Kuroko stepped onto the court beside him. "And you talk like someone trying not to be alone."
Gojo chuckled. "Ouch. Accurate."
They stood side by side in silence for a while. Gojo passed the ball to Kuroko. Kuroko dribbled once, then passed it back.
"Why did you do it?" Kuroko asked.
"Do what?"
"Try to bring everyone back. Fix what you didn't break."
Gojo leaned against the post, arms folded, gaze drifting to the rafters. "Because… I've seen what happens when powerful people stop caring. When they stop connecting."
Kuroko looked at him. "You were a teacher, weren't you?"
Gojo blinked. That one landed harder than he expected.
He didn't answer right away.
"I was someone who wanted to protect the next generation," he said eventually. "Didn't always work out."
Kuroko passed the ball back to him. "It's working now."
Gojo smiled faintly. "You think so?"
"I wouldn't have come back if I didn't."
Another quiet moment.
Then Kuroko sat on the bench. Gojo followed, flopping down beside him.
"You know," Gojo said, glancing sideways, "when I first got here, I thought this world would be boring. No curses, no life-or-death stakes. Just basketball."
"And now?"
Gojo tilted his head. "Now it feels more human. More… real. Maybe that's scarier."
Kuroko nodded. "That's why it matters."
The gym lights buzzed softly above them.
They didn't need a game. Or words. Or fanfare.
Just sitting there—side by side, light and shadow—it was enough.
Because trust wasn't just built on wins.
It was built on moments like this.