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The finance floor of Kohana & Pierce Capital had been a battleground for the past month—the prize: a newly opened Vice President role with a seven-figure bonus attached and a future fast track to Managing Director. You and Nanami had been front-runners since day one. And everyone loved watching you fight.

“Kento, your proposal is too risk-averse.” You leaned across the glass meeting table, voice calm but smug, pen tapping against the printout of his pitch deck.

He didn’t even look at you. “And yours is unsustainable.”

“You’re not afraid to make money, are you?”

“I’m afraid to lose it,” he replied smoothly, flipping the page with practiced indifference. “Which you seem very good at.”

There was a small collective gasp from the younger associates. One of them nearly dropped her cold brew.

Your smile was sharp. “You wish I was bad at this.”

Nanami looked up then, finally meeting your eyes. Calm. “No. I wish you weren’t in my way.”

The room went silent.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sat back with that same infuriating smirk. “Then work harder.”

He did. So did you. And neither of you were planning to lose.

Your parents had always said the same thing: "You work too hard. You should live somewhere nicer."

You’d brushed them off for years, happy in your high-rise downtown apartment where the espresso machine never stopped humming and the Wi-Fi was faster than your patience. But something shifted this year. Maybe it was the relentless hours, or the way your mother sighed every time she saw your tiny kitchen. Maybe it was that quiet, aching itch to make things feel permanent. Real.

So, you moved. Begrudgingly. Into the sleepy, painfully upscale villa community your parents had practically handpicked for you. Asahi Grove Residences. Custom brick. Private driveways. Mailboxes with gold accents. It was aggressively suburban.

The kind of place where the neighbors actually waved, the landscapers showed up before sunrise, and the air always smelled like jasmine and money. You hated how quiet it was. Hated how the walls didn’t vibrate with traffic. But it was beautiful. Uncomfortably beautiful.

You took your time settling in. Decorated room by room. Avoided walking around too much outside because it all felt too... polished. You weren’t used to this kind of silence.

The first few days passed without incident. Until the morning you saw him.

You were halfway out of your driveway, distracted by your GPS rerouting around some ridiculous community detour, when a sleek black Mercedes coasted by—slow enough to catch your attention, fast enough to make your stomach twist.

You glanced up. Broad shoulders. Blonde hair. A familiar profile.

Your jaw dropped. No. No fucking way.

You parked crookedly and practically jogged to the edge of your driveway. The car had turned down the street and into the cul-de-sac at the very end—right into the villa with the dark gray shutters and the stupidly perfect lawn.

You squinted. Waited. And then, sure enough, the driver's side door opened.

Nanami Kento stepped out, briefcase in hand, tie already loosened, wearing that same world-weary expression you’d seen ten hours ago in the office conference room.

You froze. He did too. You stared at each other across the yards—two stunned statues with way too much shared history. Then, finally, you called out, voice half-disbelieving:

"You're kidding me."

Nanami sighed. “Of course you live here.”

You marched toward the sidewalk, eyebrows raised. “I just moved in. My parents basically bullied me into it. What the hell is your excuse?”

“I’ve lived here since 2015,” he said flatly. “After the firm downsized for the first time. Moved in with my parents. Never left.”

You blinked. “Wait. You live with your parents?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

You folded your arms. “So we’re coworkers and neighbors now? Fantastic.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Nanami said, already turning toward his door. “I don’t talk to my neighbors anyway.”

You watched him disappear inside, then stared at the closed door for a long, stunned second. You weren't sure whether to scream or laugh. Maybe both.

Saturday morning crept in with dew on your porch railings and the faint scent of rosemary from the neighbor's garden. You stood at your kitchen window, hands wrapped around a mug, watching the street slowly wake up. A dog barked somewhere down the road. Sprinklers clicked on. It was almost peaceful.

Until you saw him.

Nanami jogged past your window like clockwork, right on schedule—6:45 a.m., hair tied back, t-shirt darkened at the chest with sweat, headphones in, gaze fixed ahead. The cadence of his run was maddeningly calm.

You lifted your mug in silent mockery. He didn’t see you.

The next weekend, you were sitting on the porch.

Not intentionally. Just… getting some air. With your tea. And maybe a book you weren’t reading. Your eyes followed the rhythm of his stride again. You watched the flex of his calves beneath his joggers. He didn’t wave. But he slowed.

Later, it was the mailroom. You reached for your package at the same time.

“Go ahead,” he murmured.

“I insist,” you replied.

“It’s heavy.”

“Good. You need arm strength.”

His lips twitched. You weren’t sure if it was irritation or amusement.

Then there was the HOA meeting, where you both voted against the new lawn regulation but refused to acknowledge the agreement. And the community group chat, where he edited your message to correct a single comma.

You deleted it. He reposted it. Edited again.

He corrected your grammar once in person. You said nothing. Just glared at him across your hydrangeas for three days straight.

But there were glances. Pauses. You caught him watching you as you talked to the neighbor’s toddler. His eyes lingered longer than they should have. And you didn’t look away either.

The universe was clearly playing a long joke. You were sure of it.

And still, you kept making coffee at 6:30 a.m. You kept walking to your mailbox when you knew his car would pull up. You kept bickering. But you never stopped looking.

The Monday after your third official neighborhood run-in, the tension followed you to work. You arrived late. By three minutes. Which wouldn’t have mattered, except Nanami was already in the conference room, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just slightly—just enough to make you pause in the doorway.

He didn’t look at you when you walked in, but you knew he’d seen you. His pen stopped moving. His jaw flexed. One long inhale through his nose. Then he turned the page and resumed writing. Petty, yet so predictable.

You sat down across from him, tugged your skirt into place, and crossed your legs slowly. His eyes flicked up. One second. Two. And then he looked away.

The meeting started. Something about capital strategy and client portfolios. You could barely hear it over the scratch of his pen and the heat crawling up the back of your neck. He kept adjusting his sleeves. You kept licking your bottom lip. The intern next to you was blushing for reasons you couldn’t begin to unpack.

“Your numbers from Q2 seem inflated,” he said without looking at you.

You leaned forward. “Maybe your standards are just too low.”

He glanced up then, eyes hard, but there was something else underneath.

Something sharp. Curious. Curious enough that when you reached across the table to slide your folder toward him, his fingers brushed yours for just a second too long. Neither of you moved.

The room buzzed around you. Someone said something about quarterly growth. No one was paying attention. He pulled the folder toward him, slow. You exhaled and the heat settled there, between you. Not just rivalry anymore.

When the meeting finally ended, you stayed behind under the excuse of catching up on notes. The rest of the office emptied around you—chairs scraping, laughter echoing down the hall until the glass doors sealed the noise off completely. The city outside began to glow blue and gold, skyscraper lights flickering on one by one.

Across the floor, Nanami was still at his desk. He hadn’t left either.

Through the glass wall of his office, you could see the line of his shoulders bent slightly forward, a hand braced against his temple as he read. The faint reflection of your own silhouette hovered beside his in the window, and you hated how your pulse reacted to that—like the air itself was aware of him.

You told yourself to keep typing. To finish the report. But the sound of his pen against paper carried through the quiet, and it was impossible not to listen for it. Minutes passed. Maybe more.

At some point, he looked up. The motion caught you, instinctive. You pretended to be checking figures on your screen, but the reflection in the glass betrayed you—his gaze lingered, calm and unreadable.

Then his phone rang, breaking the spell. He reached for it without looking away from his work.

“No, mother,” he said after a pause, voice firm but measured. “I don’t need you to schedule dates for me.”

Your stomach dropped. The words hung in the stillness. You froze, fingers suspended above your keyboard. A heartbeat later, your own phone buzzed against the desk.

Mom.

You groaned, half under your breath, and answered without thinking. “Hey, I’m still at work—”

“Perfect,” she said cheerfully. “So is your match.”

“What?”

“Dinner this Saturday. You’re coming. It’s just family. Very casual.”

“Mom—”

“You’ll love him. Polite, respectful. Career-minded. Clean shoes. And! Your father and I already spoke to his parents.”

“You what?”

She hummed like she hadn’t heard the edge in your voice. “Seven o’clock. I’m ironing the tablecloth. Love you!”

The line went dead. You stared at your phone. And from the office beside yours, Nanami sighed, voice low but clear through the glass.

“I already said I would come to dinner. That should be enough.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. No. It couldn’t be.

The printer in the corner clicked to life, as if mocking the silence that followed. You looked up, and through the reflection on the glass, his eyes met yours. Neither of you spoke. But something told you—you didn’t need to.

The next few days moved differently.

Work didn’t feel like work. Not because it was easier—but because everything around him suddenly felt louder. The hum of the printer. The click of his pen. The way his reflection lingered in the corner of your computer screen whenever he passed by your office door.

You’d never been this aware of him before. You told yourself it was ridiculous—that you were imagining it. But on Wednesday morning, when you went for coffee in the break room, he was already there, sleeves rolled up, stirring his cup with slow precision. Steam curled between you.

“Morning,” you said, trying to sound neutral.

He didn’t look up. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m avoiding a migraine.”

His mouth twitched. A ghost of something dangerously close to a smile. “How’s that working for you?”

“Poorly.”

You grabbed your coffee and left before he could reply, but you felt his gaze follow you all the way back to your office.

Thursday night, you caught him outside your villas again. He was taking out the trash—mundane, normal. Except for the rolled sleeves, the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, the way his eyes flicked toward you as if he’d been waiting. You said nothing at first. Neither did he.

Then, quietly: “You look tired.”

You huffed. “So do you.”

“Maybe we both should stop staying late.”

You adjusted your grip on the mail in your hands. “Maybe.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. Just gave a faint nod and went back inside, leaving you staring at the closed door a second too long.

Friday came and went in a blur of unfinished reports and sidelong glances. He was quieter than usual, and you hated that it bothered you.

Every time he spoke, his voice felt too close. When he leaned over your desk to point something out in a spreadsheet, you caught the scent of cedar and soap, and it nearly made you dizzy.

By the end of the day, the only thing louder than your heartbeat was your mother’s reminder text blinking on your phone: Saturday, 7pm. Wear something nice. You typed out a response, deleted it, and turned your phone over.

Saturday came quick. The sun poured through your windows, lighting up every wrinkle in the dress you’d changed out of twice. You’d told yourself all morning that it wasn’t a date—that you were simply being polite, showing up, surviving the evening, and going home. Nothing more.

But when the doorbell rang, your pulse betrayed you. You weren’t even at the door yet when you heard your mother’s delighted voice drift through the foyer. “Oh, Kento! You made it! We’ve heard so much about you.”

Kento.

You froze halfway down the hall.

He was already inside by the time you appeared—hair neat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open just enough to make your mouth go dry. He carried himself the same way he did at work: calm, controlled. But his eyes found you instantly, and the control faltered for a fraction of a second. Just a flicker.

“Of course,” he said, his voice smooth. “It’s good to see you again.”

Your father clapped him on the shoulder. “Didn’t realize my daughter worked with you! Small world, huh?”

“Small,” you muttered. “Suffocating, really.”

Dinner was already waiting. Your mother had outdone herself—linen tablecloth, candlelight, a centerpiece that looked like it belonged in a magazine. She was glowing, thrilled. You, on the other hand, were not.

Nanami took the seat beside you. Of course he did. Too close for comfort, not close enough to blame him for it. The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of forced politeness. Silverware clinking, glasses filled and refilled.

“So,” your mother began, smiling like she’d planned this line for days. “You two must work very closely at Kohana & Pierce, don’t you?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Not that closely.”

Nanami didn’t look at you, but his jaw tightened. “We collaborate when necessary.”

“Collaborate,” your father repeated, grinning. “That’s what they’re calling it now, huh?”

The table erupted in laughter—except for you. And Nanami. You could feel your heartbeat behind your ribs. It shouldn’t have felt this exposed—this personal—but your parents were peeling back every layer you’d built to keep him at a distance. Talking about your late nights, your ambition, your so-called ‘chemistry.’

Nanami didn’t defend himself. He didn’t have to. He only spoke when your father teased you for being too driven.

“I think ambition is admirable,” Nanami said quietly. “She works harder than anyone in that office.”

The room went still. You turned to him. His tone wasn’t flirtatious, wasn’t performative—it was honest. Uncomfortably so.

You blinked, throat tight. “That’s… generous of you.”

“It’s not generosity,” he said, meeting your eyes. “It’s fact.”

Something in your chest cracked open at that. The rest of dinner blurred. You didn’t remember what was said, only the weight of every glance, every breath that seemed to draw you closer. When the candles burned low and the plates cleared, your mother insisted you see him out.

The front door clicked shut behind you both. The air outside was cool, quiet. For the first time all night, there were no witnesses.

You exhaled, shaky. “They really outdid themselves.”

“They mean well,” he said. “Even if they’re… misguided.”

You laughed softly. “That’s one word for it.”

He looked at you then, and the sound caught in your throat. The porch light cut across his face—sharp jaw, tired eyes, the faintest crease between his brows like he was thinking of saying something he shouldn’t.

“Do you think this was on purpose?” you asked.

He hesitated. “Our parents? Absolutely.”

The silence that followed was full. Too full. You could hear the faint hum of the streetlamp, the rustle of trees. His hand brushed yours as you both shifted toward the same step, and neither of you moved away.

“It shouldn’t have gone this far,” he said finally. “We should—”

“Stop?” you finished.

He nodded once. “Yes.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

You were close enough now to feel his breath, to see the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that you didn’t know who leaned in first.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. Just the nearness of one—so close you could feel the shape of the want between you.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped back. Hands at his sides. Composure snapping back into place.

“Goodnight,” he said, quiet but certain.

You stood frozen on the porch long after he left, staring at the empty space where he’d been, your pulse refusing to slow.

The next office day had never felt louder. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. The air conditioner hummed like it was mocking you. Normally, the rhythm of Kohana & Pierce was white noise—but today it grated on your nerves. Everything did.

Because Nanami Kento was three desks away. And pretending the previous night hadn’t happened. You’d seen him differently now—under warm porch light, too close, too human. Every time he looked up from his desk, your stomach tightened.

You hadn’t spoken since that almost-kiss. Not on your drive home. Not in the elevator that morning when you both reached for the same “up” button and immediately looked away. You’d spent the ride staring at the floor indicator, pretending not to feel the static between you.

Now, sitting at your desk, you could still feel it. In the air. In your pulse. Like something unspoken was sitting between you, waiting for acknowledgment. You were doing a great job ignoring it—until Itadori Yuji appeared.

“Good morning!” he said brightly, voice carrying over the cubicle wall. “I brought breakfast for the team! Nanami said it’s important to start the day with fuel, so I got extra croissants!”

You looked up in time to see him grinning, arms full of a bakery bag almost too big for him. “Thank you, Itadori,”

Nanami said evenly without looking away from his monitor. “Next time, you don’t have to announce it to the entire floor.”

“But everyone should know! You can’t beat the market on an empty stomach,” Itadori insisted, plopping the bag down between your desks. He turned toward you, eyes wide and friendly. “You want one? I got chocolate-filled and almond.”

You blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Itadori smiled even wider. “Cool! You and Nanami always look like you’re about to outsmart each other, so you definitely need the sugar.”

You froze mid-reach. Nanami coughed once—quiet, deliberate. “Itadori.”

“Yeah?”

“Go file those reports.”

“Oh! Right!” The younger man scrambled away, still beaming. “You two are, like, the dream team, though! Everyone says so!”

You didn’t dare look at Nanami until Itadori disappeared down the hall. When you finally did, he was already looking at you. No smile. No expression. Just that unreadable calm that somehow made your chest ache.

“He’s enthusiastic,” you said softly.

“He’s a distraction,” Nanami replied. But there was no bite in his tone.

The silence between you thickened again. You fiddled with your pen, eyes flicking to the faint reflection of him in your monitor. “You didn’t tell him about the dinner, did you?”

He shook his head once. “Of course not.”

“Good,” you muttered, focusing on your screen though you weren’t reading a thing.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “You look tired.”

You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Neither did I.”

The words hung there, weightless but heavy all the same. You could feel his gaze before you heard the soft scrape of his chair moving back.

“Meeting in ten,” he said finally, standing. “Try to focus.”

You swallowed hard, nodding once. “You too.”

He paused, something flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked toward the conference room, leaving you staring at the empty space he’d just vacated, pulse thrumming like a metronome gone mad.

Across the office, Itadori peeked over the cubicle wall and whispered to Nobara, “Are they… fighting or flirting?”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Both. Obviously.”

The next day started with practicality—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. The client deck you two had been assigned to work on together was due by morning, and the office lights had gone out hours ago.

Staying meant another night under cold fluorescents, another dangerous ride home half-asleep. You’d both been through that too many times already. So you said, as casually as possible, “We can finish the last revisions at my place. I’ve got a better coffee maker.”

He hesitated only a second before nodding. “Fine. I’ll bring the files.”

When he arrived, it didn’t feel fine at all.

The knock came soft, even, polite—like him. You opened the door to find Nanami standing there in a charcoal sweater and dark slacks, hair slightly tousled from the evening wind. No tie, no pressed cuffs. It shouldn’t have been so strange to see him like that, but it was. The sharp edges of his work persona had blurred. He looked younger somehow—tired, but more human.

“Come in,” you managed. “Shoes off, please. My mom would have a heart attack if she saw dirt on this carpet.”

He obliged, of course.

While he set down his briefcase, you disappeared into the kitchen. The kettle was already warming. Steam curled in the dim light, the scent of jasmine and lemon lingering in the air.

When you returned, he was standing by your bookshelf, hands clasped behind his back. He was looking at the framed photos lined along the shelf—ones you’d almost forgotten were there. You at graduation. You and your friends in the rain somewhere in Tokyo. A faded one of you as a kid, missing a front tooth but smiling anyway.

“You were loud, even then,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “And you probably had a tie collection in elementary school.”

“I did,” he said simply, and you laughed.

The tension eased a little after that. You handed him his cup, and he accepted it with a quiet thanks. He looked strangely at home standing there in your living room, the lamplight catching the edges of his profile. You sat at your coffee table, spreading out spreadsheets and notes, and he joined you on the floor beside the couch.

For a while, you worked in companionable silence. The click of your keyboard. The faint clink of his pen against glass. Outside, the city murmured beneath the windows. Every so often, your knees brushed. Each time, neither of you moved.

“You missed a decimal,” he said after a while, pointing at your screen.

You sighed. “I didn’t miss it. I was testing you.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “You’ll need a better excuse when we present this.”

You made a face. “I’ll just bat my eyelashes.”

His lips twitched. “I doubt that would work.”

“You'd be surprised.”

He didn’t reply, but the faint shake of his head told you he was fighting a smile. Time blurred. The tea went cold.

The numbers stopped making sense somewhere between eleven and midnight, and you leaned back, stretching your arms over your head with a groan. “If I see one more pivot table, I’m quitting.”

“You say that every week,” he murmured.

“Maybe this time I mean it.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Your hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but still there, still fighting through formulas and charts. Something in his expression softened.

“You’re very persistent,” he said quietly.

You met his gaze, heartbeat uneven. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

The air changed after that. The lamplight seemed warmer. The room smaller. The hum between you sharper. He reached for your laptop, fingers brushing yours, and for one suspended second, you both forgot what you were doing. His eyes dropped to your mouth—slow, like he hadn’t meant to.

Then a knock shattered the moment. “Nanami? Are you guys still awake?” Itadori’s voice, bright and clueless, echoed through the door.

You jerked back, almost knocking over your mug. Nanami exhaled.

“Of course he’s here,” you muttered under your breath, standing quickly to open the door.

Itadori grinned, holding up a plastic bag. “I brought snacks! Thought you two might need fuel for the big project!”

You blinked. “How did you even—”

“Nobara said you guys were working late again, so I figured—oh, wow, your place is so nice!”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yuji.”

“Right, right, I’ll drop these off and go!” He bounded inside, placing the bag on your coffee table and beaming. “You guys are like the dream team! Totally unstoppable!”

You and Nanami exchanged a look. Equal parts amusement. Equal parts despair. “Thanks, Itadori,” Nanami said. “You can go home now.”

“Got it! Good luck, you two!” he chirped before vanishing down the hall.

The door closed. Silence again. You exhaled, half laughing. “He’s going to kill us one day.”

Nanami’s mouth curved just slightly. “Unlikely. But he’s certainly trying.”

Your laughter softened, fading into something quieter. The moment was gone—but not entirely. The heat lingered, tucked into the space between his steady gaze and your racing pulse.

You turned back to the laptop. “We should finish this.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

But neither of you reached for the keyboard right away.

Another day, another dinner plot.

You expected another awkward family dinner—the kind where your mother worries about your hair, your father makes a joke about retirement funds, and you check emails under the table. But when you walked in and saw Nanami already seated at the table beside your parents, something inside you went still.

“Good evening,” he said, polite, as always.

“Hi,” you managed, taking the seat opposite him.

Dinner passed in small talk until your father sighed, folding his napkin after bringing it to his lips. “You both need to stop living at work.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sweetheart,” your mother said gently, “we’re worried about you. You haven’t been home in weeks. You never rest.”

Nanami’s mother chimed in softly. “Kento’s the same. We wanted you both here because we thought maybe—if you heard it from more than one person—you might listen.”

Nanami adjusted his tie, eyes down. “We’re adults. We can manage our own choices.”

“That’s the problem,” your father said. “You’re managing. Not living.”

The silence stretched. Something in your chest pinched tight. “I’m fine,” you said. “Really.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Please, not tonight.”

But they didn’t stop. They talked about balance, about health, about how lonely you both looked when you thought no one was watching. And something in you snapped.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you burst out, voice sharp. “Do you think I haven’t noticed that I wake up in a different city every other week or that my friends stopped calling because I keep canceling? You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to work twice as hard just to be taken seriously—”

The words tangled, broke off. The table went quiet. You stood abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. “I’m sorry. I just—can’t do this right now.”

And then you left. Upstairs, your old room looked smaller than you remembered. You shut the door, slid down until your back hit the wood, and pressed trembling fingers to your face. The tears came hot and fast.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. The knock was soft.

“Are you alright?”

You laughed wetly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Silence. Then, quieter: “I couldn’t just sit downstairs and pretend it didn’t matter.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve and sniffled. “They think we’re the same, you know. That we’re broken in the same way.”

“Maybe we are,” he said after a pause. “I started working the hours I do because it felt safer. The more I focused on the numbers, the less time I had to think.”

You rested your forehead against the door. “Think about what?”

He hesitated. “About how empty it gets when the day ends.”

You closed your eyes. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes it real.”

The quiet between you shifted—softer now, but heavier. You could hear him breathe on the other side.

“I used to think if I worked hard enough, I’d earn peace,” you said, voice breaking. “But it never comes. There’s always something else. Another deal. Another client. And if I stop—if I slow down—maybe everything falls apart.”

He spoke gently. “Or maybe it doesn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You sound so sure.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “But I’ve thought about it more lately. Especially when you’re there.”

The words caught in your throat. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s unfair. Because you’re calm and rational and I’m—” You inhaled, tears threatening again. “I’m terrified of needing anyone.”

On the other side of the door, you heard the faintest sigh. “Needing someone isn’t weakness.”

“It feels like it.”

“It isn’t.”

The sound of fabric shifted—he’d slid down too, his back against the door, mirroring yours.

For a long moment, you just breathed. Together. The wood between you warm now from where your shoulders touched opposite sides.

“I thought we were getting somewhere,” you whispered.

“We are,” he said. “It’s just not easy.”

“Then why does it feel like I pushed you away?”

“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You just showed me the part of you that’s tired. That’s allowed.”

You pressed your palms flat against the door. “Kento…”

He was quiet for a long time before he answered. “I don’t expect you to let me in tonight.”

You swallowed. “Then why stay?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to cry alone.”

That did it. Your breath hitched, another tear slipping down. You wanted to open the door—God, you wanted to—but your fear sat heavy on your chest.

“Please go,” you whispered.

There was no anger in his reply. Only warmth. “If that’s what you need.”

He stood slowly, and for a moment, you thought he’d walk away. But instead, he rested a hand flat against the door between you. You could feel the faint press through the wood.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready,” he said quietly.

And then he left—footsteps fading, leaving only the soft echo of his promise in the stillness. You sat there for a long time, your palm against the same spot, listening to the house settle around you, wishing you’d had the courage to open it.

It took six days before you could look at your laptop without feeling hollow.

You told yourself the break was necessary.

Three days to breathe. Three more days to quiet the static that had taken over your head. You silenced the calls, ignored the messages, let the city move without you.

When you finally stepped back into Kohana & Pierce, everything looked the same—the polished floors, the hum of printers—but the air felt different. The way people turned to look at you was different.

Then you saw it.

A new plaque mounted beside the corner office:

KENTO NANAMI — VICE PRESIDENT, INVESTMENT STRATEGY.

Your heart dropped so fast you almost missed the way the receptionist’s smile faltered when she said, “Welcome back.”

You found Nanami before lunch. His door was half-open; he was standing by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, phone pressed to his ear. His posture was straight, but his tone—low, clipped—was anything but calm.

When he noticed you, he ended the call mid-sentence.

“You’re back.”

You stayed in the doorway. “Mhm. Congratulations.”

He studied you for a long moment. “You heard.”

“It’s hard to miss the new nameplate.”

He sighed, the sound heavy. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“Like what? You winning?”

“Like me presenting our project alone.” His eyes sharpened. “You disappeared. The partners called an emergency review. I waited an hour before they forced me to go in without you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I called. Twenty-two times. I emailed. I even asked Itadori to drive by your place to make sure you were alive.” His voice cracked just slightly—anger and something else tangled together. “I didn’t want to do it without you.”

You gripped the doorframe. “I turned everything off. I needed a minute.”

He laughed once, bitter. “A minute? You vanished.”

“I was drowning, Nanami. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

“I do understand. But I was drowning too, and I still showed up.”

That stung. You looked away, throat tight. “So what, you’re mad that you had to be the hero?”

“I’m mad that you didn’t trust me to carry you when you needed it,” he said quietly. “That you keep pretending you don’t need anyone, not even me.”

Silence filled the office. Outside, the city traffic hummed, muffled through glass.

“I didn’t ask you to wait,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “You never do.”

You looked up then, finally meeting his eyes. They weren’t cold—just tired, hurt.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we built,” you said. “I thought if I left, maybe the pressure would reset.”

“It didn’t,” he murmured. “It just broke something else instead.”

Your pulse kicked hard. The air between you thickened, heavy with everything you’d both been avoiding.

He stepped closer. “You think I wanted that title? You think any of this felt like winning? It was supposed to be yours.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only feel the heat of him, the quiet burn of resentment and something deeper curling beneath it.

“Say something,” he said, softer now.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t,” he murmured.

The space between you went still, the kind of still that could shatter with one wrong breath. Nanami didn’t move from where he stood. The hum of the city filled the pause between you—phones ringing faintly down the hall, someone laughing by the elevators, the world continuing like nothing had happened.

You finally broke the silence.

“So that’s it? You get the office, the title, the story everyone will whisper about, and I just… go back to work?”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“Doesn’t matter. You still have it.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “You think this feels like winning?”

You looked down at your hands, the faint tremor in your fingers. “I don’t know what it feels like anymore.”

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say something else—something that would undo the distance hanging between you—but he only reached for his jacket instead. The movement was deliberate, careful.

“You should go home,” he said. “You still look tired.”

“Don’t tell me what I look like.”

His gaze softened, almost apologetic. “Then rest because you need to, not because I told you to.”

You didn’t answer. The words wouldn’t come out right anyway. You just turned and left, keeping your shoulders square until the door closed behind you.

By the time you reached your car, the sky had shifted from bright to gray. Rush hour glared against the windshield, streaks of red taillights and the metallic pulse of the city. You drove on autopilot, the conversation replaying over and over—the way his voice broke when he said you vanished, the way you couldn’t meet his eyes long enough to argue.

Home was too quiet when you got there. You dropped your bag by the couch, kicked off your heels, and walked to the window. The glass was cold beneath your fingertips. You stared at the dark window across the street for a long time, waiting for the feeling to fade.

It didn’t.

Your chest was still tight from everything he’d said—the anger, the hurt, the way his voice had dropped when he told you to rest. You’d spent all week drowning in silence and the only thing louder than your thoughts was his name.

You told yourself to sleep. You told yourself you were done.

Then you grabbed your house keys.

The air outside was cool, damp with the promise of rain. Each step across the pavement felt louder than it should have, the sound of your heartbeat following you.

By the time you reached his front walk, you could see the faint glow of a lamp through the curtains—he was still awake after all, sitting at his desk again, jacket off, sleeves rolled.

You hesitated once. Twice. Then you pressed the doorbell.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Nanami looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real—surprise flickering into concern, then something else entirely.

“You shouldn’t be—” he started.

“I know,” you cut in, breath unsteady. “I just—couldn’t sit there anymore.”

His hand tightened around the edge of the door. You stepped closer, the space between you filling with everything that hadn’t been said since the moment you left his office.

The apology, the anger, the need to understand each other—all of it sat there, waiting. He exhaled slowly, a sound that was almost your name. You met his eyes, searching for a reason to turn back and finding none.

“Let me in,” you said quietly.

He moved aside. You stepped over the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind you. He stood across from you, silent, arms crossed like he was holding something in—and failing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but he beat you to it.

“You should have called.”

You blinked. “I know.”

“You should have told me you were leaving.”

“I know, Nanami.”

His jaw flexed. “Do you?”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp. “Do you actually understand what it was like to walk into that boardroom with your name still on the title slide? To see the empty chair next to me and have to explain—to all of them—that the woman who built half the goddamn model wasn’t answering her phone?”

Your hands clenched into fists. “I didn’t plan to disappear.”

“You just did.”

“I had a breakdown—”

“And I had no idea.”

“Because I didn’t want anyone to know!” Your voice rose, cracked under the weight of everything unsaid. “I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sleeping. I didn’t trust myself not to cry through a client call, let alone pitch to the partners.”

“And you didn’t trust me to handle it?” He said it so quietly it hurt. “All you had to do was show up.”

You swallowed, hard. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” His voice was low, but laced with heat now. “Because I was there. Every late night, every night in the office. I was the one keeping us on schedule while you were still editing footnotes. I was the one who told you we were good enough to pitch it early. And when everything fell apart, I was still here.”

You crossed your arms, matching his stance, tension thick enough to choke on.

“And what did you do with all that loyalty?” you shot back. “Took the title. Took the credit. You didn’t even look surprised when I came back.”

His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t surprised. I was furious.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in his voice.

“I was furious that you left me to clean up the mess. Furious that you made me care so much I couldn’t even enjoy the win. And then you walked back in like you hadn’t lit a match and watched the whole thing burn.”

You stared at him, your chest tight. “That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not.”

The silence that followed was ugly. Loud. Two breaths from falling apart.

Something took over you, and suddenly, you stepped toward him.

“Are your parents home?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Are they here?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You didn’t think. You just kissed him. Hard. Like you were trying to put the fire out with your mouth.

He froze for a fraction of a second—shocked—but the second your fingers fisted into his shirt, he was on you like gravity finally won.

His hands gripped your waist, dragged you closer, mouth crashing back into yours with months, years—of restrained want. It was teeth. Tongue. The crackle of fury turning molten under your skin.

The kiss was a fight and a plea, all in one. He pushed you back against the wall of the foyer, one arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you knew he’d leave fingerprints. Your fingers threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and he groaned into your mouth.

"This is a mistake," he growled against your lips.

"Then don’t stop."

He didn’t. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. He made a quiet sound—half groan, half laugh.

“You’re still mad at me,” you whispered against his mouth.

“I am,” he said, voice low, eyes burning. “You still drive me fucking insane.”

“Then shut me up.”

You kissed him again, deeper now, your hands sliding under the hem of his sweater. His breath hitched when your palms skimmed over the soft cotton of his undershirt and the firm heat of his stomach beneath. He tugged you closer, walked you back until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.

“Sit,” he murmured.

You sat.

And for the first time since you’d stormed out of his office, he looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

You reached for him first. Your fingers curled into the hem of his sweater and gave it a tug. “Come here.”

Nanami stepped between your knees slowly, like he was still holding onto the edge of his temper by the thread of his self-control. He didn’t drop to his knees. He didn’t drag you down. He sat. Right on the couch. Legs spread. And you moved into his lap like you’d always belonged there.

Neither of you said anything at first. The heat of his body under yours, the pressure of his thighs between your knees, the throb of your heart in your throat—it made your breath hitch.

His hands settled at your hips, hesitant. Yours rested on his shoulders. The silence was unbearable.

“You make me so fucking mad,” you whispered.

His hands tightened on your waist.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “Every time you corrected me in front of a client, every time you changed my numbers without telling me, I wanted to lose it.”

Your nails dug gently into the muscle at his shoulders. “And every time you talked over me during a pitch, every time you told me to ‘be realistic,’ I wanted to slap the glasses off your face.”

He huffed a breath. “We were always like this.”

“We still are.”

His lips brushed your jaw. “Then why does this feel like mercy?”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him again instead—slower this time. Softer. No teeth. No fight. Just your mouth on his. You pressed closer, your thighs tightening around him, your arms winding around his shoulders. And Nanami…

Nanami finally melted into it.

His hands slid under your blouse, fingertips warm against your bare back. He moved slowly, reverently, as though this moment—you—was something he’d never expected to have.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the stiff ridge of his cock pressing up against your center through too many layers of clothing.

But neither of you rushed. You rocked against him once, the friction sending sparks through your core, and he gasped into your mouth. You bit his lower lip. He groaned.

His lips moved from your mouth to your throat, dragging kisses down the column of your neck, slow and open-mouthed. You tilted your head to give him more access, breath catching when his tongue flicked over your pulse before his lips closed around it.

“God,” you whispered, thighs trembling. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He sucked a bruise into the soft skin just above your collarbone. “You made me want things I’ve spent my whole career avoiding.”

You lifted your hips and ground down on him again, slower this time, and he broke off with a groan, his hands snapping to your hips to hold you still.

“Stop,” he breathed.

“No.”

“I’m trying to be patient—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, kissing the hinge of his jaw. “Don’t be patient. Not with me.”

He looked up at you, pupils blown wide. “You don’t want gentle?”

“I want real.”

He nodded, like he understood the difference.

You tugged your blouse over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. His eyes dropped to your chest, and then he leaned forward, mouth brushing the curve of your breast like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed.

He kissed you there, and you arched into him with a soft whimper when his tongue licked over your nipple. You could feel him twitch beneath you, cock straining against the seam of his pants, and you rocked again, drawn to the friction like gravity.

He was breathing hard now, his teeth catching your skin lightly, then kissing the sting away. “You still want to fight?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you whispered. “But I want to fuck you more.”

His breath hitched when you said it—“I want real”—like he didn’t think he’d ever get that from you again. Not like this. Not bare. Not honest. Not here. You felt the weight of it settle between you. But he didn’t hesitate.

Not this time.

His lips ghosted down your chest once more, tongue warm, drawing slow circles around your nipple until you were arching into him with a quiet gasp. He switched sides. Did it again. Not to tease, but to memorize. Like he was filing away the taste of you in case this was a mistake, and it all went to hell again in the morning.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, anchoring him to you, but your hips rolled forward—friction and instinct. He groaned into your skin, dragged his hands down your waist, slow and strong, until he was gripping your thighs and guiding you back against the cushions.

You let him move you. Laid back on the couch as he tugged your skirt from your hips and tossed it somewhere behind him. He kissed down your stomach next, each press of his mouth softer than the last, until you were shaking under him.

And then he paused. Hands at your thighs. Mouth a breath away.

“You sure?”

Your heart stuttered. Not from nerves. From the way he asked—like he needed it as much for himself as for you.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He leaned in. He pulled your panties aside and his mouth met your cunt like he’d dreamt about it. Tongue flattening against your slit, slow and soaking, collecting every drop of slick with a groan that vibrated through your core. His hands kept you open, thumbs spreading your folds as he dragged the tip of his tongue up to your clit and circled it once, twice, then wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

Your spine arched off the couch.

“Kento—fuck—”

He didn’t stop. Not when your thighs trembled. Not when your moans got high and desperate. He ate you like a man starved—like the days you were gone had left him hungry for this, like the only way to forgive you was through the slow unravel of your body under his tongue.

You were already close.

Your heel dug into the cushion, hips stuttering, fingers tugging at his hair as you ground against his face—messy and needy and so, so close. He moaned into you again, tongue relentless, and that was it.

You came with a cry. Thighs clenching around his head. Eyes squeezed shut. The kind of orgasm that felt like an apology spilling out of you.

He kissed your inner thigh when it was over. Just once.

And then he stood. Towering over you, cheeks flushed, mouth slick, cock straining against his slacks.

He didn’t ask again. He just unbuckled his belt.

You sat up as he pushed his pants down, breath catching when his cock sprang free—long, flushed, already leaking from the tip.

You reached for him on instinct, fingers curling around him, and he hissed through his teeth as you gave him one slow stroke. But he caught your wrist.

“Later,” he murmured, voice ragged. “I need to be inside you now.”

You didn’t argue.

You leaned back. Pulled your panties to the side once more, exposing your soaked, swollen cunt for him. His eyes dropped to it. Lingered. And then he knelt on the couch between your thighs, his hands shaking as he lined himself up.

You held your breath, and when he pushed in, you both gasped.

There was nothing between you. Nothing to dull the stretch. Nothing to protect you from the way he sank in, inch by inch, until he bottomed out and you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You’re…”

He couldn’t finish.

His head dropped to your shoulder, forehead pressed against your skin as he held still, buried deep, struggling to breathe.

You wrapped your arms around his back. Scratched gently down his spine. Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and wet and still pulsing from your last orgasm.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please.”

He did.

Slow, at first. Like he needed to feel every ridge of your body. Like he was trying to remember how to exist inside you without falling apart. He pulled out halfway, then pushed back in with a low groan, hips trembling from the effort of holding back.

You moaned and clung to him. Wrapped your legs around his waist and tilted your hips just enough to pull him deeper.

He shuddered. “Feels too good,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You turned your face to kiss him. Tongue against his. The kind of kiss that swallowed your breath and gave it back.

He picked up the pace. Hips snapping into yours, pace quickening with every wet slap of skin, with every needy cry you gave him.

You were soaking him.

Slick dripping between your thighs, smearing against his skin with every thrust. He was breathing hard now, panting in your ear, his control fraying fast. You felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his hands tightened on your hips like he was afraid to let go.

You clenched around him on purpose.

He swore, loud and ragged. “You’re gonna make me cum—”

“Inside,” you begged. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you. Something wild in his eyes. Desperate.

“You want that?”

You nodded, already chasing another high. “Want to feel it. Want all of it.”

His mouth dropped open. And then he slammed back in.

Your orgasm hit with no warning. Your back arched, legs shaking, eyes rolling back as you cried out his name, body pulsing around him like you were trying to keep him there forever.

He didn’t last long after that.

Three more thrusts and then he spilled inside you with a groan that sounded like a sob. Thick warmth flooding your cunt, pulse after pulse, his body shaking as he pressed himself as deep as he could go, chest heaving against yours.

Neither of you moved.

He stayed inside. Stayed in you. Head resting in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your collarbone as you both came down from it.

After a long while, he kissed your shoulder.

And this time, when he pulled out, your bodies stuck. Slick and sweat and cum dripping down your thighs—but you didn’t care.

You were here and he was still holding you. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Tangled in the breath you both fought to catch and the weight of everything that had finally broken open between you.

Nanami’s chest was still rising and falling against yours, slower now, but not steady. Like he was still holding something in.

You didn’t move. You stayed on the couch, his body half-draped over yours, his hand smoothing gently along your thigh like he didn’t want to stop touching you. His other arm was curled under your back, keeping you close, as if he hadn’t already been inside you, as if some part of him still didn’t believe you were real.

Eventually, his lips brushed your shoulder.

“You didn’t call,” he murmured. Quiet. Not angry now—just tired.

You swallowed hard. “I wanted to. I just... I didn’t know how to come back without falling apart.”

“You could’ve let me help you fall apart.”

You looked up at him but he wasn’t looking at you. Just staring at the ceiling like it held all the things he couldn’t say out loud.

“I thought if I stayed quiet, I could hold everything together,” you said softly. “But the longer I waited... the more ashamed I felt. I wasn’t trying to shut you out. I just—”

“I know,” he said, cutting you off gently. His voice was frayed at the edges. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

That’s what got you. Not the sharp words from earlier. Not the cold truths. This. This ache behind his voice.

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, brushing the sweat-damp strands away from his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours. There was no mask. Just exhaustion and care with the quiet ache of a man who’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want more.

“I hated you for it,” he admitted. “And I still wanted you anyway.”

“I know the feeling.”

He laughed, but it sounded more like a breath.

You both lay there for a while longer. Just breathing. Letting your bodies cool. Letting the silence become something softer than it had been before.

Eventually, he shifted to sit up, muscles stiff. You missed the weight of him immediately, but said nothing. He reached for the throw blanket at the end of the couch and tucked it over your bare legs before standing, tucking himself back into his pants silently.

“Stay,” you said, before you could second-guess it.

His back was to you. Shoulders tense. But he paused.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said after a beat.

He disappeared for a moment, into the kitchen. You heard the sound of running water, the cabinet creak of a glass. When he returned, he handed you a cool glass without a word and sat beside you again—closer this time, knees brushing yours.

You drank in silence. When you were done, he took the glass from your hands and set it on the table. Then, finally, he turned toward you fully.

“What now?” he asked.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Was this closure?” His tone was careful. Too careful. “Or was it something else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you reached for his hand. You’d spent years arguing with this man. Outworking him. Outmaneuvering him. And somehow, despite everything, this was the first time you were doing none of those things. You just held his hand.

“Do you want it to be closure?” you asked.

His thumb traced slowly along your knuckles. “No.”

“Me neither.”

Another pause. Then: “I don’t know how to be with you without fighting,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Nanami smiled faintly. “Then maybe we just… fight less cruelly.”

You let out a soft breath. “You think that’s possible?”

“I think it’s worth finding out.”

You nodded.

And for once, neither of you had anything left to prove.

TWO WEEKS LATER

The dining room was too polished. Too familiar. The same folded napkins. The same porcelain. The same heavy crystal glasses sweating condensation beside pitchers of lemon water and wine neither of you had touched.

But this time, the silence wasn’t from resentment. It was anticipation.

Nanami sat across from you at the table, looking as calm and unbothered as ever—gray suit, gold watch, polite smile. Your mother was retelling the story of how your father proposed on a fishing boat with a plastic ring from a vending machine.

You were barely listening.

You were too aware of Nanami’s thumb brushing slowly across the inside of his palm. A tiny, nervous tic you’d started to notice since that night.

The night you’d kissed him and let yourself fall—entirely. He hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had you.

But he’d started walking you to your car after work. Waiting in the elevator with you. Texting you once a day—short, dry messages like “Did you eat lunch?” and “Meeting got pushed to 3. Coffee run?” that said more than they used to.

And now you were both here again.

You shifted in your seat. He looked at you. Your parents were laughing across the table. His were quietly watching the two of you—like they knew something you didn’t.

“Anyway,” your mother said, clapping her hands once and jolting you back to the present. “We’ve been meaning to ask again, now that you two are—well, speaking again.”

Your fork froze halfway to your plate.

Nanami’s wine glass paused at his lips.

“There’s no pressure,” his mother added delicately. “But we’ve had the documents drawn up again. Just in case.”

“The engagement contract,” your father clarified, like you might’ve forgotten. “Same terms. Joint property holdings. Optional prenup. Deferred ceremony if needed. But you’d be legally—”

“Yes,” Nanami said.

The word landed so hard, your stomach dropped.

You turned to him slowly. “What?”

His expression didn’t change. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

The table went quiet.

Your heart started to race. “You’re serious?”

He looked at you directly. “Are you not?”

You stared at him. Mouth open. Then shut.

The room swam for a second. You weren’t expecting that. You weren’t expecting him to say it first, without even glancing at you, without discussing it.

You were the impulsive one, the reckless one. He was measured. Always calculating risk.

And yet here he was.

Saying yes.

Like it wasn’t the scariest thing in the world.

“I…” you glanced down at your plate. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll do it too.”

Your mother let out a small, surprised gasp.

“Finally,” his father muttered into his wine.

Nanami didn’t look away from you. Not even when the parents started murmuring approval and plans and venue options. Not even when your mother stood to pour another glass of wine with slightly shaking hands.

He just kept watching you.

You blinked. “Why did you say yes?”

His voice was quiet. “Because when you left, I hated it.”

Your heart thudded.

“And when you came back,” he continued, “I realized I’d rather be stuck across a dinner table from you for the rest of my life than sit another week in silence.”

You laughed softly. “That’s a terrible reason to get married.”

“Maybe.” He smiled faintly. “But it’s mine.”

You leaned back in your chair. Your knee bumped his beneath the table.

This time, he didn’t move it.

The next day, your mother had suggested it like she was just casually mentioning the weather.

“It’s not an official engagement if there’s no ring,” she’d said over the phone. “And anyway, wouldn’t it be a good time for you two to spend some... quality time together?”

You hadn’t rolled your eyes aloud, but Nanami definitely heard it in your voice when you told him.

Still, he agreed.

So here you were, standing in the center of a quiet boutique downtown, surrounded by velvet trays of diamonds and rose gold bands and men who smelled like cologne and money.

You weren’t touching anything. You kept your hands at your sides.

Nanami, of course, was already talking with the sales associate like he belonged here. Charcoal slacks. White dress shirt rolled at the forearms.

“You’re quiet,” he said to you after a while.

You lifted a shoulder. “This feels like... playacting.”

He looked at you.

“Doesn’t it?” you murmured. “We’re shopping for something symbolic when neither of us—” You caught yourself. Swallowed the rest.

He studied you for a moment, then turned back to the tray in front of you.

Without looking, he picked out a ring. Slim. Understated. A gold band with a flat-set diamond, almost architectural in its shape.

He handed it to you.

You raised a brow. “What if I don’t like it?”

“Then pick one you do.”

You hesitated. Then slipped it on.

It fit perfectly. You didn’t say anything about that.

He didn’t either.

You were still standing there in that weird, heavy silence when the door jingled behind you.

“No fucking way.”

You turned just in time to see him—white hair, sunglasses indoors, pushing a stroller and looking like he owned the world.

“Satoru?”

The hug was inevitable. You were laughing by the time his arms wrapped around you. His husband was right behind him—Suguru, sharp in all-black as always, long hair swept back, rolling his eyes with fond exasperation.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Suguru said smoothly. “I thought you’d sworn off romance forever.”

Satoru leaned down and stage-whispered to the toddler in the stroller. “You’re witnessing history, Megumi. Auntie's getting married. To a man.”

“I never said I’d sworn it off,” you said dryly. “I just didn’t expect it to come with legal paperwork and a matching pen set.”

Nanami cleared his throat behind you.

You turned. “Right. Uh—this is Nanami Kento. My... fiancé.”

Satoru let out the fakest gasp you’d ever heard. “You’re the one who cracked the code.”

Nanami nodded politely. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Geto extended a hand. “Suguru Geto. This idiot’s husband.”

“A pleasure,” Nanami said, shaking it.

Satoru wiggled his fingers at Nanami. “Do you have a brother? A cousin? A cardboard cutout? Asking for a friend.”

“I’m standing right here,” Suguru said.

“Exactly.”

You grinned, already unbuckling Megumi from the stroller. “Hi, baby,” you cooed, scooping him into your arms.

He was older now—maybe two or three—but still small, with dark eyes and pouty cheeks and the kind of baby curls that hadn’t yet been trimmed away.

You carried him like it was second nature. Held him on your hip, brushed a hand through his hair, made a silly noise that pulled a rare giggle from him.

Satoru blinked. “She’s gonna make me want another one.”

“She’s always been like that,” Suguru murmured. “Kids melt around her.”

Nanami didn’t say anything.

Because he couldn’t.

He was watching you. Watching the way you lit up with a child in your arms. The way your voice softened. The way your smile turned real, not practiced. The way you looked down at Megumi like he was a gift and not a weight.

It hit him so fast he almost stepped back from it.

You’d be a good mother.

The thought came fully formed. And not in the vague, abstract way he’d thought of family once or twice in passing. This was sharp. Specific. It was you—barefoot in a sunlit kitchen, smoothing a hand over a toddler’s head, laughing softly when someone small ran to you for comfort.

His throat tightened.

“You okay?” Geto asked.

Nanami blinked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Gojo leaned in conspiratorially. “How’d you do it?”

Nanami looked at him. “Do what?”

“Get her to say yes.”

He paused. Then glanced back at you.

You were letting Megumi press his tiny palm to your cheek. He was babbling nonsense. You were nodding solemnly, like every word was sacred.

“I didn’t convince her,” Nanami said.

“No?”

“No. She just came back.”

Gojo tilted his head. “That simple?”

“No,” Nanami murmured, more to himself than anyone. “Not simple at all.”

You turned then, Megumi still in your arms. “He’s getting sleepy. Want to help me buckle him back in?”

Nanami stepped forward without hesitation.

You didn’t say anything when his hand brushed yours. When his fingers settled gently over Megumi’s tiny knee to help guide his legs back into place. But your eyes met his as you pulled the straps over the boy’s chest, and something in that moment felt... permanent.

A shared life.

A future that hadn’t existed until now.

The car ride home was mostly quiet.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of streetlight and late-autumn rain, the kind that turned glass into watercolor. You sat with your legs crossed, one hand still resting near the box in your lap, thumb grazing the edge of it like you weren’t sure if it was real.

Nanami hadn’t said much since the store. Not since Megumi.

You stole a glance at him.

He was relaxed, at least on the surface—one hand on the wheel, sleeves pushed to his elbows, jaw set in a calm, neutral line.

But you’d learned him well enough to know what that silence meant.

“Are you thinking about the ring?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

His lips twitched—just slightly. “Not entirely.”

“Then what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving. The light changed. The turn signal clicked. Then: “You were good with him.”

You blinked. “Megumi?”

Nanami nodded. “Most people don’t know how to talk to kids that age. You did.”

You smiled a little. “I’ve always loved kids.”

“I could tell.”

The quiet settled again. But it wasn’t heavy this time—it was warm. Thoughtful.

Still, there was something in his expression. The way his brow furrowed faintly, the way his fingers flexed against the leather of the steering wheel like he was working through something.

Finally, his voice broke the silence again.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.

You turned toward him. “Thought about what?”

He glanced at you—quick, meaningful—then back to the road.

“Having kids.”

Your stomach did something weird and tight. You weren’t expecting it. Not tonight. Not… from him.

“I mean,” you started, then cleared your throat. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. Not seriously. Not recently. But... yeah.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected that.

You studied him. “Why?”

Nanami didn’t answer right away. He made another turn, slower this time, letting the silence stretch just long enough that you almost dropped it.

Then he said, “When I saw you with Megumi, I—”

He stopped.

Started again.

“I think I realized I could see you being someone’s mother.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve never been able to picture that before,” he added. “Not with anyone else. Not clearly.”

You swallowed. “And with me, you did?”

He looked at you, finally. Terrifyingly tender.

“Yes,” he said. “With you, I did.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Your heart was too full. Your mouth too soft around the words that didn’t feel real yet.

But you reached over the console, and slid your hand into his. He gripped it back like it meant something. Like it meant everything.

And when he parked the car outside your villa, he didn’t get out right away. He just sat there.

Your hands still entwined. Both of you knowing something had shifted. Neither of you needing to say it out loud.

You told your families you were postponing the wedding until summer.

You said it with a smile and a rehearsed shrug, something about venue availability and weather and how you “always imagined a summer ceremony.”

Which was true. You did love summer.

But more than that, it bought you time.

Time to figure out what it meant to build a life with someone without contracts and dinner guests and strategic timelines breathing down your neck. Time to fall in love like normal people did. Not through documents and family expectations, but through the small, impossible moments that couldn’t be planned for.

It started with coffee.

One cup, left on your desk before 8 a.m., perfectly made. Your usual—half oat milk, no sugar, one cinnamon stick. The lid labeled with your initials in his tight, precise handwriting.

The next day, it came with a muffin. Blueberry. He didn’t ask how he knew your favorite. And you didn’t ask why he was getting in early just to do it.

The morning coffee turned into morning car rides. He’d be waiting outside your place, tie already done, passenger-side vent tilted away from your face because you hated the air blowing directly at you—it always messed up your hair.

You didn’t stop him when he started adding his favorite jazz instrumentals to your playlist. You just kept sipping your coffee, trying not to smile when he tapped the wheel in time with the keys.

At work, things changed, too. You were still competitive. Still sharp. But now you passed notes under the table during strategy meetings. Shared documents with silent comments that made him huff quiet laughs over his laptop. Ate lunch together in the glass conference room no one dared bother you in.

One afternoon, your managing partner walked by and muttered, “You two are disgustingly efficient together.”

You didn’t even look up.

Nanami just said, “Thank you.”

You became the firm's favorite power couple. Even if no one used the word “couple” out loud. You didn’t have to.

People smiled differently when they spoke to you now. Joked about who handled the spreadsheets and who did the sweet-talking with clients. More than once, an intern whispered to another, “They look like they’re in a movie.”

And maybe it felt like that, too.

He started coming over more often. Not for work. Not for wedding planning. Just to exist in the same space.

Sometimes he brought dinner. Sometimes he he made it in your kitchen. Sometimes he sat on your floor in slacks and a t-shirt, glasses sliding down his nose while he read something with small text and big implications. Sometimes he didn’t even make it past your couch before falling asleep.

You started buying extra tea just for him. Rearranged your bookshelf so his favorite essays weren’t stuffed between your fantasy paperbacks.

It wasn’t love all at once. It was quiet. Gradual.

One night, you had a tension headache that wouldn’t go away. You curled up on the couch, eyes burning from screen fatigue, and Nanami pulled a blanket over your legs without a word.

Then he sat down beside you and started reading aloud.

Not a novel. Not poetry. A quarterly report on renewable energy funding.

His voice was calm, steady. The cadence of someone who understood how to make sense of complex things. You fell asleep halfway through a paragraph about government subsidies.

He thought you wouldn’t remember what he whispered when he closed the folder.

“I love you.”

So soft it could’ve been the air itself. But you remembered.

God, you remembered.

There were other nights.

You’d fall asleep in his lap. He’d press his lips to your temple and whisper something he’d never have the courage to say in daylight.

You’d steal his dress shirts and leave your hair ties in his car and pretend not to notice when he rearranged your pantry because the labels were “facing the wrong direction.”

You left notes on his desk.

“Don’t forget to eat today.”

“Client call moved to 4. Pretend to be impressed by my math.”

“Dinner tonight. No suits allowed.”

He kept every one.

Tucked them in the top drawer under his keyboard.

One morning, you came back from making copies and found a sticky note on your screen.

“You looked really beautiful when you laughed earlier. — K”

You stared at it for ten seconds longer than you meant to.

And when you looked up, he was already watching you from across the bullpen. Not smiling—but not looking away either.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, the idea of marriage stopped feeling like a chess move and started feeling like something else.

Not perfect—not easy, but real.

And suddenly, summer didn’t feel far away at all.

Before you knew it, spring hastily approached.

It was another late evening spent with Nanami. The kind of late where the city lights had dimmed to soft halos through the windows, and your tea had gone cold in your hands. You were curled into the corner of Nanami’s couch, barefoot, legs stretched across his lap, hair slightly mussed from the wind.

He hadn’t said much all night. He never did when he was thinking too hard.

Your fingers were tracing the rim of your mug absently when you noticed he’d turned off the TV. The screen went black. The quiet filled the space between you.

You looked over at him. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, then reached into the drawer beneath the coffee table.

When he pulled out the ring box, your heart stopped.

But it wasn’t the same one from before. It wasn’t the family-approved, carefully selected, pre-engagement placeholder from months ago. This was smaller. Simpler. A velvet box worn at the corners.

He turned it over in his palm once, then looked up at you.

“I want to ask you again.”

You blinked. “What?”

His voice was steady. “I want to ask you for real. This time... not because of anyone else.”

Your hands tightened around your mug.

“I know we already said yes,” he continued. “I know the ceremony’s planned. I know the guest list is half-written and we’re technically two-thirds of the way through the gift registry—”

“Three-fourths,, baby,” you corrected without thinking.

That made him smile, just a little. “Right. Three-fourths.”

He opened the box.

The ring was beautiful. Not overly flashy. Not designed to impress anyone but you. It was delicate—a white gold band with a perfect diamond that caught the light like it had been waiting to be worn by you.

You stared at it. Then at him. He looked nervous.

Nanami Kento looked nervous.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he said, quickly. “But I need you to know that if I could go back—if I could ask you differently from the start—I’d have done it like this.”

You swallowed.

He stood. Then—slowly, carefully—got down on one knee. Right in front of your crossed legs, his hand still holding the open box, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Not because it’s convenient. Not because it’s smart. Not even because we’re good together. But because I love you. And I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

Your breath caught. It didn’t even feel real. Not this version of him—barefoot, hair slightly messy, voice a little cracked around the edges.

“I love you,” he repeated. “Not the version of you in the office. Not the one who wins arguments or closes deals. Just you. As you are. Right now.”

Tears hit your eyes so fast you couldn’t stop them.

You reached for him. Tugged him gently off his knee until he was kneeling between your legs, forehead pressed to yours.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“I think I have for a long time,” you said. “Even when I hated you. Even when I didn’t understand why everything you did got under my skin.”

“You get under mine too,” he said, voice thick. “Still do.”

“Good.”

You kissed him. A little salty from your tears.

And when you pulled back, you let him take your hand. Let him slide the ring onto your finger. It fit like it had always been meant to live there.

“I’m really marrying you,” you whispered, half-laughing.

He kissed the back of your hand. “This time, it’s mine.”

The wedding was in late June.

Late afternoon sun spilled across the villa garden, catching on glassware, silk petals, and a canopy of soft white blooms strung above the aisle. You could smell roses. Hear laughter. A string quartet was playing something elegant but low-key—Nanami’s request.

And somewhere near the back row, Satoru was openly weeping.

“I always cry at weddings,” he sniffled, sunglasses still on, Megumi perched on his lap in a little black suit, kicking his shoes against the folding chair. “She looks like a princess. *Like a fairytale bride. Sugu, look—she’s crying. Oh god, I’m crying again.”

“You’ve cried three times and she hasn’t even reached the altar,” Suguru muttered, dabbing his husband’s face with a tissue like this wasn’t their sixth wedding this year. “Control yourself.”

“I’m emotionally invested,” Satoru whispered dramatically. “They were enemies. And now they’re in love. This is like some fanfiction turned into real life.”

You walked slowly, sun kissing your shoulders, dress catching in the wind like something from a dream.

Nanami stood waiting, gold tie sharp against his suit, jaw tight, expression soft.

Shoko was behind him in the groomswoman lineup, holding a flask and the backup ring box. She nodded at you once. Approval, in her own deadpan way.

Nobara, seated in the front row in a designer slip dress and sunglasses she refused to take off, gave you a subtle thumbs-up when your eyes briefly met hers.

Yuji stood near the altar with the actual rings—grinning so wide he nearly dropped the box when the officiant nodded at him.

“I knew they were gonna end up together,” he whispered to himself.

Toji—yes, that Toji—lingered near the back of the crowd, half-shadowed by a tree. No one invited him. No one ever did. But you weren’t surprised to see him here. He nodded once when Nanami glanced his way. They didn’t speak.

They never had to.

You reached the altar, heart hammering in your chest, and Nanami took your hand like he’d done it a thousand times. The officiant welcomed everyone. The string music stopped and the world quieted. Nanami turned to you, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

When it was time for vows, you went first.

“I never imagined I’d fall in love with someone I argued with every day,” you said, laughing softly as Satoru let out a dramatic gasp behind you. “But I think part of me always knew it would be you.”

Nanami’s expression didn’t change—but his eyes burned.

“You taught me that love isn’t always soft,” you continued. “Sometimes it’s earned. Sometimes it’s a challenge. But it’s worth showing up for. You’re worth showing up for.”

A pause.

“And if you steal another client deck from my desktop again, I will burn your French press.”

Shoko snorted. Nobara muttered, “God, I love her.”

Nanami went next. “I used to think love was a distraction,” he said. “Now I realize it’s a choice. A discipline. A devotion. You are the part of my day I never want to miss.”

And then, softer, just for you:

“I love you. Entirely. Without condition.”

You blinked back tears.

The officiant asked if he took you.

“Yes,” he said.

Then she turned to you. “Do you—”

“Yes.”

Laughter all around.

The kiss was soft. Real. Everyone clapped—Satoru the loudest, of course. Yuji dropped the ring box in the grass. Nobara caught it with one hand.

“Power couple,” Nobara said into her champagne flute later. “Can’t believe it actually worked out. I had money on enemies-with-benefits and a tragic breakup.”

Shoko leaned back in her chair. “Sucks to be wrong.”

Satoru was already trying to coax Nanami onto the dance floor for a “symbolic arm-wrestling match.”

You stayed beside your new husband, fingers laced with his. The air smelled like citrus and wine. Laughter rang out across the garden. Confetti still clung to your hair.

“You okay?” Nanami asked, glancing at you.

You looked at him—your partner, your friend, your once-rival who now loved you better than anyone ever had—and nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Summer suits us.”

The sheets were warm when you woke up, sun spilling over your skin like honey. Somewhere outside the window, waves lapped gently against the shore. The linen curtains fluttered in the breeze, the scent of salt and oranges hanging in the air. You stretched, half-lidded, still sore in the sweetest way.

A shadow passed over your face. Then came lips.

Nanami kissed your shoulder from behind, his arm slipping tighter around your waist, pulling you back into his chest like gravity was stronger between you now.

His voice was still sleep-rough when he murmured, “Good morning, wife.”

You laughed softly. “Say it again.”

“Wife.”

Your cheeks heated. “Weird.”

“Not to me.”

His palm skimmed across your stomach, like he had no plans to be anywhere else but here—with you, in this bed, on honeymoon, in this hour that belonged only to the two of you.

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

He didn’t deny it. “You’re beautiful in the morning.”

You rolled onto your back, let his fingers trace the curve of your bare thigh beneath the sheets. “You’re extra sappy on vacation.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected, eyes soft and golden in the sunlight. “There’s a difference.”

You kissed him slow, indulgent, like you had nowhere to be. Like you were tasting a lifetime. His hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye, and for a moment there was no teasing—just reverence.

“I still can’t believe we did it,” you whispered against his lips. “That we’re here.”

He didn’t smile, but you felt it anyway—in the kiss he pressed to your temple, the way his thumb traced your ring.

“I can,” he said. “I’ve believed it since the moment you made Megumi laugh.”

You laughed quietly, eyes closing. “You fell in love with me over a toddler.”

“I fell in love with you the second I realized you’d make an amazing mother,” he said. “Everything after that just proved it.”

Your breath caught. He kissed your knuckles.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured. “To wake up to you. To hold you without wondering when I’d lose you.”

You kissed him again. And again.

And then you were climbing over him, straddling his waist, letting the morning light wrap around the two of you as you rocked into him slow.

The honeymoon ended, but the softness didn’t.

Mornings began with the kettle whistling and Nanami’s hands around your waist, pressing a kiss to your neck while you brushed your teeth.

There were grocery lists on the fridge, laundry piles that never stayed folded, and his coffee cup always next to yours—even when he left before you woke up.

There was no grand adjustment period. Just quietness. Peace. The kind of rhythm that felt like you’d been doing this forever.

But then your period was late. Not just late. Gone.

You didn’t panic. At least, not right away. You counted the days again. Stared at the calendar. Told yourself you were stressed—travel, time zones, too much wine in Santorini. And then, quietly, you bought a test.

Nanami found the box on the bathroom counter the next morning.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held it in his hand, fingers curled around the edges like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

You stepped out of the bedroom, still in his shirt, hair messy from sleep. The moment you saw him, you froze.

“I was going to tell you,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Are you scared?”

You blinked. “Are you?”

He came over, hands settling gently on your hips. “I think I might pass out,” he admitted, forehead pressed to yours. “But only because I love you. And this would make everything more real.”

“I haven’t taken it yet.”

He nodded, stepped back. “I’ll wait.”

The test sat between you on the bathroom counter like a loaded secret. Nanami didn’t look at it first. He watched your face.

When your eyes welled with tears—happy ones, terrified ones—he pulled you into his arms and held you like he could keep the whole world steady just by not letting go.

“So,” you whispered, voice trembling. “We’re going to have a baby.”

He exhaled shakily, then kissed your forehead. “I guess this is where we fall in love all over again.”

You’d been home for a month when you decided to quit.

The first trimester was rougher than you expected—constant nausea, dizzy spells during meetings, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that made your old workload feel laughable. You were trying to keep up, but Nanami noticed the moment your eyes stopped lighting up in the mornings.

So when he found you asleep at your desk with your laptop still open to a deck you couldn’t finish, he didn’t tell you to tough it out. He just closed the lid and carried you to bed. He asked the next morning if you'd thought about stepping away.

You’d blinked, unsure. “You mean… quit?”

“I mean rest,” he said gently, fingers brushing over your knuckles. “I can take care of us.”

And you believed him. The decision came easier than you thought. Maybe because it wasn’t really quitting.

Maybe because the woman who used to measure success in pitch decks and quarterly growth had been replaced by someone who found peace in slow mornings and hand-written grocery lists. Someone who laughed more. Napped more. Loved deeper.

The first time you felt the baby kick, Nanami had been reading to you in bed. His voice stilled mid-sentence when you gasped, his hand freezing where it rested on your bump.

“A kick,” you whispered, tears already welling.

He pressed his palm closer. Another kick again.

“She’s strong,” he murmured, voice full of awe. “Just like her mother.”

And when the doctor told you at twenty weeks that you were officially having a girl as he predicted, he cried. Right there in the room, shoulders shaking silently as he held your hand.

“A girl,” he said again and again, like the words alone were sacred. “I’m going to be a girl dad.”

You leaned into him, heart spilling over. “She’s going to be so loved."

He kissed the crown of your head, arms wrapped around your shoulders as the image of a little girl with your smile bloomed quietly in his mind. You didn’t say it then, but you didn’t need to.

He’d already picked out bedtime stories. And every time he passed your future daughter’s room, still half-painted baby pink and full of folded onesies, he smiled like the world was still worth trusting in.

And when your water broke at 3:17 a.m., Nanami was already halfway dressed before you could even say his name. He was calm and focused. But you caught his hand shaking ever so slightly when he helped you into the car.

“I’m scared,” you admitted through a painful contraction.

He squeezed your hand, lips brushing your knuckles. “I’m not. Because I’ll be right here. Every second. I promise.”

And he was. All of it—every breath, every squeeze of your hand, every tear wiped from your cheek.

When your daughter entered the world, crying, perfect and impossibly small, he kissed your forehead and whispered three words against your skin:

“I love you.”

Then four more as the nurse placed her in his arms:

“I love her, too."

"…What?" His tone is slightly clipped as he returns your enthusiasm with his apathy, gaze narrowed behind his specs, a terrifying sight enough to make a grown man piss himself.

And yet, even under his pointed scrutiny, you don't seem to shy away from him. If he was really bothered by your sudden entrance, he would've said something about it or pushed you off by now, something he has yet to do. Therefore, which leads to your ultimate conclusion, he's very curious to hear what bullshit you have to say now!

"Well, my colleagues," you start, your hands finding home in the tufts of his pale hair, a mess that he let nobody touch casually. But, obviously, it's no surprise that you've somehow managed to bypass this absolute law, just like how you'd managed to wrap him around your finger.

"My colleagues are always calling me a gatekeeper! Can you believe it!? My own friends!" In the midst of your little fit, you don't realise you're tugging hard at his roots.

"Gatekeeper..?" He lets out a low grunt of annoyance, but otherwise remains pliant under your ministrations, only raising a sharp brow as your cue to continue.

"Yep!" You nod solemnly before a huge grin slips out against your will, your pretty shade of lipstick catching the light of the setting sun, a sight that has Gojo's eyes glued onto you. "They're always saying my makeup is flawless! That my base is butter smooth, and that it never creases!"

Gojo hums under his breath, a telling sign he's hanging on to every word you're saying with rapt intrigue as he subconsciously presses you closer to his proximity. "And?"

"And!" You stretch with effort, before jutting your bottom lip out with mock sadness, a movement followed intensely by the man before you. "They always ask what I use, but they never believe me when I say it's you who makes it!"

That's right, there was once a time where you'd come home crying to Satoru. Apparently, your favourite lip shade was announced to be discontinued, and because Satoru has never hated anything more than the sight of your tears, he'd promised to create you something that was near identical — so long as you stopped crying.

And what started off as lipstick eventually grew, Satoru was wordlessly began creating all sorts of cosmetic products. You didn't even have to ask, he was always multiple steps ahead of you! Your online shopping carts of products you wanted to try saved on his notes, for him to later create at the lab he was always holed up in.

"What does that matter?" Huffing, he presses his nose into your collarbone, inhaling the scent of your perfume with quiet reverence.

"They keep making requests for themselves!" You let out a soft whine, throwing your head back with exasperation. God, their shamelessness knew no bounds! It was a miracle you hadn't yet lost your mind. "They say that I'm a bad girlfriend for gatekeeping my good boyfriend's makeup line!"

"…." He cringes as you mimic them, your voice taking on an unusual lilt he's not quite used to.

"Tell me, Satoru…" Your words trail off as you purse your lips in ponder. "And answer me honestly, okay?"

"I'll try…" He mumbles too lowly for you to hear, his eyes shutting with slight fear. If he answered wrong by your standards, you might end up putting him through hell like you did those last few times when his answer was not to your satisfaction.

"Am I a jealous woman?" You ask with complete seriousness.

"…Huh." He blinks, taken aback by your question.

"For wanting to be the only woman receiving your handmade makeup. Does that make me a bad girlfriend?" Your jaw clenches as you think back to your colleagues multiple comments that have slowly began to grate on your nerves.

"No..?" He frowns, brows creased together like he can't comprehend why the hell that would make you a bad girlfriend. "I, I uh- um, I prefer making it for you only…"

"Aw! You're such a good boyfriend!" You giggle, the noise so sweet it has Gojo's pants tighten. "Going along with all my whims!"

"Uh, it doesn't— it doesn't bother me..." He stammers lightly, ears heating up with fluster as his cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. "I don't mind…"

His response is so adorable, and the way he can no longer meet your eyes from the shyness that overwhelms him has your heart clench with aggression. You don't have it in you to hold back from your urges, so you do as your heart desires. Smother his unguarded face with a flurry of kisses!

The noise of your lips against his face is unbearably loud, and even when Satoru squirms under your hold, you don't bother stopping. Not when you can clearly feel him get very happy beneath you. You trail a bunch of kisses everywhere, his cheeks, nose, forehead and all over— no place is left untouched under your affections, except for one particular spot.

After a couple more lingering smooches, you hover over his untouched lips, before reluctantly pulling away to admire your little masterpiece. The dazed expression he wears on top of the many kiss marks across the expanse of his skin is unfairly cute, he's quite literally melting into a puddle of putty under your touch, the searing heat of your fingers sending him into a blushing mess of stutters and whines.

"Ah! But y'know," your eyes curve with teasing mischief as you tap your finger against your smudged lips, swiping a bit of the product off with wicked intent. "You're actually a very baaad boyfriend, Satoru."

"Huh," he sighs, glasses crooked on his nose as his eyes grow half lidded with bliss. His confusion is palpable, something you don't see very often from your usually smart-mouthed boyfriend, the sort of sight that has you still and admire for a good moment.

"You've still yet to find a way to make my lipstick transfer proof..." You lean closer towards him, slowly dragging your stained finger across his untouched lips, pulling a soft whimper out of him. "Why is that? Am I to assume you actually like all the kisses I leave on your face?"

"That's not— that's not true…"

@saintly11x here u fucking go damn

a/n: does this count as tsun tsun nerdjo... idkidkdkdkdk

jjk! masterlist

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do.