#thirsts

A smirk curved across his lips as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “Careful,” he called out, voice smooth as smoke, “I charge for staring.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sound of your footsteps betrayed you, carrying you closer, until you slid onto the stool beside him. The seat squeaked; his grin widened.

“Guess I’ll let it slide,” he drawled, “since you’re cute up close.”

“Are you always like this?” you asked, ordering a drink just to have an excuse to stay.

He tilted his head, as though giving the question actual thought. His hair fell carelessly over his forehead, a flash of pale against the gloom. “Not always,” he said. “Only when I’m awake.”

The laugh that left you was sharp, unwilling, but real. He fed off it like he’d won a game.

Minutes turned into hours. He didn’t bother asking your name—he just said it, casually, like he’d plucked it from your own thoughts. The way he spoke it was dangerous, as if he had no right to know but all the confidence of someone who’d known forever.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he teased, twirling the straw in his glass. “I make it my business to know interesting people.”

“And am I interesting?” you asked.

His smile was lazy, but his eyes weren’t. Behind the easy charm was something sharper—watchful, calculating. “Dangerously so.”

At some point, you realized the bartender had set a drink in front of you without asking. Gojo raised his glass again, the ice clinking against the rim.

“A toast,” he said.

“To what?”

“To bad decisions.”

The rim of the glass was cool against your lips; his grin was warm against your skin when he leaned closer, close enough that the scent of him—smoke and sugar and something sharper—sank deep into you.

“You should walk away,” he murmured, his words barely louder than the jukebox hum. “I’m the kind of habit that ruins people.”

You should have listened. You should have left.

Instead, you looked at him, at the way he wore danger like silk, and you asked the only question that mattered:

“Then why haven’t you ruined me yet?”

His laugh was soft but carried weight, echoing in the space between you like a secret. He didn’t answer right away. His hand brushed yours—light, deliberate, a spark that lingered.

And for the first time that night, Gojo’s smile faltered, just barely. Enough for you to glimpse something beneath it, something darker, something heavy.

But then he leaned back again, walls snapping into place, grin flashing like nothing had shifted. “Patience,” he said. “corruption takes time.”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything changed—the moment his mystery sank its claws into you.

And you? You were already too far gone to stop it.

Every night after that, you found yourself drifting back to that same bar. At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence—you liked the music, or maybe the quiet—but you knew better. You were waiting. Waiting for him.

And every night, your glass emptied, your hopes dimmed, and still—no Gojo.

Until tonight.

He was already there when you walked in, hunched over the counter, a half-empty glass in front of him. His hair was messier than before, shadows clinging to the lines of his face. Tired, but still devastatingly handsome.

“Long time no see,” you said, sliding onto the stool beside him.

His eyes flicked up to you—tired, yes, but bright in a way that made your chest ache. He smiled, not the sharp grin from before but something smaller, softer, like he didn’t have the energy to put on the full act.

“Miss me?” he asked, voice low, teasing out of habit, though the edges were rougher than last time.

You smirked, pretending to think it over. “Not really. Just missed the free drinks.”

He huffed out a laugh, the kind that caught in his throat. He tipped his glass toward you, amber liquid catching the neon glow. “You wound me. I was hoping I’d left more of an impression.”

“You did,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. The words slipped out, honest and dangerous.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Just looked at you with those eyes—like he was weighing you, like he was deciding if he should let you any closer. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his voice dropping.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that, I might start believing you want me around.”

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to look away. “Maybe I do.”

Something shifted in his expression then—just for a second. The mask cracked. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and that tiredness you’d noticed when you walked in was still there, heavier now.

He covered it quickly, knocking back the rest of his drink and letting the glass clink against the counter. “Dangerous habit,” he said, echoing his warning from before. But the way his fingers brushed yours when the bartender set down another round told a different story.

And just like that, the game started again.

You watched him swirl the last of the ice in his glass, the tiredness in his eyes not quite erased by that smile he wore so well.

“So,” you said, careful but curious, “where’ve you been hiding all this time?”

His brows arched behind those sunglasses, amused. “Missed me that much?”

“I’m just asking,” you pressed, leaning in, “one night you’re here, the next you vanish. People don’t just… disappear like that.”

For a moment, he looked at you—really looked—like he was deciding whether or not to answer. Then he leaned closer, voice smooth and low, dripping with mock sincerity.

“Maybe I got bored. Maybe I was chasing something better. Maybe,” his hand brushed yours deliberately, “I was hoping you’d be desperate enough to keep looking.”

You frowned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He smirked, tilting his head. “Come on, you don’t really want the truth, do you? Isn’t it more fun like this? Me—” his grin widened, teeth flashing, “the mystery man who shows up just when you’re ready to stop waiting.”

Your chest tightened, irritation and something far more dangerous tangling together. “Oh, Mr. Mystery,” you muttered, shaking your head, “you’re just too much for me.”

Your words hung between you, sharper than you meant them, but Gojo didn’t flinch. If anything, his smile curved slower this time, deliberate, like a cat stretching in the sun.

He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his breath warm against your cheek. “Too much for you?” he echoed, savoring it. “That’s funny. I thought you liked trouble.”

“I asked you a question,” you whispered, your pulse betraying you, “and you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, I answered,” he said, his voice dropping silk-smooth. “Just not in the way you wanted.”

Your eyes met, and for once, the grin faltered. His gaze lingered—hungry, intense, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. His hand slid against the back of your chair, boxing you in without touching, and you swore he was about to close the space between you.

Your breath caught, waiting.

And then—he stopped.

The corners of his mouth lifted again, back to that infuriating grin as he leaned just far enough away to deny you. “Patience, sweetheart,” he murmured, almost sing-song, his thumb brushing the rim of his glass instead of your skin. “You’ll ruin the mystery if I give you everything at once.”

The ache of almost lingered in your chest, leaving you dizzy, frustrated, and craving more. You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back on the stool. “You’re a tease aren’t you?” Gojo’s grin sharpened, his sunglasses slipping down just enough for you to catch the gleam of his eyes beneath. “Tease?” he repeated, feigning offense. “No, no, no. Teasing is cruel. I’d call it…anticipation.” “Feels the same to me” you shoot back

He hummed, leaning in again, so close his knee brushed against yours under the counter. “If I were really teasing,” he whispered, his voice warm and dangerous around your ear, “I’d let you think you’re in control” Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, he pulled back just enough to smirk at the look on your face. “But you’re not, sweetheart. Not even close.” Your eyes narrowed, though the heat in your chest refused to fade. “Then who is?”

Gojo’s smile widened, too bright, too sharp. He tapped two fingers against his chest. “Take a wild guess.”

And in that moment, you knew he wasn’t just talking about the game between you—he was talking about everything. His secrets, his absences, the shadow that clung to him even when he laughed.

But when you opened your mouth to press further, he raised his glass to his lips, effectively ending the conversation with a playful wink.

The wink was infuriating. A wall thrown up between you with nothing but a smirk and the slow tilt of his glass.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He lowered the drink, ice clinking against the rim. “Depends on the question,” he said lightly. “Ask me my favorite color? Easy. Ask me what I’m doing when I disappear for weeks?” He leaned closer, so close the smile faded into something more dangerous. “That one costs extra.”

You swallowed, your frustration mixing with the pulse that always betrayed you around him. “And what’s the price?”

Gojo tilted his head, studying you, eyes gleaming under the dim light. Then—so fast you almost didn’t catch it—his fingers brushed under your chin, tilting your face just slightly toward his. The air between you burned.

“The price,” he whispered, his grin returning slow and wicked, “is trusting me enough not to care about the answer.”

Your breath caught, your lips parting on a retort that never came. He lingered there, close enough that the world seemed to shrink to the space between his mouth and yours—until, just as you thought he’d finally give in, he pulled back again, laughing under his breath.

“You should see your face,” he teased, ruffling your hair like he hadn’t just undone you with one sentence. “Absolutely priceless.”

You swatted his hand away, but your skin still hummed where he’d touched you. The smirk stayed on his lips, but the shadows under his eyes, the tiredness that no amount of charm could hide, pulled at your thoughts.

“Gojo,” you said quietly, “what are you hiding?”

For once, he didn’t immediately answer. He swirled the ice in his glass, gaze distant, smile faint. Then he leaned close again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered—

“Something that would scare you off, sweetheart.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, not because they frightened you, but because they didn’t. You almost asked, Try me. But before you could speak, the overhead light flickered. Just for a second, long enough for you to notice the way his pupils seemed to narrow unnaturally in the dim glow.

And when the light steadied, his grin was back—wide, coy, as though nothing had happened.

“Tell you what,” he said, sliding his empty glass across the counter. “One of these nights, maybe I’ll let you in on the secret. Until then…” His tongue darted across his lip, too fast, too deliberate. “You’ll just have to keep coming back for more.”

Something in your chest twisted—equal parts fear and want.