mads

He was quiet. Severe. Difficult to approach. The kind of man who could spend an entire party standing in a corner with a drink in one hand and a look on his face that discouraged strangers from speaking to him. He hated small talk, ignored group chats, and once left a birthday dinner without saying goodbye because, in his words, “I had already attended.”

Naturally, you assumed he understood personal space.

You were wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Sukuna understood personal space perfectly well.

He simply did not believe yours applied to him.

The change had happened almost immediately after you started dating. Before that, he had been restrained. Controlled. He would sit beside you without touching, walk you home with his hands in his pockets, and offer you his jacket with the stiff seriousness of a man performing a legal obligation.

Then you kissed him for the first time.

After that, Sukuna became a problem.

If you sat on the couch, he either pulled you onto his lap or stretched out with his head resting heavily across your thighs. If you tried to move, he opened one red eye and stared at you as though you had violated a binding contract.

“Where are you going?”

“To get water.”

“There’s water here.”

“That glass is yours.”

“You can have it.”

“I don’t want your water.”

“Why?”

“Because you drank out of it.”

His expression would darken. “You kiss me.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

He would stare at you for a moment, then tighten one arm around your waist before closing his eyes again.

“Sit down.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re moving too much.”

“You are literally lying on me.”

“Yes.”

That was always his answer.

Yes.

As though acknowledging the crime made it acceptable.

Cooking was worse.

Sukuna could have been in another room, occupied with something completely unrelated, and the moment you began chopping vegetables, he would appear behind you like an enormous, tattooed ghost. He would press against your back, wrap both arms around your waist, and rest his chin on your shoulder while you tried to use a knife safely.

“Sukuna,” you would say.

“What?”

“I’m cooking.”

“I can see that.”

“You are making it difficult.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re hanging on me.”

“I’m barely touching you.”

His chest would be pressed against your entire back. His arms would be locked around your middle. His face would be buried against the side of your neck.

“Barely?”

“Yes.”

“You are six foot four.”

“Not my fault.”

“You are breathing in my ear.”

“That is generally how breathing works.”

You would turn your head just enough to glare at him.

He would kiss your cheek.

And somehow, inexplicably, that would become the end of the argument.

He followed you into the bathroom too.

Not every time. He had boundaries.

They were simply strange boundaries.

If you were doing your hair, he leaned in the doorway and watched.

If you were washing your face, he stood beside you and examined his own reflection like he had also suddenly developed a skincare routine.

If you were brushing your teeth, he brushed his teeth at the same time, even if he had already done it.

The first time you realized this, you had watched him reach for his toothbrush at nearly eleven at night.

“You already brushed your teeth.”

He froze with the toothpaste in hand.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“When?”

“After dinner.”

“That was earlier.”

“It was an hour ago.”

He stared at you in the mirror.

You stared back, toothbrush hanging from your mouth.

Then he squeezed toothpaste onto the brush anyway.

“You’re going to damage your gums.”

“My gums are strong.”

“That does not mean—”

He started brushing.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

His mouth foamed slightly around the toothbrush as he smirked.

You had realized then that he was not brushing his teeth because he needed to.

He simply wanted to stand beside you.

That was the thing about Sukuna.

To everyone else, he appeared profoundly uninterested in human attachment.

He did not hug his friends. He barely answered messages. He had once stared at a coworker who tried to pat his shoulder until the poor man quietly apologized.

But with you, he needed constant contact.

His hand on your thigh beneath restaurant tables.

His fingers hooked through your belt loop while you stood in line.

His palm resting against the back of your neck while you watched television.

His leg pressed against yours in bed.

If there was a way for Sukuna to be touching you, he found it.

Sometimes he invented one.

You were convinced that half the things he claimed required help did not.

“Come here,” he would say from the bedroom.

You would walk in and find him standing in front of the mirror with a perfectly reachable zipper at the back of his jacket.

“What?”

“Help.”

“With what?”

“This.”

“You can reach that.”

“No.”

“Sukuna.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You went to the gym this morning.”

“Exactly.”

You would sigh and walk toward him anyway, and the moment your fingers touched the zipper, his hands would find your hips.

“You are such a liar.”

He would meet your gaze in the mirror.

“Yes.”

At night, his clinginess became nearly unbearable.

Sukuna did not cuddle politely.

He did not simply place an arm around your waist and remain on his side of the bed like a civilized man.

He consumed space.

Every night, he pulled you against him until there was no air left between your bodies. One arm went beneath your neck, the other wrapped around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. Sometimes he tucked your head under his chin. Sometimes he buried his face against your hair. Sometimes he draped himself over you so thoroughly you woke up convinced a building had collapsed.

You tried reasoning with him.

“Sukuna, we have a king-sized bed.”

“I know.”

“You are using three-quarters of it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are on my side.”

“You’re on my side.”

“I went to sleep over there.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Because you dragged me.”

He would blink at you sleepily, hair messy, eyes half-open.

“You came willingly.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly.”

You had developed a system.

You let him cuddle you until he fell asleep. Then, once his breathing grew deep and his grip loosened, you carefully slipped from his arms and moved toward your side of the bed.

Most nights, it worked.

Sometimes, half-asleep, he followed.

You would wake up an hour later with him attached to you again, one arm locked around your waist like his body had detected the distance and corrected it without his permission.

It was ridiculous.

It was also, though you hated admitting it, a little adorable.

Sukuna, who looked like he would rather bite through glass than admit he needed anyone, slept best with his face buried against your neck.

Still, there were limits.

And that summer evening, with the heat hanging thick and unmoving around the house, you reached yours.

The air conditioner was working, technically, but it had been fighting a losing battle against the brutal temperature outside all day. The bedroom felt warm despite the fan turning overhead. The sheets were too heavy. Your skin felt sticky after your shower, and even the thin cotton sleep shirt you wore clung uncomfortably to your back.

You were exhausted.

You had spent the day running errands, answering messages, cleaning, and pretending the heat had not slowly drained your soul from your body.

By the time you climbed into bed, you wanted only darkness, cold air, and silence.

Sukuna came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, shirtless, wearing dark sleep pants low on his hips. He turned off the bathroom light and crossed the room, looking completely unaffected by the heat because the universe had favorites and apparently he was one of them.

He slid into bed behind you.

You felt the mattress dip.

Then his arm wrapped around your waist.

His chest pressed against your back.

One leg pushed between yours.

His face tucked against the nape of your neck.

You closed your eyes.

For approximately ten seconds, you tried to tolerate it.

Then his breath warmed your skin.

Your eye twitched.

“Sukuna.”

“Mhm?”

“You’re hot.”

His arm tightened.

“I know.”

You turned your head slightly. “Not like that.”

His mouth curved against your shoulder. “You should be more specific.”

“I mean your body temperature.”

“That sounds less flattering.”

“You are making me sweat.”

“You were already sweating.”

“You are making it worse.”

He gave a sleepy hum and pressed a kiss beneath your ear.

Normally, that would have softened you.

Tonight, it made you feel approximately twelve degrees warmer.

You shifted forward.

Sukuna followed.

You shifted again.

He followed again.

You stared into the darkness.

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“You’re following me.”

“I’m lying down.”

“You moved.”

“You moved first.”

“Because you were on me.”

“I’m always on you.”

“Yes, that is the problem.”

He went quiet.

You felt a small, immediate stab of guilt, but you were too tired and too warm to soften the truth.

You turned carefully in his arms to face him.

His eyes were open now, faintly visible in the dim light.

You placed one hand against his chest.

“Baby,” you said gently, “can you please go to your side tonight?”

He stared at you.

Not angry.

Not offended.

Just still.

You continued, trying to keep your voice soft.

“I’m really hot, and I’m tired, and I need a little space to sleep.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Space.”

“Yes.”

“From me.”

You sighed. “Not emotionally.”

He watched you for another second.

Then, without a word, Sukuna released you.

He rolled away.

You exhaled in relief, stretching your legs beneath the sheet.

Finally.

Cool air touched the back of your neck. The mattress no longer felt like an oven filled with muscle.

You closed your eyes.

Then you heard movement.

The mattress shifted again.

A second later, it rose.

Your eyes opened.

You turned over.

Sukuna was standing beside the bed.

You blinked at him.

“What are you doing?”

“You wanted space.”

“I meant go to your side.”

“I am.”

“You are off the bed.”

He looked down at the floor.

Then back at you.

“This is my side now.”

You stared.

He stared back.

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“You’re standing.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You requested distance.”

“I requested that you move twelve inches.”

“You did not specify.”

“I said your side.”

He gestured toward the empty strip of mattress he had abandoned.

“That is your side.”

“Then why are you on the floor?”

He folded his arms across his chest.

“You said you were hot.”

“I am.”

“You said I was the problem.”

“I said your body heat was the problem.”

“Same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.”

Sukuna looked away with the deeply wounded expression of a man who had been betrayed by the legal system.

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow.

“Come back to bed.”

“No.”

Your eyebrows rose.

“No?”

“You wanted space.”

“I have space.”

“Good.”

“Sukuna.”

He sat down on the floor beside the bed.

You stared at the top of his pink head.

This man.

This enormous, frightening, stubborn man.

He sat on the bedroom floor like an exiled dog.

You leaned over the edge of the mattress. “What are you doing now?”

“Sleeping.”

“On the floor?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to sleep on the floor because I asked you to roll over?”

He looked up at you.

“You said please.”

“That usually makes a request nicer.”

“It sounded serious.”

“It was serious because I was hot.”

“And now you’re not.”

You rubbed one hand over your face.

“Sukuna, there are other options between crushing me in your sleep and abandoning the bed entirely.”

He shrugged.

You could tell he was trying to appear indifferent.

He failed.

His shoulders were stiff. His mouth was set in a firm line. He looked offended, but beneath it was something almost embarrassingly soft.

He genuinely thought you did not want him near you.

The realization made your irritation fade.

Mostly.

“You’re being dramatic,” you said.

“You’re being controlling.”

“You were wrapped around me like a heated blanket.”

“You usually like it.”

“I do usually like it.”

His eyes flicked toward yours.

You softened your voice.

“I’m just tired tonight.”

He studied your face carefully.

Then he looked away again.

“Fine.”

He stayed on the floor.

You stared at him.

He stared at the wall.

The fan continued turning overhead.

Somewhere outside, a car passed.

You were about to reach down and physically drag him back onto the mattress when Sukuna suddenly leaned toward the nightstand.

You watched as he opened the bottom drawer.

“What are you doing?”

He ignored you.

His hand disappeared inside.

Then he pulled out a small bag of candy.

You blinked.

It was your favorite candy.

The kind you always forgot to buy for yourself. The kind he complained was too sweet while somehow keeping emergency bags hidden throughout the house.

Sukuna opened the bag.

The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet room.

He took out one piece and held it up.

You stared at it.

He stared at you.

“What is that?” you asked.

“Candy.”

“I can see that.”

He extended his hand slightly.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Are you bribing me?”

“No.”

“You’re offering me candy immediately after I asked for space.”

“Yes.”

“That is a bribe.”

“It is a negotiation.”

You looked at the candy again.

Then at him.

His expression remained perfectly serious.

You took it.

His eyes watched as you unwrapped it and placed it in your mouth.

The sweetness bloomed across your tongue.

Sukuna waited exactly three seconds.

Then, in the calmest voice imaginable, he asked, “Can I cuddle now?”

Your heart broke.

Not dramatically.

Not painfully.

Just softly, all at once, under the weight of how ridiculous and sweet he was.

You stared at him on the floor, hair messy from lying down, candy bag in one hand, his entire intimidating body folded beside the mattress because you had asked for a little room.

He looked so serious.

So hopeful.

So stupidly cute.

You sighed.

“Oh, baby.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

You reached down and grabbed his wrist.

“Come here.”

He stood immediately.

Too quickly.

You almost laughed.

Sukuna climbed back into bed, and before he could arrange himself around you again, you caught him by the shoulders and pulled him toward you.

He blinked in surprise as you wrapped both arms around his neck.

You hugged him tightly.

Not politely.

Not delicately.

You squeezed him until his cheek pressed against yours.

“There,” you murmured. “Happy?”

His arms came around your waist slowly.

“Yes.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“No.”

“You moved to the floor.”

“You asked for space.”

“You brought me candy to negotiate physical affection.”

“It worked.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face had gone smug again.

The softness had not disappeared, though. You could still see it beneath the smirk.

You lifted both hands and squeezed his cheeks.

His lips pushed forward.

His eyes narrowed immediately.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re so cute.”

His expression darkened.

“Stop.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You had emergency candy in the nightstand.”

“That was for me.”

“You hate that candy.”

“I tolerate it.”

“For me.”

“No.”

You squeezed his cheeks harder.

His mouth compressed between your palms.

“You’re adorable,” you said.

His muffled voice came out furious. “Take your hands off my face.”

“You’re my cute little clingy husband.”

“I will leave again.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I might.”

You released his cheeks.

He stared at you with deep offense, red eyes narrowed, face slightly pink where you had squeezed it.

You kissed one cheek.

Then the other.

His expression softened immediately despite his best efforts.

You smiled.

“There he is.”

“Who?”

“My sweet baby.”

“I’m older than you.”

“By one year.”

“And larger.”

“Much larger.”

“Then stop calling me baby.” You kissed the tip of his nose.

“No.”

He glared.

You grinned.

Then his arms tightened suddenly, and he rolled you beneath him in one smooth movement. You gasped, laughing as he buried his face against your neck.

“Sukuna!”

“You wanted to cuddle.”

“I did not say suffocate me.”

“You hugged me first.”

“I felt bad.”

“That sounds like permission.”

“It is not.”

He settled more of his weight carefully over you, still holding himself up enough not to crush you.

You were warm again.

Too warm.

His chest was a furnace.

His breath tickled your neck.

But now you could feel the way he smiled against your skin, satisfied and peaceful, as though the universe had been restored to its proper order.

You sighed.

“Can we at least compromise?”

“No.”

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“You can cuddle me, but no leg trap.”

His thigh was already wedged between yours.

He moved it reluctantly.

“And do not put your whole body on me.”

He shifted half an inch.

“More.”

Another inch.

“Sukuna.”

He rolled onto his side and pulled you against his chest.

It was still warm, but less suffocating.

You rested your cheek against him.

“Better?”

He grunted.

“That means yes.”

“It means I’m tolerating your rules.”

“You love my rules.”

“I hate rules.”

“You make rules for everything.”

“Mine are correct.”

You smiled into his chest.

His hand moved slowly along your back.

The room settled around you again. The fan whispered overhead. The candy bag remained open on the floor beside the bed, one piece missing, the evidence of his absurd little peace offering.

After a few quiet minutes, Sukuna spoke.

“Do I bother you?”

His voice was different.

Lower.

Careful.

You lifted your head.

“What?”

He did not look at you.

“When I follow you around.”

Your heart softened again.

You shifted higher, propping your chin against his chest.

“Sometimes.”

His eyes snapped toward yours.

You laughed quietly.

“Not in a bad way.”

“That is exactly what someone says before saying something bad.”

“I like that you want to be near me.”

He watched you closely.

“I also like being alone sometimes.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you stand behind me every time I cook?”

“You could burn yourself.”

“I have never burned myself.”

“You could.”

“Why do you follow me into the bathroom?”

“You take too long.”

“You brush your teeth twice just to stand next to me.”

“That is dental responsibility.”

You smiled.

He looked away.

You touched his cheek.

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“You do not have to be touching me every second to know I love you.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I know.”

“You’re saying that like you don’t know.”

“I know.”

You waited.

His fingers continued tracing slow lines along your back.

Finally, he sighed.

“You’re quiet.”

“I know.”

“You disappear into your own head.”

“I do.”

“And sometimes I can’t tell if you want me there.”

You stared at him.

Sukuna was not shy.

He was not insecure in the ordinary way. He walked through the world like it belonged to him and merely allowed other people to occupy portions of it.

But with you, beneath all the smugness and possessiveness and constant touching, there was something unexpectedly vulnerable.

He loved you so much that sometimes he did not know where to place it.

So he placed it everywhere.

Against your waist while you cooked.

Across your lap on the couch.

Beside you at the bathroom sink.

Wrapped around you in bed.

You leaned closer and kissed him gently.

“I always want you in my life,” you whispered. “I just do not always want you physically attached to my spine.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That sounds contradictory.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“You can sit beside me without sitting on me.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a person, not furniture.”

“You’re comfortable.”

You laughed softly and kissed him again.

He followed your mouth when you pulled away, stealing one more.

Then another.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

“You like me.”

“I love you.”

The smugness left his face.

It always did when you said it plainly.

His eyes softened, his hand moving up to cradle the back of your head.

“I love you too.”

You smiled.

“Even when I need space?”

He stared at you.

“Unfortunately.”

You pinched his side.

He caught your wrist.

“You’re aggressive.”

“You called loving me unfortunate.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I did.”

You settled back against his chest.

He adjusted the sheet over both of you and tucked you closer, but this time he left enough room for air to pass between your bodies.

Barely.

It was an improvement.

After another minute, you felt his breathing deepen.

His grip loosened.

You considered moving.

The old routine.

Wait until he slept, then carefully slip away.

You lifted your head slightly.

Sukuna’s eyes remained closed, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was during the day. One hand rested loosely at your waist. His hair fell over his forehead. His mouth, so often curled into a smirk or sharpened by irritation, had softened in sleep.

Cute.

Painfully cute.

You reached up and squeezed his cheek once more.

His eyes opened instantly.

“What?”

You smiled.

“Nothing.”

“You touched my face.”

“You’re cute.”

“Go to sleep.”

You kissed his cheek.

He closed his eyes again.

Then, without opening them, he tightened his arm around you.

“Don’t move.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.”

“You answered immediately.”

“Instinct.”

“Clingy instinct.”

He pulled you closer.

You laughed quietly.

The summer heat still pressed around the room. His body was still warm. You would probably wake up sweating at some point and regret every decision that had brought you here.

But for now, you tucked your face beneath his chin and wrapped one arm around his waist.

Sukuna hummed, satisfied.

“There,” he murmured sleepily. “Better.”

You smiled against his skin.

“For you.”

“For us.”

“Mostly you.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“And I’m cute.”

You lifted your head.

His eyes remained shut, but the corner of his mouth had curved.

You narrowed your eyes.

“I thought you hated being called cute.”

“I do.”

“You just called yourself cute.”

“I said you said it.”

“That is not what happened.”

“Go to sleep.” You laughed softly and settled against him again.

A few minutes later, when you thought he had finally fallen asleep, his voice rumbled through his chest.

“There’s more candy in the drawer.”

You smiled into the dark.

“Is that another negotiation?”

“Maybe.”

“For what?”

His arm tightened around you.

“Tomorrow.”

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. 

“Cho, baby, stop crying,” you attempted to subside your boyfriend’s tears (which were kinda hot). “How about I just come over and help babysit? I’ll make dinner and we’ll have a date just with Yuji as our third wheel?” You suggested. Choso’s whimpers subsided when you said that.

“Really? You’d do that for me?” He asked softly. You giggled and nodded despite him not being able to see you. “Okay, then. Come over.”

And that’s how you ended up at Choso’s house, playing with his cute little brother while Choso worked at his guitar. “How old is he?” You asked Choso, looking down at the pink haired little boy.

“Three. He’ll be four next week.” He said, watching you with love and adoration as you cooed at Yuji who was being just as vocal. “I’m kind of jealous, you know? He’s getting all your attention.” Choso said, eyeing Yuji who was sticking out his tongue at his brother.

“I love you!” Yuji exclaimed at you, nuzzling his tiny body into your side. You gasped, surprised at how sweet he was. Choso was seething with jealousy and was taking it out on his guitar strings.

“Aww! I love you too, Yuji!” Choso couldn’t take it anymore, he set his guitar down and crossed over to sit on the couch with you, giving his baby brother a nasty look as he wrapped his arms around you.

“She’s my girlfriend, dweeb.” You giggled at Yuji now getting angry, he hit Choso on the leg with all his little might.

“Cho, he’s three. Grow up.” You said, rolling your eyes as Choso hid his face in your neck.

Later on, both Choso and Yuji were hungry, so you and Choso got in the kitchen and made a signature spaghetti. You three sat around on the couch, eating soundly. Yuji had spaghetti sauce all over his cute face.

“This is really good, baby.” Choso complimented you, running his large hand over your thigh. You smiled.

“Thank you, Cho. Can we go watch the stars later? Once Yuji falls asleep.” You asked, taking another bite of your food. Choso perked up at the idea of you having alone time.

“Of course! Yeah— yeah, I’ll put this guy right to sleep.” Yuji turned away from his cartoon at that.

“I’m not a guy!” He pouted which made you bark out a laugh. Choso saluted to his baby brother for eliciting a beautiful laugh from you.

Nightfall had came and Yuji was fast asleep after Choso gave him a warm bath. Choso and you snuck out to his backyard to watch the stars. You laid out a blanket and you both got comfortable on it.

Your eyes were on the white specks in the sky, but Choso’s were on you. You finally turned to him, propping yourself up on your hand. “If you could name a star, what would you name it?” You asked him softly, playing with his long dark hair.

Without missing a beat, he said, “I’d name it after you.” Your expression softened, you raised your hand to cup either side of his face.

“Have I ever told you I love you?” You didn’t give him a chance to say yes or no before capturing his lips in a gentle kiss, you still had hands on his face and could feel his cheeks heating up.

the music in sigma alpha house wasn't just loud; it was a physical force. it vibrated through the floorboards, pulsed in the soles of everyone's shoes, and made the red plastic cups on the kitchen counters shake.

from his vantage point at the top of the grand, slightly scuffed wooden staircase, satoru gojo looked down at his world. he wore a backwards baseball cap, a vintage bomber jacket with his fraternity's greek letters stitched across the chest, and a smirk that he knew exactly how to use.

he was, without a doubt, the undisputed king of this campus. when elections had rolled around a few months ago, nobody else had even bothered to put their name on the ballot. why would they? satoru had the kind of charisma that felt like a magnetic pull. if he walked into a lecture hall, the energy shifted. if he threw a party, the whole campus showed up.

"hey, prez! catch!"

satoru didn't even look up as a crushed silver can flew toward his head. he simply reached out a hand, catching it cleanly out of the air before tossing it into a nearby recycling bin. he looked over to see suguru geto leaning against the doorframe of the executive office, holding a clipboard and looking thoroughly exhausted.

"the fire marshal is down the street, satoru," suguru called out over the bass, rubbing his temples. "if we get one more noise complaint, sukuna says we won't have the budget to pay the fines."

"relax, suguru. i'll handle it." satoru laughed, throwing an arm around his vice president's shoulders as they walked down the stairs. "the fire marshal's son is a pledge at kappa beta. i'll just promise him vip access to our next tailgate. works every time."

as soon as satoru's sneakers hit the first floor, a wave of voices cheered his name.

"satoru! do a flip!"

"gojo, tell these guys your beer pong record!"

he thrived in it. he floated through the crowded living room like a celebrity, high-fiving the guys and flashing bright, easy smiles at the girls who hovered nearby, hoping to catch his eye. satoru was a natural flirt; it was like breathing to him. he'd lean in close to hear a girl over the music, wink just to watch her blush, and crack a joke that had an entire circle of people laughing within seconds. he was completely, effortlessly in control.

he loved the noise. he loved the crowd. he loved being the center of a universe that he had built from scratch.

as the night bled into the early hours of the morning, satoru stood on top of a sturdy coffee table, raising a cup to a roaring crowd of college students. he felt untouchable. he was satoru gojo, frat president, the loudest voice in every room.

he had absolutely no idea that in less than forty-eight hours, a single quiet room—and a person who didn't care about his title at all—would complete break his composure.

the university library was satoru's personal version of hell.

it was too bright, too sterile, and worst of all, it was dead silent. satoru didn't do silent, he was a creature born for bass drops and shouting over crowds—not the rhythmic, aggressive tapping of laptop keys and the occasional dust-filled cough.

he wandered aimlessly down the narrow aisles of the third floor, dragging his fingers across the spines of old, heavy books. he looked entirely ridiculous. he was still wearing his bright blue fraternity hoodie, but today it felt suffocating.

"i swear to god, suguru, i'm going to use this book as kindling." satoru muttered to himself, squinting at a crumpled sticky note in his hand.

suguru had practically locked him out of the frat house this morning, refusing to give satoru the keys to his own car until he went to the library to retrieve a super-specific, archaic political science reference book for their upcoming chapter presentation. "you're the president, satoru. do some actual work for once," suguru's voice echoed in his head.

but satoru was completely out of his element. the numbering system on the shelves made absolutely no sense to him. was 320.1 before or after 320.09? he sighed loudly, a sound that immediately earned him a sharp, lethal glare from a student three rows over. satoru offered a weak, apologetic peace sign and quickly turned a corner, running a hand through his messy white hair. he was genuinely frustrated. he was satoru gojo; he didn't struggle.

"do you need help finding something?"

the voice was soft, spoken in a hushed, polite whisper, but it made satoru jump an inch off the carpet.

he spun around, ready to flash his classic, thousand-watt presidential smile to charm whoever was bothering him. but the moment his eyes landed on you, the smile died on his face.

you were wearing a little laminated 'library staff' badge pinned to your cardigan. you had a cart of books beside you, and you were looking up at him with a patient, helpful expression. you were completely ordinary compared to the flashy girls who screamed his name at parties, but to satoru, the air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin.

"uh," was all that satoru managed to say.

that was it. that was the grand opening line from the most charismatic guy on campus. uh.

"i, um," he stammered, his blue eyes widening behind his round sunglasses. he suddenly felt hyper-aware of how tall he was, how loud his sneakers were on the floor, and how fast his heart was suddenly hammering against his ribs. his smooth, unbothered composure didn't just crack—it shattered into a million pieces. "book. i need… a book."

you let out a tiny, amused breath, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "right, most people do. what's the title?"

satoru's hand felt clumsy as he shoved the crumpled sticky note toward you. his fingers brushed against yours for a fraction of a second, and a jolt of pure electricity went straight up his arm. he literally stepped back, his face flushing a furious, sudden pink.

you read the note, unbothered. "oh, the political theory texts. they're actually a floor down in the basement archives. follow me."

as you turned and began walking toward the stairs, satoru followed like a dazed puppy. his brain was in total, catastrophic system failure. he tried to think of something clever to say. usually, flirting was like breathing. he'd ask for a number, make a joke about the quiet rules, wink—something. but as he stared at the back of your head, his mouth felt completely dry. he was terrified that if he spoke, he'd squeak.

you led him into the quietest corner of the basement, scanned the shelves for three seconds, and pulled back a thick, leather-bound book from the top shelf.

"here you go," you whispered, handing it over with a sweet, polite smile. "advanced political structures. good luck with your studies."

"th-thanks," satoru choked out, his voice cracking slightly on the 's'. he gripped the book like a shield. "i'm satoru, by the way. gojo. i run the—"

"nice to meet you, satoru," you interrupted softly, giving him a polite little nod before turning back to your cart. you clearly had no idea who he was, and frankly, you didn't seem to care.

satoru stood frozen in the basement aisle for a solid two minutes, clutching the textbook to his chest, watching you walk away.

by the time he dragged his feet back up to the third floor, he saw you sitting at a secluded corner desk. your shift was clearly over. you had a massive, intimidating stack of organic chemistry and advanced calculus textbooks piled high next to you. you slipped a pair of large, noise-canceling headphones over your ears, completely tuning out the rest of the world as you buried your face in notebook, entirely focused.

satoru stood a few rows back, hiding half of his face behind the political science book. his cheeks were still burning. he looked at the heavy stem books, then at your peaceful face, and then down at his own trembling hands.

he was down bad. he was so incredibly, terrifyingly down bad.

"he's broken." sukuna said.

he didn't look up from the chapter ledger spreadsheet on his laptop, his face set in its usual permanent scowl. he was sitting at the massive, grease-stained kitchen island of the sigma alpha house, aggressively tapping his pen against the marble.

"what do you mean, broken?" choso asked, carefully organizing a mountain of neon-colored philanthropy fliers into neat, perfect stacks.

"i mean he's malfunctioning," sukuna muttered, gesturing with his pen toward the living room. "look at him."

across the house, satoru gojo—the undisputed king of campus, the man who normally couldn't sit still for more than thirty seconds—was slumped on the worn leather sofa. he was staring blankly at his phone, a soft, dopey smile plastered across his face. his legs were draped over the armrest, and he was mindlessly twisting a lock of his white hair around his fingers. he looked like a teenage girl in a 90s rom-com.

suguru walked into the kitchen, tossing a bag of ice into the sink, and groaned at the sight. "he's been like that since tuesday. i told him to go to the library to get one reference book, and he came back looking like he'd been hit like a truck. he hasn't yelled 'let's go!' once today."

"maybe he's sick?" choso suggested, looking genuinely worried. "should i make him soup?"

from the hallway, toji walked in, wearing a tank top, holding a protein shaker, and looking entirely too old to be hanging out at a frat house. he took one look at satoru, let out a loud, mocking laugh, and raided the fridge. "he's not sick, idiots. he's whipped."

"whipped?" suguru blinked. "by who? satoru flirts with everyone, but he doesn't actually date."

and that was the truth. but as the week rolled on, the signs became impossible to ignore.

the real crisis happened on friday night. the sigma alpha house was absolutely packed for their mid-semester banger. the bass was rattling the windows, the strobe lights were cutting through the sweaty air, and a group of girls from the top sorority campus were practically begging satoru to come take a group photo with them.

normally, satoru would be right in the middle of it, posing, laughing, and being the life of the party.

instead, he was standing near the back door, completely ignoring three different girls trying to spark a conversation with him. his eyes kept darting to his phone screen. when a girl playfully touched his arm, satoru actually stepped back, nervously clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"uh, sorry, i actually gotta… go check on the breaker in the basement. yeah. fun party, though!" he stammered, offering a painfully awkward thumbs-up before slipping through the back door.

suguru watched the entire exchange from the bar, his jaw dropping. "did satoru gojo just reject a girl to go look at a circuit breaker?"

"he didn't go to the basement," sukuna said, appearing over suguru's shoulder like a vengeful spirit, his eyes narrowed as he watched the back exit. "the basement door is on the other side of the house. he just left the property."

by saturday night, the situation had reached a boiling point. the frat house was in full swing again, a line of students stretching down the block just to get in. inside, the crowd was chanting.

"prez! prez! prez! prez!"

they wanted him to do his traditional, chaotic speech from the top of the staircase to officially kick off the night. suguru ran up to satoru's room and slammed the door open.

"satoru, you're up, get down—"

the room was empty. the bed was made, the window was cracked open, and satoru's signature sigma alpha bomber jacket was hanging neatly in the closet. the president had completely abandoned ship on the biggest night of the semester.

suguru marched back down the stairs, his face deadpan as he approached the rest of the executive board gathered by the kitchen.

"he's gone." suguru announced.

toji grinned, slamming his protein shaker on the counter. "that's it. grab your jackets, boys. we're tracking the idiot."

"i'll bring the car," choso said, instantly protective. "if someone is blackmailing our president, i will handle it."

"i don't care who she is," sukuna growled, grabbing his keys with an irritated sigh. "but she's ruining our social calendar, and i'm going to personally tell her off."

the gps on suguru's phone led them far away from the chaotic neon lights of their street and straight into the quiet, historic district of the campus town.

sukuna parked his black suv across the street from a tiny, brightly lit botanical greenhouse cafe. it was the kind of place that smelled like lavender and expensive matcha—a place satoru gojo wouldn't be caught dead in under normal circumstances.

"there," toji muttered, pointing a thick finger through the windshield. "in the corner by the giant plant."

suguru, sukuna, choso, and toji piled out of the car, ducking behind a row of large, decorative hedges outside the glass windows of the cafe. four of the most intimidating guys on campus were currently crammed together, peering through the leaves like a bunch of terrible secret agents.

and what they saw made their jaws collectively drop.

satoru was sitting at a small wooden table. he wasn't wearing his usual loud street clothes; he was wearing a soft, beige knit sweater that made him look completely approachable. opposite him sat you. you were laughing softly at something, a small plate of pastries sitting between you.

but it was satoru's behavior that caused a literal system error in his brothers' brains.

"is he… holding her purse?" sukuna whispered, his voice dripping with pure disbelief. he was. a small, cute tote bag was slung over satoru's massive shoulder.

"look at his face," suguru breathed, pressing his forehead against a leaf. "he's blushing. satoru doesn't blush. he doesn't even know how to blush."

inside, you reached over and wiped a bit of powdered sugar off the corner of satoru's mouth with a napkin. the fearless, untouchable sigma alpha president instantly turned a shade of red that matched a fire engine. he didn't make a smooth joke. he didn't smirk. he literally tangled his own fingers together, looking down at his lap and stuttering out what looked like a shy 'thank you', his white hair practically glowing in the warm cafe lights.

"he's completely defenseless," choso whispered, clutching his chest. "look how gently he's holding her hand. it's beautiful, i'm so proud of him."

"it's pathetic," toji snorted, though he was grinning like a maniac, thoroughly enjoying the blackmail material. "i'm going to ruin his life with this." he reached for the door handle, ready to ruin satoru's night, but suguru grabbed his jacket collar and yanked him back.

"wait, don't go in yet," suguru hissed, a devious glint in his eyes. "if we catch him now, he'll just make up an excuse. we need more evidence. we're tailing him tomorrow."

sukuna grumbled, but ultimately nodded. they quietly backed away into the night, leaving the president completely unaware that his inner circle had just turned into his paparazzi.

the next morning, the operation began in earnest.

it was a sunday, a day satoru usually spent sleeping in until 2:00 pm to recover from the weekend's parties. but today, at 9:00 sharp, satoru practically skipped out of the sigma alpha house, looking freshly showered and wearing a crisp, neat flannel.

behind him, a dark suv with tinted windows rolled out of the driveway, keeping a precise two-car distance.

"target is on the move," toji deadpanned from the passenger seat, wearing sunglasses indoors just to commit to the bit.

their first stop was the university library's outdoor courtyard. the boys parked and took up positions behind a brick pillar. through a pair of binoculars that choso had inexplicably brought from home, they watched you and satoru sit at a concrete picnic table.

you had your massive, terrifyingly thick organic chemistry textbooks spread out. and satoru? he was actually holding a highlighter, intently reading a textbook right alongside you.

"is… is he studying?" suguru blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes. "satoru hasn't opened a textbook since freshman orientation. he usually just flashes his smile at the professors or begs me for his notes."

"look closer," sukuna muttered, leaning over suguru's shoulder. "he's not studying. he's been on the same page for twenty minutes. he's just using the book to hide his face because he's staring at her."

it was true. every time you leaned down to write a formula, satoru would peek over the top of his book, a completely dazed, love-struck look on his face. when you suddenly looked up, he panicked, dropped his highlighter, and scrambled to pretend he was deeply invested in a chapter about cell structures.

"isn't that idiot a political science major?" sukuna snapped from behind the pillar, his eye twitching as he watched satoru intensely study a diagram of a plant cell. you laughed—entirely oblivious to the stakeout happening across the courtyard—reaching over to ruffle his white hair, and satoru instantly melted, looking like he had just won the lottery.

by 2:00 pm, the stakeout moved to the campus park.

the frat brothers watched from a safe distance behind a duck pond as the untouchable campus king willingly allowed himself to be humiliated. you were trying to teach him how to crochet a little yarn flower. satoru's giant, clumsy hands were tangled in bright pink yarn, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in intense concentration.

"he looks like an idiot," toji laughed, taking a video on his phone. "the guy who handles a six-figure fraternity budget can't figure out a slipknot."

but the real kicker was how quiet he was. there was no shouting, no arrogant smirking, no crowd cheering his name. he was just listening to you talk about your major, nodding along with genuine interest, and looking incredibly soft.

"alright, i've seen enough," sukuna finally sighed, tossing his keys in the air. "he's completely gone. the satoru gojo we knew is dead. we need to go introduce ourselves to our new sister-in-law before he completely forgets how to speak english."

before suguru or choso could stop him, sukuna aggressively parted the bushes and marched right onto the grass, his face set in his signature terrifying scowl. the others had no choice but to follow him, trailing out of the greenery like a bunch of unhinged, heavy-set bodyguard shadows.

satoru's head snapped up. his blue eyes widened in absolute, sheer horror behind his sunglasses as his executive board successfully surrounded their picnic blanket.

"nice pink yarn, gojo," toji smirked, crossing his arms and looming over the space.

"w-what the—! what are you guys doing here?!" satoru's voice cracked perfectly into a high-pitched squeak. he scrambled to stand up, knocking his knees against the picnic basket and trying to use his massive frame as a human shield to block you from their view. "suguru! sukuna! go away! you're completely ruining the vibe!"

"we've been watching you all day, you idiot," sukuna grumbled, stepping forward and flashing his phone screen, which showed a crystal-clear photo of satoru tangled in pink yarn. "you skipped the mandatory meeting to learn how to crochet?" sukuna snatched the tangled ball of pink yarn right out of satoru's hands.

"it's a slipknot, actually. and it's very complex!" satoru shot back, his ears turning a violent shade of crimson as his smooth, unbothered president persona completely disintegrated. "get out of here before you scare her—"

before he could yell any further, you stepped out from behind satoru's shoulder. instead of being terrified by the sudden ambush of large, intense-looking guys, you gave them a warm, adorable smile and opened a plastic container sitting on the blanket.

"oh, hi!" you said, your voice calm, sweet, and totally unfazed. "are you satoru's friends from the house? i'm glad you're here! i actually baked some fresh blueberry scones this morning. would you like one? satoru was too nervous to eat breakfast, so there's plenty left."

the collective hostility from the boys evaporated in a fraction of a second.

choso's face instantly softened. he completely ignored a sputtering satoru and stepped right onto the blanket. "i'm choso, his older brother figure. if he ever acts annoying or uses that loud voice around you, just tell me. i will handle him."

"i'm suguru, the vice president," suguru said, immediately shifting into his most charming, polite executive mode. "and don't worry, we didn't mean to startle you. we were just checking up on our fearless leader."

you giggled, offering the container. toji immediately reached in, taking a massive bite. "oh, wow. these are actually incredible. hey sukuna, try this."

sukuna stood there, still clutching the ball of pink yarn, looking down at the giant, blushing mess of his president, and then at you. you were nice, polite, completely unimpressed by satoru's campus status, and you made phenomenal baked goods. with a defeated sigh, sukuna stuffed the yarn into his pocket and plucked a scone from the container.

"fine," sukuna muttered, chewing. "she's approved. you're still a loser, gojo."

satoru buried his face in his hands, letting out a weak, pathetic groan. "please stop talking," he mumbled into his palms, his ears burning a violent, undeniable red.

just as you and satoru had agreed that night, you tried to keep your dating life under wraps. you didn't want the drama, and satoru wanted to protect his favorite quiet space from the chaotic world of greek life.

but unfortunately on college campus, rumors seem to travel at the speed of light.

within weeks, the whisper network was in full swing. "did you hear? the sigma alpha president is locked down." "no way, satoru? with who?" "someone from the library, i think. a stem major. she doesn't even go to his parties."

people were skeptical of course. the campus king and a quiet, adorable library girl? it didn't make sense to anyone.

except for the sigma alpha house. the frat brothers became your fiercest, most terrifyingly protective bodyguards. if anyone ever questioned your relationship, sukuna would glare them into silence, choso would proudly tell everyone about the baked goods you brought to the house, and suguru would smugly remind people that satoru was a changed man.

and he really was—he still threw the best parties, but the second you walked into the room, his eyes found yours, and that soft, goofy sweater-wearing satoru belonged entirely to you.

fast forward to exactly one year later.

the spring semester was winding down, and satoru's term as president was officially coming to and end. a massive, heavy cardboard box arrived at the sigma alpha house, and the boys gathered around as suguru carefully sliced it open to pull out the brand-new, yearly chapter composite.

they hung the massive, elegant frame dead-center in the main hallway, right alongside decades of history.

if you walked into the house today, your eyes would immediately go to the very top row. right in the center was satoru's professional headshot—though, true to form, he had ruined the serious vibe by wearing his signature round sunglasses and flashing a proud, dorky peace sign.

but right next to his photo, placed perfectly in its own elegant frame with the exact same weight and importance as the president, was a beautiful, radiant picture of you.

and underneath your name, embossed in elegant gold lettering, read the title:

sweetheart.

He’ll soften his gaze, speak with words coated in a thick layer of honey, flash that million dollar smile of his— every demand that came from him sounded so sweet, it was sickening. 

He let out a pleased hum. “I knew you would.” 

“It’s just– I don’t,” you cut yourself off with a nervous laugh, the sense of warmth you originally felt quickly morphed into embarrassment, “I don’t have anything else to wear.” 

“No?” 

For a split second, his voice drops. Even if it’s just for a moment, it doesn't fail to leave you a bit unsettled given his history of losing his mind whenever things didn’t go his way. 

“N-no, Sir,” you shrink in your seat, “I’ll have to wait until my next payday to go shopping.”

“I see.” His lips curl back into a smile after realizing he’s going to scare you off, as that wasn’t his intention here. He looks at the door real quick, then back at you. “How about this, then— you remember that department store I had you pick up a suit from once, Damian’s?”

Your eyes widen once you realize where he’s going with this. “Oh! I don’t think that’s n—”

He plants his elbows on top of the desk, leaning forward and cutting you off with the simple, yet powerful act of clearing his throat. 

“Why don’t you give them a visit this weekend, yeah?” He pauses for a moment, as if he were daring you to interrupt him again. You don’t. He laughs. “Yeah— why don’t you give them a visit. I’ll reach out before the day ends so they know to expect you. Better yet, I’ll tell them exactly what I’m looking for and have them pull whatever pieces fit the idea I have in mind, that way you won’t have to think too much into it.” 

“But Mr. Gojo, I can’t afford that,” your voice nearly breaks telling him that. 

Satoru doesn’t even know why you bothered telling him— he already knows. If you haven’t already forgotten, he’s the one that pays you. How hard is it to get you to stop dressing like a fucking nun? He’s had it with the god damn turtlenecks.

He lets out a sigh, fighting to keep his cool demeanor despite his dwindling patience. “Which is why I’m sending you to Damian’s, they have my card ready to go on file.” 

The wheels in your head continue to turn, wondering why he’d even offer you this much. Wondering if this is even appropriate. It’s been over three months since you started working for him and not once have you heard of an allowance meant for office attire. Now he’s sending you to some high-end department store to pick out new clothes, on his dime, since your clothes don’t ‘fit your stature’. Whatever the hell that means.

“I don’t think I can accept this…” you look down at your feet and murmur, and Satoru nearly rolls his eyes. 

You can and you will. 

Satoru watches you freeze and realizes he just said that outloud, making him let out a laugh in an attempt to make himself sound less crazy. 

“Ahem— sorry, what I meant was…” he stalls, leg lightly bouncing as he thinks of what to say, then decides to make this a company thing, rather than a him thing, “if the company’s requiring it, then the company should pay for it, right?”

His words disarm you enough to nod. “...Right.” 

“Perfect,” he chirps out. “That’ll be your assignment for the weekend then.” He leans back in his seat, looking quite pleased with himself. Looking at the clock, he notices it’s a quarter to five, and takes the opportunity to kick you out of his office before the air between you grows awkward again. “Well, now that it’s settled, why don’t you wrap up for the day?” 

You glance at the clock. “Uhhh… yeah, sure! Was there anything else you needed before I clock out?” 

There was a lot that Satoru needed, like for you to stop sounding so eager when asking if he needed anything else from you. You have no idea how painfully hard that makes him. 

“No, thanks,” he responds in a strained tone. “Enjoy your weekend.”

“Thanks! You as well, Mr. Gojo.”

You give him one last smile as you rise from your seat and begin to walk back to your desk that’s just outside his office. It’s not until your hands on the doorknob, ready to turn it, when he stops you one last time. 

You brace yourself the moment you meet an unfamiliar pair of eyes, just glimmering with amusement. Satoru then proceeds to throw you off in a way that almost feels ceremonious with how he never quite gave you the chance to get back up. 

“I know it’s just a little favor, but you know how people can be sometimes. So for both of our sakes, let’s just keep this between us to avoid any confusion, yeah? It can be our little secret.”

Something in that low, velvety voice of his told you it was just the beginning of many secrets you’d be sharing, but it still managed to lure you in.

And so, you said yes— marking the very beginning of something that was just as confusing as it was thrilling. 

. . . . . . 

Being a man of his stature, Satoru has to really watch himself in public— watch what he says, who he says it to, what he does, and where he does it. Which is why he frequents places the public didn’t have knowledge of, let alone have access too. Places that allowed him to let loose. 

Though, in your honest opinion, just because someone can let loose, doesn’t mean they should. Especially someone like Satoru, who does a shit ton of coke and treats it like a fucking free for all. 

His idea of a good time is often a violent one. You wish you were kidding, there’s nothing that gets him going more than being in the middle of an all out brawl— just grinning from ear to ear while drinks and punches get thrown in every which direction as music continues to blast in the background. 

The first to call you is his driver Ijichi, who’s aware that your job consists of tasks that went way beyond the professional scope.

The next is the county jail, because you are Satoru’s emergency contact. 

An hour later, you’re patching your boss up in the middle of his penthouse at 3:00 A.M, when you should be asleep like most people are on this side of the world. 

“Sorry you got ripped out of your sleep for this,” he boyishly mutters as you dab the corner of his mouth with antiseptic. Lucky for him, the cut’s small, and should be gone by Monday morning. It’s his knuckles that are all scraped up. But then again, he doesn’t interact with many people at the office to begin with, and the ones that do get paid enough not to ask. 

“Are you actually sorry, or are you just saying that?” you murmur back. 

“Let’s just say I’m grateful that it's you that’s cleaning me up right now.”

“As opposed to who?”

“I dunno,” he chuckles, looking at you through heavy lidded eyes that you refuse to meet. “Don’t even wanna think about anybody else’s fingers on me.”

“How sweet,” you boredly say, dabbing a bit of ointment on the small cut. “Maybe you can extend that kindness to everyone else for the rest of this weekend? So I don’t have to, you know— pick you up from jail… again.”

“What if I only like being sweet to you?” he murmurs.

He doesn’t make you feel special anymore. 

For how close of a proximity you have to the man’s personal life, you already are special, and it’s something he constantly reminds you of, even during times it’s not necessary. In the midst of all the confusion it leaves you with, you’re reminded of a line that’s been completely blurred, and you’re not quite sure who’s at fault here. 

Satoru may be pervasive by nature, but you’re still here. Somehow there’s still a part of you that wants to please him despite all your irritation. 

“Well then everyone’s out of luck and I’m out of sleep.” You sigh as you close the first-aid kit.

He watches as you get up from the couch to put it back in the cabinet, eyes tracing over your body throughout the entirety of it. You may not be in the tight skirts and high heels he has you in during the day, but he found himself enjoying off-duty sweats and slippers just as much. Shamelessly, he doesn’t take his eyes off you when you start walking back towards him, but you’re used to it at this point. 

“Y’know you can spend the night here if you’re so tired, right?” he teasingly asks, but you know there’s a part of him that’s more than serious about it. 

“No thank you.” You throw your purse over your shoulder, typing away at your phone as you try to book an uber. “I’m sure your silk sheets are great, but they’re no match for mine.”

To no one's surprise, you got out of his penthouse fast. You’ve gotten pretty good at dodging him in situations that could easily end with you on your back, splayed out right underneath him. 

Believe it or not, he actually respects that— the self control and all. Especially with the way you’ve almost given in to him a couple times. It didn’t need to be said for him to know. He’s seen the needy, defeated look in your eyes during the times he’s gotten too close. It’s a look that screams ‘get away from me before I do something stupid, please’. A sweet girl you are, really. 

But what would happen if he kept going and finally closed that distance?

Sometimes, he thinks he’d be nice to you. Be all soft, put you on his lap, whisper sweet things in your ear while his hand slowly slid down your stomach. You’d begin to hold your breath the moment he went past your waist and it’d finally catch once his fingers found themselves in between your thighs, slipping right in between your folds. 

He’d kiss on your neck, pull moans from you as he drew little circles over your clit, making your legs tremble once he finally slipped inside and started curling in. 

Then there’s times he thinks he’d be rough with you. Make you start crying from how fast and hard he made you cum from just his fingers alone. Bend you over the nearest surface and tease you with the thick head of his cock, rubbing it over your slick folds until you beg him to put it in. 

He’d pull your hair back, make you look him in the eyes while he fucked you senseless, pump you full of so much cum that it’d continued to leak out of your poor pussy the very next day. 

Bonus points if you two had to work together that day. 

But for now, a man could only dream, or rather imagine, as he starts to fist his cock to the thought of you for who knows how many times now.

. . . . . .

There’s something mildly embarrassing about going to Damian’s with Satoru after being sent here all those months back to pick out new work clothes. Only because he specifically told the stylist to only pull items that were tight fitting and showed a decent amount of cleavage. 

You’re sure if that asshole hadn't done that, you would’ve walked into the department store without a second thought. As if it couldn't have gotten any worse, that same stylist is here, and she’s looking at you with the same amount of concern you’d give to someone who’s being put through the ringer from extreme work conditions. 

You technically are, given all the extra shit he has you do, like picking him up from jail at 2:00 A.M. You’re not exactly planning on leaving anytime soon, though. Don’t ask why. You’re not so sure of it yourself, either. 

Satoru was here to try on a few different suits that just came in. And you’re here because unless you’re working on anything that’s considered incredibly important, you go wherever he goes. 

Just as he was able to go off to the fitting room, the poor stylist asked a question she really shouldn’t have asked. She had good intentions when asking if you wanted to see some of the new pieces they had for Spring, and then Satoru made some comment about grabbing whatever you wanted and putting it on his card. 

And then this poor girl looks at him with all the confidence in the world and asks, “If you’d like, I can pull a few different pieces from the racks like last time— tight fitting, low cuts, and neutrals, right?” 

You didn’t have much of a reaction upon hearing that, it was already clear he had requested those things the last time you came here. 

Satoru, however, just stood there and stared at this girl as if she had just ruined his fucking life. 

It is not often he's left so appalled that it’s rendered him speechless, but there he was just staring at her with nothing but anger and betrayal in his eyes. She looked like she wanted to cry, and rightfully so. You were honestly scared for her. 

“I think that’d be great,” you cut in, trying to break the tension, only to feel Satoru’s nasty glare get directed towards you instead once he realized you were trying to save her. “We’re here for less than an hour, though, so maybe just pull some skirts since the weather's starting to warm up.” 

“Y-yeah! Of course.” 

You watched as she quickly scurried away, then turned to find your boss just now deciding to follow the tailor, still looking absolutely fucking pissed that she just outed him like that. 

Maybe you should tell her to hide once she comes back with those skirts. 

. . .

Satoru might not be one to talk right now given how his goal a few months back was to get you to start dressing just a tad bit sluttier while still looking appropriate enough for work, but he didn’t give a shit. That woman had no tact whatsoever.

Who says something like that? You’re clearly his fucking assistant, there was no need to out his preferences like that.

It fucked up his entire mood for the hour… not that it stopped him from going ahead and having all the suits he tried on sent to his house. But just as he was getting ready to let it go, he saw something else that managed to make him do a double take. 

It’s exactly what you think it is. Which is why he’s walking straight towards you and whoever the hell you’re talking to. 

You didn’t know Rei existed up until two minutes ago, and tried to do him the favor of wrapping up the small conversation he tried sparking up with you once you caught a glimpse of a certain someone walking your way. 

It didn’t work and now Satoru’s standing in front of you two, making you brace yourself for whatever sequence of words is going to come out of his mouth since he’s already in a shitty mood from the stylist snitching on him for being a pervert.

“You can leave now. Bye,” he simply says to the man, nodding towards the exit. 

There’s a moment of silence. His reaction wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, but it still adds weight to the air around you. Rei was understandably left scrambling, not that Satoru noticed, he was too busy looking at you like he was tired of you disappointing him. 

And your eyes widened, as if you were asking him, what the fuck did I do?

“Excuse me?” Rei finally managed to ask. 

The displeased look on Satoru’s face stays as he briefly turns his attention to Rei. “You’re excused. Goodbye,” he says, casually dismissing him again.

“I’m sorry,” the man laughs from pure disbelief, “are you her boyfriend or something? Because you could’ve just said—” 

“I’m not,” Satoru cuts him off with a tone that’s still surprisingly calm. 

He wouldn’t say he’s calm— disassociated is more like it. All the words Rei throws at him just swarm around his head like a bunch of little gnats, and he steadily loses his patience since he’s already told the guy to fucking leave. Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets out a long, deep sigh. 

“You know what?” Satoru suddenly cuts him off and proceeds to make him an offer— one that makes your jaw drop. “If you want her number so fuckin’ bad, then fine. You can fight me for it.”

“Satoru?!” you immediately scold the man. 

“What the hell is your problem, man?!” Rei says at the same time as you. 

“Oh, wow.” Satoru looks at you, then points a finger at Rei. “He doesn’t even want to fight for you.” 

At that point, the man storms off, muttering some stuff under his breath about people and wondering what the fuck was wrong with them, leaving you to deal with whatever sudden mood swing your boss was having today. 

It didn’t just start within the last hour. This has been going on all day and started when he almost snapped at one of the interns for running into him this morning when turning a corner too fast. You don’t have much patience for him, though.

“Ijichi’s already waiting outside for us,” you casually inform him and turn your heel, taking a step forward to walk away.

“That’s it?” The lack of acknowledgment makes Satoru snap. “That’s all you have to say?” 

You stop and turn again, taking a good look at Satoru as you try to come up with more to say, which is hard given how you just watched him agree to let someone have your number if they fought him. 

Yet all that comes to mind are the lines that you’ve blurred with the man.

“Do you want me to walk on eggshells around you, too, just like everybody else has today?”

“...No.” It’s not much of an answer with the way he mumbled it, but at least you were able to reroute the guy. 

You softly sigh. “Alright, then… let’s go.” 

. . . . . 

The air’s been stale between you since that day. 

You have no idea what’s gotten into him, neither do you want to ask. And it’s not that you don’t care— of course you do. It should've already been made clear by now that you care about Satoru more than you should.

At first, you wonder if it’s some sort of rough patch. Then you realize that isn't normal in professional relationships, leaving you with more questions than answers because nothing about your relationship is professional. 

You run around all over the place for him, picking up his suits and sometimes even him at 3:00 A.M when he’s too drunk or high to drive home. As if that didn’t cross the line enough, he treats you like his friend. A really jealous friend, at that. He’ll do things like cockblock you if a man tries to talk to you when he’s around, sometimes even threatening to fight them. 

It’s been three weeks of silence. 

He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to you when you clocked out for the weekend yesterday. It wouldn’t have been a bad thing at all with your last boss, but something about getting just a simple hum from Satoru left you feeling stupid. 

So what did change with him? It might be better if he listed all the things that didn’t. 

He still jacked off with you in mind— that probably won’t ever change, at least not for a while. He still keeps an eye on you. 

It sounds bad, but it’s really not. 

He just has surveillance over your apartment building, not your actual apartment. He also has the security team keep an eye out whenever you walk to and from your car, before and after work. Just basic safety stuff. He might have a tracker on your car, but never looks at it. 

Unless he’s drunk, but that doesn’t count in his head.

So then what changed? 

Probably the new sense of shame that only seems to unveil itself when you’re around. He’d rather you not have a front row seat when it comes to all of his less… desirable qualities anymore. He is far from perfect— very fucking far from it. 

Was it too late for that? 

Probably. 

It still made him feel just a little bit better about himself, even though he’s been rotting away on the inside from keeping his distance.

. . . . . . 

Staying late at the office is a rare but unavoidable occurrence. 

It happens. Some work gets prioritized over others, leaving small tasks to multiply and pile up. Today is one of those days Satoru is forced to push a main project aside and tackle all the little ones. 

He considered taking on all of it by himself, but was reminded why he avoided the work in the first place just an hour into his day. It was all so boring and tedious. It would’ve driven him up the wall had he not handed off a portion of it to you. 

But even then, there were a couple moments he spent wallowing in self-pity, looking out the window with thoughts of throwing himself off the top floor of the high rise. He fucking hates this and hates how he has no one but himself to blame for all the procrastination he’s done. 

The office feels like a different world once everyone’s gone. It may feel comfortable for your boss since he has his own office, but your desk right outside of it gives you a front row seat to a corporate wasteland. Muffled chatter gets replaced with the sounds of the fluorescent lights buzzing above you. Air vents thrumming as they recirculate the cold, stale air. 

The clock says 8:48 p.m once you finally finish your last task of the day. As happy as you are to finally leave this place, you grow nervous at the thought of entering your boss’s office to let him know you’re finished and heading home. Whatever camaraderie you had with him is non-existent at this point. Everything with him just feels awkward now and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you haven’t already started looking for new positions. 

You lightly knock on the door leading to his office and don’t enter until you hear a tired hum on the other side of it. 

Aside from the lamps next to his desk and next to the sofa you see when you first walk in, every other light is off, allowing the moonlight to peek through the dim space. It’s actually quite peaceful with his view of the city’s lit up skyline. 

Satoru's eyes must hurt. He has his reading glasses on, framing the tired lines and dark circles under them. 

“I’m all done for the day,” you say, carrying a stack of papers as you walk up to him and setting them down on the oak wood desk he’s half leaning on. 

He doesn’t look at you. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, sounding just as drained as he looks. 

You stand there, waiting for him to say anything else before coming to the conclusion that maybe it was time to move on to a new company, because you are too far gone. 

Stupid.

The long day you two have had wasn’t a reason to think he’d give you more than he has lately, let alone something to get your hopes up over.

Just standing in front of him makes you feel pathetic— you shouldn’t feel like that.

You open your mouth to say goodbye for the night, since he won’t, but instead say something entirely different that leaves even you shocked. 

“I’m putting in my two weeks.” 

You haven’t even sent out any applications.

Satoru’s eyes darted up at you while staying in place. “What?” 

Despite not having the right, he did not fucking like that. The cold tone of his voice made you want to cower down and take your words back, but there was no turning back. 

You push through the nerves as you repeat yourself in a professional manner. “After some consideration, I’ve decided I want to take my career in a different direction and that would require me to step down from my position.” 

The overly corporate tone does nothing but put a glare on Satoru’s face, one that deepens as you continue to spew, what he considers, a bunch of bullshit from your mouth.

“I’d like to thank you for the opportunities the company has given me, of course. I’d be more than happy to train my replacement.”

“You’re not training anybody,” he scoffs, standing from his seat as he starts to go through literally every stage of grief. “What the fuck? No? No. You’re not fucking leaving— absolutely not. Fuck that.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief over how entitled he is. He’s been treating you like a second class citizen for weeks and now he’s not letting you leave? “That’s not your choice to make.”

“I don’t care,” he says delusionally. “You’re not fucking leaving.” 

“Yes I am.” You raise your tone. “You can’t just fucking keep me here—“

“Where are you going then, huh? Since you seem to have found a place so much better,” his immaturity inevitably shines through as he cuts you off.

“That’s none of your business!” 

“It’s not, but you owe me that much,” he begins to argue. 

Your face twists in disgust. “I don’t owe you anything. I— how can someone be this selfish?! You’ve been giving me the cold-shoulder for weeks—“

He cuts you off again. “So that’s what this is about?!”

For someone that’s been ignoring you for weeks, he’s very expressive, especially when he argues. His pupils will be blown out, he’ll look at you in disgust, talk with his hands, pace around the room, then get in your face. This time is no different. 

“You’re leaving ‘cause I won’t give you attention? I thought you didn’t fucking want that!” He throws his arms out, voice resounding through the room. 

You pause, mouthing a ‘what?’ to yourself in complete disbelief. Leaving someone angry and confused is one impressive skill— Satoru has clearly mastered it. 

“When have I ever said that?!”

“It was written all over your face!” He shouts back, almost as if it was something that hurt him. “I figured you were getting tired of me so I backed off!” 

“Seriously? That’s your definition of backing off?” You have to stop yourself from laughing at how ridiculous it sounds. “Backing off is stopping the 1:00 am calls on the weekend— not completely disregarding me.”

“I went back to being your boss—“

“Yeah, a really shitty one.”

“I was always a shitty one.” He barks out a laugh. “The only reason why you’re mad now is because you’re not getting anything out of it anymore.”

Satoru doesn’t mean that. 

Not that you’d know. 

He tends to reject anything that brings him even just the slightest bit of discomfort, all while hating rejection himself. Watching you try to quit has made it one hell of a combo for him.

If he was just someone you simply had to tolerate, then whatever you gained from it was not worth your time. But he spoke with enough conviction to render whatever response you had useless.

“How the hell do you expect me to stay after saying that?” you genuinely ask. “I’m tired of not being treated like real person and now you’re being a fucking asshole.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I—“

“No. Save it,” you say in defeat as you start to walk away.

“Where are you going?” he asks, still having the audacity to sound irritated.

“Leaving— have fun finding a new replacement. I’m not staying for another two weeks.” 

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Well if you’re not coming back would you at least finally admit you felt something between us?” 

You stop and let out a sigh. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says, taking a couple steps towards you. 

“No, there wasn’t.” 

“Alright,” he huffs out a laugh. “I get that you’re mad at me and everything, but there’s no point lying about now.” 

“I’m not lying about anything.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he blandly says. “You wouldn’t have stayed as long as you did if there was never anything there. Be honest with yourself for once.” 

Just as you’re about to deny it for the third time, you hesitate. “Just forget it already.”

The sight of you walking away for the second time feels entirely different from the first time for Satoru. No more confusion or panic, all that’s left is certainty. Perhaps a little amusement, as well. “No. I don’t think I will, actually.”

It happens fast. 

You hardly process being spun back around, then you’re stunned again by a pair of lips crashing into yours. It’s messy from the start and he’s breathlessly apologizing against you with each rough kiss. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. Please. 

And you forgive him, because there’s really no point in lying anymore. Not when you’re kissing him back. Desperately, at that— filled with just as much need. His hands start to roam, clothes start to scatter, leaving a trail that leads in the direction he took you in. 

He always thought he’d put you on the desk. 

The couch shifts erratically, moans pour into the room with each thrust. Satoru’s pressing down on your back and deepening the arch he put you in, bottoming out over and over again.

“Good job, baby,” he drones, mesmerized at the sight of you helplessly stretched around his thick cock, covering it in a thick coat of your slick. 

It took some working up to. The moment he sat you down on the couch, he buried his head in between your thighs and tongued your clit— dragging it over that sensitive little bundle of nerves until you couldn’t see straight. Then it was his fingers. Working not one, but two of his long digits into your cunt, curling them into a little spot that had you gushing all over him. 

Now he’s fucking that same little spot to no mercy, making your toes curl as the thick head of his cock catches it. “Oh my g-god— Satoru– fuuck!”

“Mmm I know,” he grabs your hair and pulls you back up against his chest, not letting up as he gets right in your ear. “Say my name again.”

His balls slap against your clit with each thrust, leaving you a gasping mess. “S-Satoru.”

“Again.”

“Satoru!” you cry out. 

“Sounds so fuckin’ pretty coming from you,” he hums, licking a stripe up your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “You like getting ruined on the couch like this?”

Shamelessly, you nod. “Mhm.”

“Yeah? You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” 

“I have,” you admit. “A lot.”

“So honest tonight,” he grins, “so have I— thought about kissing you, fucking you, putting a baby in you.” A hand snakes down your belly until his fingers reach your clit, drawing little circles. “You really wouldn’t be able to get away from me then, huh?” 

“That’s fucking insane,” your attempt to complain dies out into another pathetic moan. 

“I fucking know,” he laughs, pulling your hair back even more so you can look him right in the eye while he fucks himself even deeper into you. “I think you might like that though since you’re squeezing around me like crazy.” 

And you have no idea how to respond to that, you’re so fucking close. It’s taking everything in you to hold yourself together while he just tears you apart with each snap of his hips, rubbing fast circles over your clit.

“How bad do you wanna cum again?”

It’s been three times already, each time harder than the last. Your own body betrays yourself when you answer his question. “So bad.”

He hums sympathetically, though the look in his eyes seems to be the complete opposite of that. He keeps the same dizzying pace, pushing you further and further to edge until you’re finally gushing around him, again. He watches as tears of pure pleasure start rolling down your cheeks, trembling and letting out choked moans as he continues fucking you into overstimulation. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, letting go of your hair and wrapping his arms around your waist, keeping your back flush against his chest while he starts chasing against his own release. “M’so fuckin’ close. You’re gonna take it all, right?” 

“Yeah,” you weakly nod, nails digging into his forearms, steadying yourself as best as you can. 

“Shit— good girl,” he exhales, snapping his hips against your ass even harder, thrusts growing sloppier. “Here we go.”

The groans that spill out of Satoru are just downright sinful. There’s nothing but desperation in his tone as he holds on tight and starts pumping you full of his cum, shuddering as you milk his cock for all that he has. 

You’re spent by the time you come back to your senses, with his arms being the only thing keeping you up. And yet, as you lay limp in his hold, he says something that, at the time, sounded like a threat with how entranced he seemed.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, princess.” 

—

It’d been months since the night he finally broke his silence with you. 

No, you don’t work for him anymore. You quickly found a new job just three weeks later. One with better pay and normal hours. Easier, too.

Looking back, he truly was a shitty boss. A conniving one that always took up your time. You guess you just never saw it because a part of you always liked it— better yet, liked him. 

Good thing he’s a better boyfriend than he is a boss. 

You were reluctant to start a relationship with him at first, the thought of him taking up even more space into your life lingering in the back of your mind and threatening whatever little peace you had left. But surprisingly, he went from being a conspiring little bastard to…

“I just have one request tonight.” 

You’re in the middle of doing your makeup when his sudden presence pulls your attention away from it. You look at a slightly reluctant Satoru through the vanity mirror, raising a brow and waiting to hear what exactly that request is for tonight. 

“Can you wear something that shows your tits more?” Immediately you scoff, and he’s quick to defend himself. “What?! It’s our anniversary!”

You’ve been with him for an entire year now, and he just seems to grow more and more pathetic as the time passes. He’s in nothing but boxers, begging you to show off some cleavage, for fucks sake.

“You see my tits every night,” you scold him. 

“And I want to see them some more tonight, too.”

You scoff. “Sato—“

“Please,” he cuts you off with a beg. There’s a bit of a stare off shortly after, with him looking at you like some lost puppy and you inevitably give in, like you always do. He’s hard to say no to when he gets like this.

“Fine.” 

He smiles and walks up to you, leaning down to give you a quick kiss, careful not to mess with your lip liner. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” you softly say, before barely scolding him again. “Now go put your suit on, you’re the one that said the driver was gonna be here soon.” 

“Yeah, whatever— he can wait,” he waves a hand, lazily walking up to the sea of suits he has in your shared closet. 

“Hey, Satoru?” 

“Hm?”

“If we’re even one minute late, I’m putting on a fucking turtleneck.” “…Fine.”

you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

so you block his view.

“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”

he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”

oh, that’s enough.

“toru.”

“hm, baby?”

“kiss me.”

gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.

“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”

your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.

“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”

you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—

gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.

he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—

“ahem.”

you both freeze.

in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?

he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.

“this is not a love nest.”

you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.

II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅

time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence

⎚-⎚

gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.

an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.

you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“

“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”

gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”

you nod sweetly, patting his cheek dismissively when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“

“satoruu,”

thirteen words this time. fairs.

“yes, sweetheart.”

“my feet hurt,” you state, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being totally dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”

he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”

satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. dramatic as always, talking like it’s the end of the world with your eyes glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. but gojo’s heart only goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?

he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”

he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”

you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.

“they’re huge, toru,” you tease, twirling around for him to watch. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.

knock knock.

one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”

satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you strut around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.

right.

he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”

you’re still admiring yourself in his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.

——

the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.

have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.

but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.

the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.

satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.

gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.

III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…

time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.

⎚-⎚

“who discovered the americas ?”

“Martin Luther King.”

You are going to fail this exam.

“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”

“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”

no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”

your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”

he blinks, “done?”

“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”

satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”

“i have a very strong brain.”

satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”

you frown in his neck.

“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”

“good job.”

“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”

“oh.”

satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).

you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.

“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”

“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.

“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.

satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”

“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”

there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.

you are going to fail your exams.

you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.

you are going to fail your exams.

gojo lets you have his card.

you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.

“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.

gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.

ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu

DISTRACTIONS, end.