🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇮 🇬🇷🇴🇼 🇺🇵
synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.
Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.
warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)
The campus was buzzing with its usual late-morning hum—students lounging on benches with half-zipped backpacks, others rushing by with headphones in and coffee cups clutched like lifelines. You stood in the short line at the campus coffee cart, toeing the ground with your shoe and watching the barista prep a drink with far too much whipped cream.
You were surviving on minimal sleep and residual embarrassment. Ever since your he dropped you off at your place a few nights ago, you’d been carefully orchestrating your schedule to avoid Gojo. Limited eye contact. Short replies. Strategic bathroom breaks. It was almost working.
Because then you heard it—that unmistakable voice sliding in behind you like it was born to ruin your peace.
“Don’t tell me you’re here for my order,” Gojo said, leaning in just enough to make you flinch. “Sorry, angel. I only share fries. Not caffeine.”
You sighed. “Go away, Gojo.”
“Oh, come on,” he grinned, stepping closer until he was directly behind you in line, sunglasses perched like a crown on his snowy head. “You miss me.”
You turned just enough to arch a brow at him. “I’ve actually had three very peaceful days without you. You should try it.”
“But who would lovingly critique your fashion choices and hoard all your highlighters?”
Gojo gave a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his chest. “Oof. Wounded. Guess I’ll just be emotionally devastated while I order my—” He glanced at the menu. “—iced matcha latte with oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla, and the sweet, sweet taste of my enemies’ tears.”
You blinked. “You realize you sound like a drama student with a food allergy?”
“I’m an experience, not a diagnosis.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped forward to place your order. Gojo did the same after you, flashing a peace sign at the barista like he was a regular. He probably was.
You stepped to the side, waiting for your drinks, trying very hard to ignore the way he subtly shifted his stance to face you directly.
“You know,” he started casually, “Dr. Yuki’s doing check-ins on our projects tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Just a quick review of what we’ve done so far. She mentioned it after class yesterday.” He smirked. “Guess who skipped that part?”
You scowled. “I had criminology. I left early.”
“Which means,” he continued, sipping from an imaginary teacup, “we’re gonna need to make it look like we’re not totally behind. You still have your notes, right?”
You gave a reluctant nod.
“Then we should meet up again. Tonight,” he said, too casually. “My place.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Your place? What happened to the library?”
“It’s always freezing in there,” he said, scrunching his nose. “Besides, Geto’s out with some girl and won’t be back till late. Perfect quiet study vibes. Just you, me, and the emotional baggage of early childhood trauma.”
Your coffee was called, and you reached for it, needing the cup to ground you. “Fine. But this is about the project, not—whatever it is you think this is.”
He raised a brow. “What do I think this is?”
“I don’t know. One of your weird games.”
Gojo leaned in slightly, tone softening just enough to make your stomach flip. “Maybe I just like hanging out with you.”
You paused. And for a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then he grinned again, all teasing and light, and the moment snapped back to its usual rhythm.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning to leave.
“I’ve been called worse!” he called after you. “Don’t be late! And no stripping this time unless you want another round of my unmatched chivalry.”
You didn’t turn around, didn't even acknowledge him as you walked away with a smile on your face.
Satoru Gojo had never deep-cleaned anything in his life. And yet, here he was—shirt half-tucked, hair damp from a frantic shower, standing in the middle of the apartment living room with a half-empty bottle of Febreze in one hand and a throw blanket clutched in the other like a life vest.
“I swear to god, Geto,” he hissed, looking around wildly, “why didn’t you tell me the living room looked like a frat house exploded?!”
“Because it always looks like that?” Geto replied from the kitchen, entirely unfazed as he leaned against the counter and watched the chaos unfold, sipping a matcha latte with the calm detachment of someone who had absolutely no skin in the game. “Also, your idea of decorating is putting a Supreme sticker on the microwave.”
Gojo glared at him. “This is not the time for jokes.”
“Are you... folding the throw blanket?”
“I’m staging ambiance,” Gojo said with all the seriousness of someone preparing a defense for court. He stepped back to observe the artful placement of the blanket draped over the couch. “She’s never been here before.”
“And,” Gojo snapped, running a hand through his still-damp hair, “she’s gonna be sitting there, in that exact spot, for hours. Probably with her stupid little color-coded notes and that perfume that smells like peach tea and heartbreak.”
“You’ve memorized her scent?” Geto raised a brow.
Gojo’s face twisted. “Shut up.”
“It’s not a crush.” Gojo looked around in alarm. “Is it hot in here? Why is it hot in here?”
Gojo groaned. “She’s going to think I’m a mess, shes probably gonna think I only invited her here to hook-up or something."
“She already knows you’re a mess, and yeah that could be what she is thinking but if she shows up that is a good sign.” Geto grinned, grabbing his keys. “Good luck, lover boy. I’m gonna go before you start sweating through your shirt.”
He left just as Gojo let out an actual, audible whimper.
He stared at the couch again. Then at the snacks on the coffee table. Then at the project notes he’d half-assed for the past two days and tried to make look academic. He adjusted the blinds, lit a candle he found in the cabinet, then immediately blew it out because the scent was “Midnight Rain” and that felt too emotionally vulnerable.
When the knock finally came, his soul evacuated his body for a full second.
And there you were—shoulders tucked into a light hoodie, hair a little windblown from the walk over, one strap of your backpack slipping off your shoulder. You smelled like peach tea. And, yes, heartbreak.
Gojo leaned in the doorway, as coolly as someone with a minor cardiac event could manage. “Hey yourself. Welcome to the chaos palace.”
You stepped in slowly, taking in the surprisingly clean apartment. “This is... less disgusting than I expected.”
“High praise,” he said, shutting the door behind you. “We had the maid in this morning. Her name’s Satoru. He cried twice and threatened to set the couch on fire.”
You gave a small laugh, and he felt it echo in his ribs. God, he was doomed.
You made your way to the couch and sat, pulling out a folder already bristling with colored tabs and printed journal articles. “Okay, so. I’ve been compiling sources for our breakdown of Bowlby’s four attachment styles, but I thought we could frame it through a developmental lens instead of just listing them—like, how they manifest at different stages of childhood and then in adult relationships.”
He blinked. “That’s actually... smart.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“No, I mean. I was planning on showing up with a bag of candy and pretending to be charming, so you’ve officially outdone me.”
You tilted your head. “Did you at least bring candy?”
He grinned, pulling out a bag of sour gummies from behind a pillow. “Got the essentials."
You smacked his arm as he dropped down next to you, a little too close. The space between you buzzed. Gojo had to bite down on his instinct to shift even closer.
Your notes were spread across the table, along with your laptop. “Okay,” you said, clicking open a document. “We should divide the work. Maybe I’ll handle secure and anxious-ambivalent, and you do avoidant and disorganized?”
Gojo squinted. “Avoidant. Like you?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”
He lounged back with a smirk. “You’re clearly avoidant. Explain why you won’t text anyone back until they’re emotionally broken.”
“Oh, says the guy who jokes his way out of any serious feeling.”
“Touche.” He popped a gummy into his mouth. “Fine, I’ll take disorganized. Makes sense.”
He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his grin faltered. “Because it’s complicated,” he said quietly, but not without a hint of humor. “You know. Unpredictable caregiving. Mixed signals. Safety and fear all wrapped in the same person. It... hits close to home, I guess.”
Your fingers paused on the edge of your laptop. But just as the weight of his words started to settle, Gojo clapped his hands suddenly and said, “Anyway! Back to avoidant-you. Let’s dive into how you would rather walk into oncoming traffic than ask for emotional reassurance.”
You rolled your eyes, but your gaze lingered on him a second longer than usual.
He kept laughing, but his heart thudded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was from the confession he’d almost made or the way you’d looked at him just then, like you’d caught something cracking through the perfect surface.
You both turned back to your notes, your arms brushing now and then as you worked. Gojo tried not to visibly flinch every time it happened.
Thirty minutes later, you stretched your arms over your head with a groan. “We still have so much to do.”
Gojo swallowed hard. Your hoodie had ridden up just slightly. He looked away fast.
“We should eat,” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “You want food?”
“Sure,” you said. “As long as it’s not instant ramen.”
He jumped up. “Amazing. I’ll go order something. You keep being... scholarly and intimidating.”
Before you could respond, he darted into the hallway, phone already at his ear.
“Dude,” he hissed when Geto picked up. “She’s here.”
“Obviously. Is she murdering you yet?”
“No. But her leg touched mine and I nearly died.”
Geto’s laugh was a full cackle.
“I don’t think I can survive this study session,” Gojo whispered. “She’s got these little paperclips that match her highlighter colors. It’s deranged. It’s perfect.”
Gojo sighed dramatically, head falling against the wall. “I’m so screwed.”
From the living room, he heard your voice: “Everything okay?”
He cleared his throat. “Peachy! Just—uh—ordering food. Back in a sec!”
And with that, he dialed the number of a restaurant that delivers and ordered food before he stepped away from the wall, squared his shoulders, and marched back in.
Fake it till you make it he thought or until she figures out you’re in love with her and flees the country.
The apartment falls into a thick, wordless hush. There’s no music, no murmured jokes, no teasing remarks or commentary from Gojo to break it. Just the occasional scratch of pencil against paper and the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The only thing louder than the silence is the way Gojo’s mind refuses to shut the hell up.
He’s supposed to be reading over a journal article on Bowlby’s attachment theory—something about disorganized patterns and parental responsiveness—but all his focus is drawn to the girl sitting on the other half of the couch.
You're cross-legged, hunched slightly forward over your notebook, brows furrowed as your pen races along the page. The soft, steady swish of your handwriting has a rhythm to it that should be mundane, boring even—but for some reason, it sounds almost hypnotic. Like a metronome he’s synced to without realizing it.
Your perfume—some light, sweet thing he can’t stop thinking of—is making it really hard to breathe like a normal person. And every time you shift, every time your knee bumps into his, even just slightly, it feels like a tiny static shock right to his ribs.
You’re wearing that fuzzy sweater again. The one he already knows is softer than it looks, because he accidentally brushed against your arm earlier when reaching for a highlighter. He still hasn’t recovered.
His eyes drift from the pages in front of him to the curve of your cheek, to the soft line of your jaw, to the way you chew lightly on the end of your pen when you’re thinking. He could sketch you from memory at this point.
“Do you think we should include something about internal working models?” you ask suddenly, not looking up.
You turn your head just slightly, not enough to notice the way he was staring—but enough that he has to scramble to recover.
“Internal working models,” you repeat, gesturing toward your notes. “Bowlby says they form based on early attachment experiences, right? So even in adulthood, people use those mental models to predict how relationships are supposed to work.”
He nods, grateful to latch onto something academic. “Yeah—like, if you grow up with unreliable caregivers, your brain just assumes that’s the blueprint for all future relationships.”
“Exactly,” you say, scribbling something down. “It’s not just about how you relate to other people, it’s how you perceive your own value too. Your self-worth.”
Gojo nods slowly. “Makes sense why people with avoidant attachment act like feelings are nuclear waste, then.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re describing yourself.”
He grins, deflecting instantly. “I’m just projecting. You’re the emotionally avoidant one, remember?”
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch like you’re holding back a smile. “Says the guy who panicked over a phone call and ran to the other room.”
“Hey, I was ordering food,” he says defensively. “We both need fuel to survive your study tyranny.”
You arch a brow. “Right. Survival snacks. And yelling at Geto on speakerphone was part of the nutritional pyramid?”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Okay, first of all—”
A knock at the door cuts him off.
Gojo practically leaps to his feet, both to escape your pointed stare and because he’s genuinely relieved for the distraction. He grabs the food bag from the delivery guy, thanks him quickly, and heads back into the living room.
“Behold,” he declares, dropping the bag on the table with unnecessary flair. “Dinner of champions.”
You scoot over and start unpacking the food. It’s a messy spread: dumplings, noodles, egg rolls, some sort of meat you can't name, and a bag of pretzels.
“Classy,” you remark, holding up the pretzels. “Is this your idea of a five-star meal?”
“With the right company?” he says, grinning as he flops down beside you again. “Absolutely.”
You roll your eyes again, but he catches the faint pink tint at the tips of your ears.
The notebooks and pens are pushed aside, replaced with chopsticks and crumpled napkins. The conversation shifts, the tone lighter now. You talk about everything and nothing—your weird TA from Criminology class, how Geto once accidentally lit a microwave on fire, the way freshman dorms smell suspiciously like corn chips no matter what floor you’re on.
“I can’t believe you guys survived your first month in that hellhole,” you say through a mouthful of noodles.
Gojo leans back on his elbows, grinning lazily. “Geto almost gave up. He tried to convince me to move into a van and become psychology nomads.”
You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that does something wild to his chest.
God, he missed this. Missed you. Not that he’ll admit it out loud—not when it’s so easy to tease you instead.
You wipe your fingers on a napkin and sigh. “This is nice.”
He glances over, surprised by the honesty in your voice.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”
For a moment, there’s quiet again—but not the tense, academic silence from earlier. This is different. Thicker. Charged.
You’re both still on the couch, close. Closer than before. Gojo’s knee brushes against yours again, but neither of you pulls away this time.
Your head turns slightly, and he mirrors the motion.
There’s that look in your eyes—curious, searching. Your lips are parted, breath shallow. He notices everything about you, from the curve of your mouth to the way your lashes flutter when you blink. He doesn’t think. He just leans in.
And for a second, it feels like it’s finally going to happen.
You lean in too, eyes flicking down to his mouth.
But just before your lips meet—
Gojo’s phone buzzes violently against the table, making both of you jump.
You pull back instantly, blinking like you’re just waking up.
He fumbles to grab the phone, heart hammering in his chest. It’s Geto.
When he glances at you again, the spell is broken. You’re already reaching for your notebook, avoiding his gaze like it never happened.
Gojo clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “That was… probably just Geto. Again.”
“Mm.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “We should probably get through the rest of these notes.”
“Yeah.” He grabs his pencil, but he doesn’t write anything.
The tension is still there—muted now, buried under half-eaten food and unspoken things.
Eventually, the mood settles. You both get back to work, making slow progress on the outline. The almost-kiss doesn’t come up again, but it hangs there anyway, an invisible thread between you.
You pack up your things half an hour later, and Gojo walks you to the door.
“You sure you’re okay getting home?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
You glance up at him. “I’ve done it a hundred times.”
He opens the door but lingers. “Still.”
You step into the hallway, then pause and look back. “Thanks for dinner. And… for the study session.”
His smile is softer now. “Anytime.”
You disappear down the hall, and he stands in the doorway long after you’re gone, wondering if you felt that too.
The next day the classroom felt somehow colder than usual. Maybe it was the air conditioning. Maybe it was the way your stomach was turning.
You hadn’t stopped thinking about last night.
You’d gone to Gojo’s apartment fully prepared to focus on Bowlby and academic rigor—and instead, you’d nearly kissed him over dumplings and color-coded notes.
Now you sat at your usual desk in Dr. Yuki’s Developmental Psych seminar, your leg bouncing under the table as you stared down at your neatly written outline. You’d barely said two words to Gojo since you arrived, too preoccupied with pretending like nothing had happened.
He looked entirely unbothered. Slouched back in his seat, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, twirling a pen between his fingers with casual ease. You hated how normal he seemed. How unaffected. You hated even more that you noticed how nice his hair looked today.
“Alright,” Dr. Yuki said as she strode to the front of the class. “Let’s take today to do some informal check-ins. Nothing terrifying—I just want to hear how your projects are coming along.”
There was a wave of low murmuring across the room, a few groans, a few panicked glances at laptops.
“Each pair will have about three minutes,” she added. “No slides necessary. Just talk me through where you’re at, what your focus is, and where you’re headed next.”
You felt your pulse quicken.
Gojo leaned closer to you, his voice low. “You nervous?”
You didn’t look at him. “No.”
You shot him a sharp glance, but his grin only widened.
A few groups went before you. Most stumbled their way through the updates, either still in the research phase or floundering with a partner who clearly didn’t pull their weight.
When Dr. Yuki finally waved the two of you down.
“Wish me luck,” he whispered, then headed to the front.
You followed a beat behind, heart hammering, palms cold.
Gojo did exactly what Gojo always did—he opened with a joke. “So, uh, we’re diving deep into childhood trauma. Real uplifting stuff.”
Dr. Yuki smiled politely. “And your actual focus?”
He shifted gears smoothly, gesturing toward you. “We’re looking at Bowlby’s theory of attachment, specifically how early caregiver relationships can shape adult emotional behavior. You know—like why some people can’t commit and others text back too fast.”
Gojo had always been good at winning a room. But what surprised you—maybe even impressed you—was that he didn’t try to do the whole thing himself. After the first few lines, he turned to you.
You stepped forward, the words coming more easily than you expected.
“We’ve been studying secure versus insecure attachment patterns and how those predict interpersonal responses later in life,” you said, glancing at the professor. “We’re using a few real-world case studies—some clinical, some anecdotal—to analyze behavior through Bowlby’s framework. There’s more to attachment than just the childhood origin, though. We’re also looking into how adaptability plays a role in adulthood.”
Dr. Yuki leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued. “Can you give an example?”
You nodded. “Sure. For instance, we’re exploring how someone with an avoidant style might appear independent or emotionally closed off, but in reality, that behavior’s rooted in a learned response to unreliability in early caregiving. That same person could develop secure traits over time if they’re exposed to consistent, supportive relationships.”
Beside you, Gojo shot you a little side-smile. Proud. And, you realized with a flutter of panic, fond.
When you finally wrapped up, Dr. Yuki crossed her arms, thoughtful.
“I’ll admit,” she said slowly, “when I first paired you two up, I wasn’t sure how it would work out. But now I see that it is working.”
She looked between you. “You balance each other out. You keep things grounded,” she said, nodding to you. “And you…” she turned to Gojo, “…keep it interesting.”
Gojo beamed. “That’s my entire brand, Professor.”
Dr. Yuki chuckled. “Well, I’m looking forward to your final submission.”
You both returned to your seats, and as soon as you sat down, you turned slightly away from him, staring very intently at your notebook, like it held all the answers to your spiraling thoughts.
“Hey,” Gojo whispered, nudging your elbow. “You crushed that. Seriously.”
You didn’t look at him. “Thanks.”
“You okay?” he asked, voice a little softer now.
“Fine,” you said a little too quickly. “Just tired.”
“Right,” he said. “Must be that emotional avoidance again.”
You shot him a glare, and he grinned, unfazed.
Class ended ten minutes later, and as you were gathering your things, a girl from the row behind you leaned over toward Gojo.
“Hey, that was a great presentation,” she said, twirling a pen between her fingers. “You’re hilarious.”
Gojo smiled, that casual, charming grin he used like a weapon. “Thanks. I try.”
The girl tucked her hair behind her ear. “If you ever want someone to study with, I’m usually in the library on Tuesdays.”
You zipped your bag a little too forcefully.
“Good to know,” Gojo replied smoothly.
You didn’t wait to hear the rest.
You slung your backpack over your shoulder and slipped out the side door before he could catch up. Your pulse was spiking, your stomach a mess of knots.
You were just… annoyed. Because flirting during study check-ins was unnecessary. Because Gojo was your partner and he was supposed to be taking this seriously. Because he looked at other girls the same way he looked at you sometimes, and that shouldn’t have mattered but it did.
You shoved your headphones in and headed toward the quad, determined to pretend like none of it bothered you at all.
“You’ve been so boring lately,” Shoko called from the bathroom, her voice muffled over the hum of the hairdryer. “You’re literally glowing with repressed sexual tension. Let’s fix that.”
You groaned from where you sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of half-folded outfits, a curling iron, and the faint scent of dry shampoo.
“Thank you for that diagnosis, Doctor,” you muttered, reaching for your mascara. “Very professional.”
“I aim to heal,” she quipped, stepping out with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and glitter eyeliner winged like she’d walked out of a runway show and into your shared apartment. She gave you a once-over. “You’re wearing that?”
You looked down at your oversized hoodie and gym shorts. “Obviously not.”
“Then pick something that says 'I’m fun and mysterious and maybe you’ll kiss me under fairy lights’ and not ‘I gave up on life in sophomore year.’”
You threw a pillow at her. She dodged it effortlessly.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you grumbled, standing up and eyeing yourself in the mirror.
It had been a long week. Between classes, the project with Gojo, and the unexpected near-kiss that had haunted your every thought since it happened, you hadn’t had time to go out. Let alone try and flirt or be flirted with.
Honestly? You weren’t even in the mood for a party.
But Shoko had cornered you after class, flicked the side of your head, and said, “I’m dragging you out tonight, and you’re going to like it. Wear something slutty.”
That’s how you ended up here, digging through your closet while she sat on your bed cross-legged, sipping wine out of a mug with the words “World’s Okayest Student” printed on it.
“Okay, what about this?” you held up a dress—a short silky slip number that usually stayed buried in the back of your drawer for special occasions or confidence spikes.
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Very ‘Oops, did I just ruin your life?’ energy.”
You rolled your eyes but held it against yourself in the mirror anyway. Not bad.
As you shimmied out of your hoodie, Shoko suddenly asked, “So. Have you told him yet?”
You froze. “Told who what?”
She sipped her wine like this was an interrogation and she had all the cards. “Don’t play dumb. Gojo.”
Your blush gave you away before your mouth even opened. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh-huh. So the way you were staring at him during class yesterday was just… what? Scientific curiosity?”
You scowled. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m right,” she singsonged. “Look, I get it. The history. The drama. The fact that he looks like a literal supermodel. But you’re clearly into him.”
“I’m not into him,” you argued, pulling the dress over your head. “I’m… aware that he’s attractive. Objectively.”
“Oh please,” she said, hopping off the bed and tugging the hem of your dress into place with precision. “You talk about him in your sleep.”
Your eyes widened. “I do not.”
She just grinned. “Only once. It was very scandalous. You said, ‘Satoru, no, not the whipped cream.’”
You smacked her arm, mortified. “Liar!”
“Okay, fine, you just mumbled his name, but let me have the whipped cream thing. It’s funnier.”
You tried not to laugh, smoothing your hands over your hips and checking the mirror again. The dress actually looked… good. Better than you remembered. And Shoko wasn’t lying—there was a warm sort of glow under your skin lately, and no amount of denial could explain it away completely.
Gojo had been taking up space in your thoughts for days. Weeks, if you were being honest. Ever since he reappeared in your life like a storm and crashed straight through your emotional equilibrium.
And last night—his place, the way he looked at you, that moment where the world went silent right before his phone rang…
Yeah. You were in trouble.
“You ready?” Shoko asked, grabbing her bag from the hook by the door.
You hesitated, casting one last glance in the mirror. “You think this is a good idea?”
She looked you dead in the eyes. “I think not going is a bad idea.”
You sighed. “That doesn’t actually answer the question.”
Shoko rolled her eyes and looped her arm through yours. “Come on. We’re going to drink cheap vodka, pretend to like the music, and you’re going to flirt with someone other than Gojo for once in your life. Sound good?”
You laughed, letting her drag you toward the door. “Sounds terrifying.”
The two of you stepped into the night, heels clicking on the pavement, the buzz of campus parties already starting to echo faintly from blocks away. You tried to shake the nerves, the lingering image of white hair and a lazy grin and the way he always smelled like sugar and mint.
Maybe tonight would help. Maybe you’d drink something pink and fizzy and kiss someone you didn’t have a years-long pining complex over.
And maybe, just maybe, you'd finally get Gojo Satoru out of your head.
The music hit first—low and pulsing through the hallway like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite catch. The kind of bass that made your teeth buzz a little as you stepped inside the off-campus house someone’s cousin’s roommate’s friend rented for the semester. Shoko was already ahead of you, shouldering through the crowd like a girl on a mission, hair shiny under the colored lights, a mischievous little smirk tugging at her glossed lips.
Now, weaving through bodies and red solo cups and the distinct smell of weed and cologne, you were starting to wonder if she was right. Your skin buzzed. The dress you’d spent thirty minutes debating was starting to feel a little too tight in all the places Gojo Satoru might actually look.
Not that you knew if he’d be here.
Okay—you cared. A little.
You scanned the living room, heart thudding.
Leaning against a doorway like a damn poster boy for bad decisions—white shirt rolled to his elbows, hair still an absolute mess and somehow pulling it off. He was mid-convo with a few people, laughing at something a girl said, flashing that stupid smile. His entire aura screamed effortlessly hot.
You forced yourself to look away before you stared too long. Grabbed a drink from the makeshift bar, something sickly sweet and glowing neon. Sipped. Winced. Made your way to the back patio for air.
You were halfway into a casual chat with a guy from your Criminology seminar—cute, genuinely nice—when you felt it. That sudden weight of a stare. The hair prickling at the back of your neck.
You didn’t have to turn to know.
And when you finally did glance over your shoulder, Gojo didn’t look away. Didn’t even try to hide it. His mouth was a little parted, eyes dark under the lights, the muscle in his jaw tight.
Oh, this night was going to unravel.
You lost track of time after that.
There was music. Dancing. More drinks—two, maybe three. The patio guy had moved on to someone else, and you’d drifted through the party in that floaty way that always came with a decent buzz and the itch of knowing Gojo was somewhere close.
And then he was right there.
“You know,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “if you’re gonna flirt with someone else, at least pick a guy who’s not terrified of eye contact.”
You raised a brow. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous. Just disappointed in your taste.”
“Right,” you said, sipping your drink. “Because a guy who thinks Sour Patch Kids and chips are valid brain food is obviously the gold standard.”
Gojo stepped closer. Too close. His breath was warm when he leaned down to murmur, “You look so hot right now.”
It was the kind of line that should’ve felt sleazy. Except his voice dipped at the edges, almost reverent. And it made your whole body seize up with heat.
“W-what?” you managed, blinking.
He smirked. “You heard me.”
You stared at him for half a second too long. And then you were pushing him, just lightly, back against the nearest wall, dropping your cup without a second thought. His back hit the plaster with a dull thud, and he didn’t even flinch—just looked shocked, a little breathless, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
God, it was everything you’d been trying so hard not to think about. Soft lips and heat and the way his hands flew to your waist like he’d been dying to touch you all night. You felt the press of his fingers at your sides, one of them sliding up, up, brushing the curve of your thigh just beneath the hem of your dress.
Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His teeth grazed your bottom lip.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry and desperate and so full of tension it might’ve torn a hole in the air around you.
Gojo’s voice rumbled against your mouth, a low groan escaping. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Barely registered anything except him.
His scent. His hands. The way he kissed like he’d been thinking about it for a long, long time.
“THERE you are!” Shoko’s voice cracked through the haze like a damn fire alarm, and you jolted back so fast your shoulder hit the wall.
Gojo blinked, clearly dazed.
Shoko stumbled forward, eyes glassy, her laugh too loud. “I was looking everywhere for you. C’mon, I need your help finding the bathroom.”
You swallowed hard. “I—uh—yeah. Okay.”
You barely glanced back as you let her drag you down the hallway, but when you did, Gojo was still watching you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His lips were pink, his hair mussed, eyes locked on yours with a mix of disbelief and frustration.
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