IX - just an investment (ii)
this is quite unedited. my laptop is broken so i can't edit it properly fr, hope u still enjoy !! 🫶🏻
[summary] back to being friends.
word count: 9.4k words | master list
previous chapter / next chapter
... YESTERDAY ... (how Satoru Gojo told his parents about you)
Satoru woke up far earlier than his usual body clock dictated. The apartment's atmosphere was already permeated by your lingering words from the night before. It wasn’t that your joke about “liking him” truly bothered him. You had been laughing breathlessly when you’d looked him dead in the eye and said,
“I almost had you there! Honestly, the look on your face—as if I’d ever actually like you.”
The memory left an odd, buzzing sensation beneath his skin. It didn't bother him (or so he told himself) but it certainly occupied the space of boredom in his mind.
They were acquainted now, even if you remained stubbornly insistent on crashing at his place.
Not that he minded the proximity.
In fact, he found the way you treated his space with recklessness, to be deeply fascinating.
You were far too careless with how you let your guard down in his presence. When you’d first asked about safety, he’d known exactly how precarious the situation was, yet he’d invited you into his orbit anyway.
“It’s unsafe,” he had said pointedly, his tone dropping into that protective register..
You didn't even flinch. “Are you?”
He had spent most of his entire life priding himself on composure. He refused to be categorized with the shallow men who were easily swayed by fleeting emotional impulses. Even when he’d teased her about being “predictable,” a part of that was a lie.
In reality, you were, without a doubt, the most unpredictable woman he had ever encountered.
He leaned against the doorframe, a self-deprecating humor coloring his thoughts. He knew he sounded delusional, even to himself, for harboring the suspicion that perhaps, beneath the coldness, there was a spark of something else.
He shoved off the bed, letting out a low, frustrated groan as he ran a hand through his hair. He tidied the linens as precise as he usually would, but his discipline fractured the moment he stepped toward the guest room. He found himself hovering, checking on you.
Hover who? Me? he snorted to himself.
Seeing you asleep, buried under the covers and looking peaceful triggered a strange sense of satisfaction in his chest. He backed out quietly, and retreated to the living area to settle the matter that had been gnawing at him for days.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his mother’s number, his jaw set in a line of resolve.
He knew exactly what he was doing. If this was the only path to keeping you close, to secure some semblance of stability, possibly a friendship, then he would do it without hesitation. He had already fucked up enough times. He couldn't get petty now that you'd gotten civil with him.
“Okaasan, good morning,” he greeted, his voice smooth.
There was a brief pause on the other end before his mother’s voice cut through sharply. “You never call this early unless it’s important, Satoru,” she muttered suspiciously, skipping any pleasantries. “Don't beat around the bush. What is the problem?”
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes as he prepared to come up with a response.
“Well...” He dragged the word out, his eyes still closed as if he could imagine his mother’s impatient expression even from miles away.
“Well?” she prompted, the steel in her tone sharpening even more. “I don't have all day.”
“It’s about Tsukino,” he said, letting the name hang in the air.
There was an expectant silence on the other end, followed by a knowing exhale that sounded dangerously like a smirk. “Are you getting along well? I was sure you two would be compatible right from the get-go. Her family—”
“We’re doing better than ‘getting along,’” he interrupted, his voice dropping into a lower register. “That isn't the point. I want the arrangement canceled.”
“What?” Her voice rose, laced with disbelief. “You were sent to New York specifically because you agreed to this.”
“I’m afraid I’ve found someone I prefer over her.”
“You? Over a Tsukino? You actually like someone?”
“I’m a person too, Okaasan,” he replied, his tone dry.
“Not vacant enough to pursue a girlfriend, that much I know. Most of them aren't even worthy of you or... even your time. As you'd like to say.”
“She’s studying the same degree,” he countered, ignoring her jab. “We’re compatible, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
There was a beat of silence as his mother processed this. “Do I know her? Or at least, do I know her parents?”
“Did I just hear girlfriend?” A deep voice cut through the line as his father joined the conversation. “You’re choosing someone over a Tsukino? That sounds far too serious for a whim, Satoru.”
Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he massaged his temples to stave off the mounting irritation. “It’s not a whim,” he replied, his voice strained but firm. “And for the record, you’ll like her.”
“That is hardly the point,” his mother interjected, her tone regaining its icy edge. “We aren't discussing your taste in companionship. We are discussing the alliance. Who are her parents? What is her lineage?”
Satoru let out an impatient breath, his gaze drifting back toward the quiet guest room where you were still asleep.
“That is entirely irrelevant,” he snapped, his voice going into a warning tone. “I like her for who she is, not for the name she carries or the connections her family might offer. We don't distract each other, and we study together. You don’t need to meet her parents to understand that she is worth more than a political contract.”
“You’re rejecting the Tsukinos for someone whose parents you don’t even want to bring up?” his mother asked, voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and bafflement.
“Satoru, have you completely lost your sense of standing?”
“You’ll understand once you meet her,” Satoru said firmly. Why was it even necessary? Didn't they say something about respecting his preference? He'd been too compliant all along. He had spoiled his mother.
“I understand it enough already,” his father mumbled in a mocking tone. “It’s the classic rebellion, isn’t it? Chasing a fantasy because you’re bored. Don’t confuse a moment of convenience for something substantial, boy.”
Satoru felt a strange shift in his chest. His father’s taunt only made him more determined to prove them wrong. The defensiveness that usually marked his conversations with his parents began to give way to sincerity.
“It’s not a fantasy,” Satoru countered, his voice turning oddly, uncharacteristically sappy. “You see a rebellion, but I just see the first thing in my life that actually makes sense. She’s the only person I’ve met who doesn’t think of me as a trophy, and somehow, it makes me like I'm not performing. I just feel like I’m here.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked toward the closed bedroom door. “You think I’m settling for less, but the truth is, I’ve never found anything this valuable before. And if that sounds invaluable to you, then you’ve just proven that you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
There was a stunned, heavy silence on the other end of the line, as if his parents were trying to reconcile this uncharacteristically earnest tone with the son they thought they knew.
Guess they don't have a choice now, Satoru smirked to himself.
“Fine,” his mother replied coolly. Even through the phone, he could practically see her setting down her teacup, her posture undoubtedly impeccable, though the flickers of genuine curiosity bleeding into her tone betrayed her. “Next next Saturday, we shall meet this young woman. We'll have a reservation early at my favorite restaurant. I assume, at the very least, you are prepared to grant us the courtesy of a name?”
Satoru stiffened. He glanced toward the guest room door, the image of you asleep and unguarded.
He said your name, the words slipping out with a softness that felt entirely foreign to him.
Wait, what the fuck? Did he just tell them YOUR name?
His mother repeated the name, testing the syllables with the same detachment she applied to everything else. There was a pause where she seemed to be weighing the name, deciding if it held enough to warrant her interest, or if it was merely a temporary distraction for her son.
“A name is a start, then,” she said in a register that suggested she had already begun planning how to take down your defenses the moment you entered their world. “I trust that by that Saturday, you will have curated an appearance that does not embarrass this family. Do not mistake my curiosity for approval. I am simply interested to see what kind of woman has managed to make a man like you lose his head so thoroughly.”
It was clear they still harbored deep skepticism, refusing to believe he had suddenly developed a genuine interest in someone.
“Does this mean the arrangement is canceled?” he pressed, his grip tightening around the phone.
“For now,” his mother sighed, the sound echoing with grace. “I am cutting you some slack, simply because I know you are prone to acting out the moment we cease to hear you out. Your father is already off to work, and he is far less patient than I am. I will speak to the Tsukino family myself before things become unsightly.”
There was a brief pause as her concession settled over the line.
“See that you don’t squander this grace,” she added, her voice softening into that clipped form of affection typical of their upbringing. “Eat properly, keep your schedule in order, and do try not to be reckless. A scandal is the last thing we need right now. Good bye, Satoru.”
The call ended with leaving Satoru standing in the middle of his apartment, feeling a little dumbfounded.
He let out a long, slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he stared at the closed door of the guest room. The path forward was far from clear, and he knew his mother’s grace came with strings long enough to span the entire city, but for now, he felt as though he were finally dictating the terms of his own life.
But then, cold realization washed over him, anchoring his feet to the spot.
Fuck, fuck. How many more fucks has he fucked up. In his moment of uncharacteristic honesty, he had done something reckless.
He had given them your name without so much as a whisper of a warning to you. He had volunteered you as a piece on his chessboard before you had even agreed to play, acting on instinct that bypassed his usual caution.
A flicker of doubt teased the back of his mind... would you even agree? The thought was quickly stifled.
You were his now, or at least, you were going to be. Besides, he knew exactly what motivated you. You would do anything for Himari, wouldn't you? If he played his cards right, he could use that to pull you exactly where he wanted you to be.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, transforming his expression into something far more predatory than the earnest son who had just finished speaking to his mother. He simply needed to show you the inevitable. He was undeniably attractive, and he knew exactly how to handle women.
He wanted you to stop treating him like he was a nuisance or a piece of shit, and finally acknowledge him as a friend. He would make sure that any lingering bitterness from your past dissolved, leaving you with nothing but the overwhelming need to be exactly where he was.
It had been a day since you last talked to him (Gojo, obviously).
Despite the finalization of your arrangement, a part of you still struggled to believe that Satoru Gojo would actually follow through on his end of the bargain.
He was simply an impulsive and manipulative guy. You had spent years banking on his inability to commit to anything that didn't serve his immediate ego.
At least to your knowledge, that is.
So, when a notification lit up your phone screen later that night (you'd just gotten home), it would have been a lie if you said you weren't surprised.
[Satoru]: Let’s meet up later at 9. I’ll fetch you.
You stared at the message for a long beat. He was actually going through with this?
Also, what's with the abrupt notice? The hell?
You decide to take it as a joke, because...of course.
[Satoru]: What part of the text sounds like a joke?
[Satoru]: You want Himari to be free, or not?
Your eyebrows knitted together, a spike of annoyance piercing through your composure.
[You]: i know we talked and all, BUT I haven't seen a shred of proof that the wedding has been called off. if i didn't know any better, i’d say you’re gaslighting me into meeting up just so you can drag me into more of your nonsense.
[Satoru]: You’re friends with Tsukino, and she hasn’t told you yet?
[Satoru]: Where is she? Go ask her.
The bluntness of his reply left you reeling. It left you with no choice but to verify his claim before you could even think about firing back.
You stared at the glowing screen, your thumb hovering over it as your patience began to thin.
The audacity of him demanding an update was sufficient enough to piss you off.
[You]: im alone in the room. i'll wait for her to come back.
You dropped your phone onto the mattress and walked to the window, peering out at the campus grounds. If Himari had actually secured her freedom, she would have called you the second she got the news. The silence was starting to feel like a red flag, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught off guard if Gojo was playing some twisted game with her civil status.
[Satoru]: It’s almost 8 in the evening. She’s probably out there having smooches with Sukuna. Just call her.
Your humorless scoff echoed slightly in the quiet dorm.
[You]: FINE, GENIUS. YOU HAPPY NOW?
Your finger hit the call icon before your better judgment could talk you out of it. The phone rang three times before a familiar, slightly slurred voice answered.
“My girl!” Himari giggled like an idiot who found a lost bill in the middle of the street. In the background, the muffled thumping of music and the clinking of glass suggested she was definitely not going back to the dorms anytime soon.
“Hima? Where the hell are you?” you asked with immediate concern.
“I'm at Sukuna's place. We did our ownnn partyyy,” she chirped, followed by a soft laugh. “He's taking care of me, don't worry! We had a few too many drinks to celebrate.”
You let out a breath you didn't realize you’d been holding, the tension in your shoulders dropping. “Alright, listen to me. Keep him on speaker for a second.” You waited for the rustle of movement, then raised your voice slightly. “Sukuna, if you can hear me. Take care of her. Don't let her do anything stupid. She's crazy when she's drunk.”
A low, amused hum came from the other side of the line before Himari snatched the phone back.
“You're such a mom,” she teased, though her voice turned uncharacteristically breathless and bright. “But wait—I forgot to tell you! My parents called! The wedding is completely, totally, one-hundred-percent called off! I’m free!”
So, he wasn't lying. Took a day.
“That's great, Hima” you said, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I'm really glad.”
“I'll tell you all the details when I'm sober,” she promised, her voice trailing off into another bout of giggles.
You hung up, the silence of your room feeling significantly lighter. You glanced back at your phone, where the chat with Satoru was still open. He had been right, but that didn't mean you were about to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were impressed and satisfied.
Without a second thought, you hit the call icon with his contact ID up. As the ringing echoed in your ear, you paced the length of your dorm room, your nerves vibrating with a mix of frustration and somehow, even begrudging anticipation.
On the other end of the line, Satoru was lounging in his apartment, the ambient light from his tablet casting shadows across his face. When your name flashed across his screen, he paused, stared at the caller ID for a beat longer than necessary.
He hadn't expected you to call. At least not after how prickly you had been earlier. An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of satisfaction.
There was something about the fact that you were reaching out to him, choosing to engage on his terms, that hit a very specific spot in his ego. He wasn't entirely sure why the simple act of your digital signature popping up on his phone made his chest feel a little lighter, or why he felt this quiet, smug rush of adrenaline. He was actually cheesing, his shoulders dropping from their usual posture as he finally slid the green button to accept.
“Can't say I'm surprised you called,” Satoru said, his voice dropping into that familiar, lazy drawl that always managed to get under your skin. “Though, I was starting to think you were too busy waiting for your friend to deign to speak to you.”
“Good evening to you, too,” you retorted immediately. You crossed your arms, pacing away from the desk as the irritation flared up again. “I’m not in the mood for the games. What are we even going to do so late at your place? Frankly, I'd rather be sleeping than entertaining your practical schedule.”
You could almost hear the smirk in his voice as he replied, completely unfazed by your hostility. “Our schedules aren't exactly aligned for the upcoming week, are they?” he said in an impossibly casual tone. “So, we’re going to have to compromise. We’re going on dates at my place.”
You let out a heavy groan, rubbing your temples as you stared at the wall, feeling your resolve slipping into annoyance. “I'm slowly getting fed up with all of this,” you mumbled, your voice fraught with resignation. “If you think I’m going to spend my nights stuck in your apartment playing house just because you couldn't be bothered to coordinate a decent calendar, you’re more delusional than I thought.”
You heard him chuckle loud enough to make your grip on your phone tighten. “Delusional or not, you made a deal,” he reminded you, the underlying steel beneath his playful tone leaving no room for argument. “And if you want to keep that promise to your friend, I suggest you stop complaining and start getting dressed.”
“Fine,” you snap. You lean your hip against your desk, staring unseeingly at a pile of textbooks, the irritation warring with a strange, buzzing tension in your chest. "Just a date, right? Do I have to get dressed up or what? I’d hate to ruin the aesthetic of your pristine apartment by showing up in sweats, but honestly, my patience is currently wearing thinner than my pajama bottoms."
You can practically hear him leaning back in his chair, that infuriatingly composed smirk audible in the shift of his breathing.
“Dress however you want, though I suspect you’ll look better than you feel,” Satoru responded into a lower cadence that felt far too intimate for a conversation about a business transaction. “And don't bother with pretending to hate me. I'm only certain you're thinking of looking for ways to cancel the meet-up. You and your calculations are already too predictable for my taste.”
“I'm not calculating anything except how many hours of sleep I'm losing, smartass,” you counter, though the bite in your tone is significantly softer than it was a moment ago. “Guess who decided to choose me as their fake girlfriend?”
“Oh, you won't be losing sleep with me, that's for sure," he murmurs in a mocking tone. There is a pause where the silence stretches between you. “I’ve already moved my schedule around to make sure you have the privacy you need to work while you're here. I'm not a monster, despite what you keep telling yourself.”
Your breath hitched at the notice. “You're still an insufferable headache, Gojo,” you mumble, though you’re already reaching for your bag, the resentment starting to feel like a comfortable habit rather than a barrier.
“And yet,” he replies, the smugness in his voice replaced by something terrifyingly patient, “you're still on the call with me.”
“Are you really going to come fetch me?” you asked, your voice wavering slightly between skepticism and hesitation. You paced toward your closet, pulling out a coat with more force than necessary. “And do I really have to spend the nights over? My schedule is already packed, and the thought of being under your roof or under your thumb for that long is... it's a lot.”
You waited for him to snap back with his usual arrogance, to mock your hesitation or even belittle your hesitation as a sign of weakness. Instead, the line went quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, the playfulness was gone, now replaced by a detachment that somehow felt even more intense.
“If it makes you uncomfortable then don't bother,” Satoru replied. “I told you, this is purely a mutually beneficial transaction. Once you meet my parents and I have them convinced that you're the one, we’re over with. The arrangement concludes, the Tsukino merger stays dead, and you can go back to pretending I don't exist, don't worry.”
“Right,” you murmured, gripping the phone tightly against your ear. “The sooner, the better, then.”
“Exactly,” he murmured, his voice smoothing into something more purposeful. “I’ll be there in an hour so we can start the run-through earlier. Just text me if you’re going to be slow.”
When your phone buzzed against your palm, you didn't even look at the screen before grabbing your bag and heading for the door. You hadn't bothered with anything resembling "date attire." You were dressed in a pair of worn-in jeans and a sweater that swallowed your frame, your hair pulled back into a messy, impatient knot that looked like you’d lost a fight with your own vanity.
When you stepped out into the evening, Satoru was leaning against his motorcycle near the gate, looking frustratingly put-together in a dark, structured jacket that caught the streetlamp’s light. He looked like he belonged on a billboard.
As you approached, his gaze raked over you with a mocking thoroughness that made your skin prickle.
“Casual,” he drawled, his lips curling into that familiar, lopsided smirk. “I didn't realize we were going for that tonight. I suppose it matches your personality. Effortless, or perhaps just allergic to trying.”
“And I didn't realize you were a fashion critic, Gojo,” you countered, not breaking stride as you reached him. “If you expected me to dress like a trophy, you should've hired someone else. I’m here to fulfill an agreement, not look pretty for your amusement.”
He let out a short laugh, stepping aside to hand you a spare helmet. “Keep that energy up until Saturday. If you can treat my parents with the same level of thinly veiled contempt, we’ll sell the image off in record time.”
You blinked, pausing to inspect the bike. “Oh, I didn't know you owned a motor. I figured a guy like you would be tucked away in the back of a luxury sedan, being driven around by a chauffeur.”
Satoru shrugged, swinging a leg over the bike and turning the key. The engine roared to life with a growl that vibrated through the pavement. “I’m ending you and your tired stereotypes about me, one at a time.”
“Yeah, right,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You snatched the helmet from him, shoving it on with more force than necessary, and climbed onto the back. You had every intention of staying aloof, but as he gunned the engine and the bike lurched forward, you instinctively grabbed the waist of his jacket to steady yourself. You felt him stiffen for a fraction of a second before he accelerated, pulling you into the stream of traffic.
The ride was wind-whipped and tense, the intimacy of being pressed against his back creating an atmosphere that felt dangerously different from the hostility you usually traded. When you finally pulled into the underground parking of his apartment complex, the silence between you felt oddly heavy.
“Get used to this,” he said, hopping off the bike and peeling off his helmet. His hair was a mess of white strands. “This is all part of the package now.”
You slid off the bike, moving in a hurry to smooth your clothes and reclaim your personal space. “I'm not getting used to anything,” you snapped, though you slid off with more grace than you’d intended. “I'm just surviving it, Gojo. Don't mistake my cooperation for comfort.”
The elevator ride up to his penthouse was suffocatingly quiet. Once inside, he tossed his keys on the counter and gestured loosely to the minimalist living space. He then poured two glasses of water, his movements practiced and calm like usual.
“So,” he started, his voice dropping to a more grounded register as he leaned against the kitchen island. “Classes? I heard you’re already drowning in that feasibility study for your business project. You’re working too hard, you know.”
“I have to,” you said, accepting the water but keeping your distance. “Some of us don't have the luxury of coasting on a family name. If I don't nail this, everything I’ve built starts to crumble.”
Satoru watched you, his blue eyes unreadable. “My parents think that's exactly why having a partner is a liability,” he said bluntly. “They prefer someone who will be a docile accessory to the Gojo legacy.”
You felt a surge of genuine indignation. “And you? What do you think?”
He walked toward you, stopping just inside your personal space. The mockery was absent. “You're capable of making my life a living hell. My parents would hate that more than anything. Which makes you the perfect candidate. Whether they'll accept it or not, I know they like what they don't deal with frequently.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “When Saturday comes, don't make me look like I’ve lost my touch, ni-ban. I’d hate to have to punish you for failing the agreement.”
“Punish me? Pfft. I don't fail, Satoru,” you said, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. “I just win on my own terms. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you asked for.”
“Alright,” he shrugged, his shoulders rolling. He set his glass down on the marble island softly. “If you're hungry, say it now. We can go order something. But before anything else, we’re getting two things straight here.”
He took a slow step forward.
“First, proximity,” he continued in a steady cadence. “You’re here to act the role of a woman who is completely, utterly enamored with me. That means when we’re out, when we’re in front of my parents, or even when we’re just here, you don’t get to retreat into your shell or treat me like a nuisance. If you’re going to be my ‘girlfriend,’ you need to inhabit the role. I need you close enough to smell the cologne on me, and I need you to look at me like I’m the only person in the room who matters. If you keep standing three feet away, this whole charade collapses within ten minutes.”
What a dramatic weirdo, you thought. But could you blame him? You'd been nothing but distant.
Now that you think about it, he must be really good at acting. He's been nothing but extremely close. Back thwn, he would have preferred you were on the other side of the room.
You stiffened, your jaw tightening as you stared back at him. “Okay, chill out. I'm not that stupid, okay? What's the second thing?”
Satoru’s gaze raked over you as he leaned in closer. “Second,” he murmured, his breath ghosting against your skin, “Cooperation. Don't treat this transaction like it’s a burden. We both know you’re too intelligent to sabotage your own interests. Every time you push back, you’re just wasting the energy you need for your daily life. I’m giving you the space to work, I’m clearing the path for your friend, and I’m offering you a front-row seat to the end of your problems. The least you can do is stop acting like I’m asking for your soul.”
He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of your sweater before he caught a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear with a movement so deliberate it felt intimate.
“So, was that understandable?” he asked, his tone shifting back to casualness. “Do we have an understanding, or do I need to make the terms even clearer?”
“Loud and clear,” you replied, the sarcasm dripping from your voice like cold rain. You didn't move away, even though every instinct you possessed was screaming at you to put at least a city block between the two of you.
But then a thought surfaced, more intrusive than the rest.
“About the proximity part,” you started, your voice dropping as you looked him square in the eye. “You’re talking about me being ‘enamored’ and acting the role—fine. I can handle the optics.” You took a deliberate, slow breath, trying to steady the pulse thrumming in your throat. “But let’s be real, Satoru. If I’m supposed to be glued to your side, looking at you like you’re the center of my universe, don’t you think that’s going to raise questions? People know us. They know we’ve spent the better part of the last year acting like we were on the verge of a blood feud. If I suddenly start playing the devoted, lovesick girlfriend, they’re not going to buy it. They’re going to smell the desperation, or worse—they’re going to think you’ve finally cracked and decided to play a prank.”
Satoru let his hand linger for a second too long near your ear, his thumb brushing against the shell of it, sending a jolt of static through your nervous system that you desperately tried to ignore.
He let out a detached short huff of laughter that was clearly not to mock you.
“We’re not doing this to fool the students, or the faculty, or the gossips in the department hallway,” he said, in a resonant register. “So, that should be the least of your worries. Let them think I’ve cracked. Let them think it’s a prank, a mid-life crisis, whatever fairy tale they need to tell themselves to sleep at night.”
He stepped back to pace toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette cutting a figure against the sprawling skyline of the city. He didn't look back at you when he continued.
“The only people who matter are my parents,” he stated firmly. “They are the ones holding the leash on my inheritance and the political influence that kept that merger on the table. If I can convince them, the rest of the arrangement will fall into line behind their approval. When a Gojo presents a partner, the public doesn't ask if it’s believable, they simply ask how it benefits us. I’ll handle the rest, you just have to handle the performance.”
He turned around, his eyes locking onto yours with focus.
“Besides,” he added, a wicked, lopsided smirk carving its way across his face as he gestured loosely toward the couch. “If you’re really that worried about moving from ‘blood feud’ to ‘devoted girlfriend,’ then we have plenty of work to do. You’re a quick learner, aren't you? If you’re as brilliant as our history suggests, you should be able to master the art of looking at me like I’m the only person you want before the appetizers arrive on Saturday.”
You stared at him, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The arrogance of it. Just the way he assumed he could choreograph your emotions as easily as he navigated his own social standing made your blood boil. But beneath the anger was that persistent curiosity.
“You’re so full of yourself, it’s a miracle you can even fit into this apartment,” you bit back, walking over to the kitchen island and picking up your glass of water to take a long sip. “Fine. You want a performance? I’ll give you a performance. But don't come crying to me when your parents see right through it because you’re the terrible lead actor between the two of us.”
Satoru’s eyes glinted, closing the distance between you in two long strides. He leaned his weight against the island, effectively boxing you in.
“Oh, I’m not the one who’s going to be under the microscope, darling,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “I’ve spent my entire life being watched. You, on the other hand... you’re the wildcard. Which makes this significantly more interesting.”
He reached out, his fingers sliding over the edge of the island, stopping inches from your hand.
“We have until Saturday to fix things,” he said, his tone shifting. “And since you’re already here, and we have a few hours before you need to get back to your precious feasibility study, why don't we start with the basics? Tell me something about yourself that isn't related to your grades or your ambition. Something that would actually make someone believe you could be ‘enamored’ with a guy like me.”
He tilted his head, watching you with a smirk that felt like a dare.
“Or are you afraid that if you let your guard down, you’ll find out you actually like the view from this side of the fence?”
You push him back, your palm flat against his chest, the resistance of him serving only to heighten your irritation. “Delusional asshole,” you snap, your voice sharp. “Fine, can we just get to it, then? We’ve been talking for ages, and I’m losing patience by the second.”
Satoru’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the expression shifting into a mockery of sweetness that is far more grating than his arrogance. “Ooh, eager to get straight to it?” he drawls, his voice dropping an octave as he leans down, his face hovering just inches from yours. “I knew you couldn’t resist my charms for long.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss, your fingers twitching with the urge to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face.
He has done nothing but ruin your peace of mind with his mere existence, and yet, here you are in his damn apartnent.
He lets out a soft chuckle. Instead of retreating, he slides his hand past your arm, his palm coming to rest against the cool marble of the island behind you, effectively sealing you off. He’s not touching you, but the implication of it is absolute.
“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. “The way you look at me like you’re ready to draw blood? It’s perfect. If you can keep that up when my mother asks you why you’re with me, they’ll be terrified of it.”
You scoff, turning your head away. “You’re twisted, you know that? We’re supposed to be in love, right? How's that gonna convince her? It'd just look like we came from a war zone and went to be interrogated.”
“Love is a war zone,” he counters, his tone losing its playful edge. He reaches out, and this time, he doesn't hesitate. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, his touch light almost reverent, as he forces you to look at him. “And if you want to do well, just be a woman who is completely and utterly devoted to her man.”
His eyes search yours. “So,” he breathes, his thumb lingering on your pulse point. “Practice on me. Tell me you’re mine, and try to make it sound like you actually believe it.”
“What am I, your alpha mommy? I don’t even know if that’s the term—do you even know what you’re asking for?” You couldn't help but laugh. You leaned back against the cool marble of the island, forcing a look of exaggerated, sugary sweetness onto your face that was so sickly it practically dripped with contempt.
“Oh, you’re mine, Satoru,” you mocked, pitching your voice into a high-pitched register that mimicked the vapid tropes he likely expected from a 'partner'. You fluttered your eyelashes, leaning slightly toward him as if you were about to whisper a secret. “Oh, I’m yours. Forever and always, darling. I’m just so, so lucky to have you.”
You let the act drop instantly, your expression hardening into a glare. “Is that it? Is that the pathetic level of delusion you want me to project? Because if so, you’re not looking for a girlfriend, you’re looking for a mirror that reflects your own ego.”
The amusement in his eyes deepened, turning into something a glint of satisfaction. He leaned in closer, until the scent of his cologne filled your senses.
“Better,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, velvet purr that made the hair on your arms stand up.
“What? Are you being funny—”
He reached out, his hand sliding behind your neck, his fingers tangling briefly in the loose strands of your hair. It was a firm, possessive grip that held you in place as he leaned into your space. “The real challenge is making them believe that you’re addicted to it.”
He pressed his thumb against your lower lip, the pad of his finger rough and warm, exerting just enough pressure to make you gasp.
“You want to be mocking? Fine,” he whispered, his eyes dark with an unreadable intensity. “But remember, if you really want to convince them that you’ve lost your head over me, you have to do more than just recite lines.” He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze head-on.
“Try it again,” he challenged, his breath ghosting against your skin. “Maybe then I’ll believe you’re ready for Saturday and we can meet up less.”
With a gulp, you decide to just lean into the absurdity of the situation. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to ignore the way his thumb is still tracing the curve of your bottom lip. Thankfully, he has stopped. You look him dead in the eye, your voice steadying.
“Erm... uh, you’re mine, Satoru,” you stammer, the words feeling alien on your tongue.
It was his turn to laugh. You couldn't help but look away, your face flushing a deep, mortifying shade of red as you tugged at the hem of your sweater.
“Suddenly, you’re shy?” Satoru’s voice is teasing, but there’s a new edge of interest to it. He doesn't move his hand, forcing you to remain close to him. “That was almost convincing, if you ignore the fact that you sounded like you were reading a hostage note.”
“Well, because you told me to do it earnestly!” you snap, your frustration masking the fact that you’re genuinely flustered. You look back at him, eyes flashing with defensive irritation. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, okay? I don’t know how this ‘lovesick puppy’ act is supposed to feel, so yeah, it’s awkward as hell. Maybe if you stopped hovering like a creep, I could actually get into character.”
Satoru’s eyes narrow, his gaze dragging over your face as if he’s cataloging every micro-expression, every involuntary twitch of your nerves. He seems to be weighing your words, his hand finally slipping away to let go of you before retreating entirely.
He stands back, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture relaxed yet impossibly commanding.
“Never had one, huh?” he muses, his tone shifting into something thoughtful. “Your lack of experience is actually an advantage. You’re just reacting naturally.”
He walks to the other side of the kitchen island, picking up his glass to drink as if the last sixty seconds of intimacy didn't happen. He leans back against the counter, watching you over the rim of the glass.
“Listen to me,” he says in that analytical register he uses when he’s plotting something. “Just focus on the feeling of being backed into a corner, because that’s exactly where you are with me, isn't it?”
He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re annoyed, you’re stressed about your studies, and you’re forced to be here because you made a promise. You can also not pretend you’re enamored. You can just pretend that I know that how much of a mess you are. That’s a far more intimate secret, isn’t it? That’s what people call love.”
“I mean...you're not exactly wrong.” You shrug it off.
He sets the glass down softly. “We have until Saturday to refine this. If you can’t handle the pressure of saying it out loud, then just look at me like you’re contemplating whether to kiss me or kill me. My parents will interpret the intensity however they want, and I’ll fill in the blanks.”
“Alright, sorry,” you murmur, your irritation finally dulling into a restless fatigue. You rub the back of your neck, your fingers catching on the collar of your sweater as you avoid his piercing gaze. “I just need a bit more time to get used to you. It’s a lot to process.”
Satoru gives a casual shrug, his movements relaxed given the chaos he’s dragging you into. “I’m not complaining,” he says, though his blue eyes remain locked onto yours. “We just finished handling wreckage of our friendship, and suddenly you have to deal with being my fake girlfriend, when we both know that’s the absolute last thing you would ever think of.”
“Yeah,” you reply. It’s a clipped quiet word, slipping out before you can filter it through your usual defensive barriers.
Satoru’s posture shifts ever so slightly. He purses his lips, staring down at his glass as if the liquid inside holds the secrets to the universe. A flicker of something crosses his features. He’s stuck on that single syllable.
His mind begins to betray him, spinning out a narrative he hadn't intended to entertain. Was he wrong to overanalyze that non-committal response? Was he reaching, or did that "yeah" carry a hidden truth? Could it mean that the idea of dating him had crossed your mind at some point, even if it was buried deep under layers of mutual disdain and academic rivalry?
That it was the "last" thought, but still a thought nonetheless?
He shakes the internal monologue away, a sudden annoyance at his own vulnerability pricking at his ego. Why are you thinking about this? he chastises himself internally. This is a means to an end.
He looks back up, his expression unreadable once more. “Regardless,” he continues, his voice smooth and persuasive. “The goal remains the same.”
He pushes off the counter, stops just short of invading your personal space. He leans down, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell me,” he starts, testing the waters. “If you had to choose a moment to look at me like you’re ready to kiss or kill me, what exactly would I have to do to make that look authentic? Would I have to insult your intelligence again? Or would you prefer I just stop talking and actually show you how much of a mess you really are?”
“Show me how?” you ask, the words slipping out. You’re becoming disturbingly accustomed to the heat radiating off him. You cross your arms, then flail them loosely, a nervous habit masquerading as indifference. “With a hug? Is that the grand strategy for the Gojo family dinner?”
“What do you think?” he says, his voice cool. He just watches you, his blue eyes unblinking, waiting to see how far you’ll push.
You blink, feeling a sudden surge of transparency. “I’m not sure if whatever we’re doing right now is actually making progress,” you admit, your voice softening as you look down at your own feet. “But if you want a reaction, if you want something that looks real? Just being near is enough. You don’t really have to do anything more than this.”
“Hmm.” The sound is low and entirely noncommittal.
You shift on your feet. “Can we stop worrying about me for a second? Let’s focus on you. What about you, Satoru? Do you feel forced now? Does having to ‘date’ me feel like another shackle your parents slapped on you?”
He doesn’t hesitate, his answer coming out immediate. “Not really.”
You roll your eyes, a humorless laugh escaping your throat. “Liar.”
“I’m not kidding,” he says, his tone shifting. He reaches out, to trace the edge of the granite island, his gaze finally drifting away from yours for the first time since he started this conversation. “You crossed my mind the very first time I had to tell them a name. It wasn't a choice at all. It was just... there. At the tip of my tongue.”
A suffocsting silence settles over the kitchen.
“...Right.” Your heart stutters, a frantic rhythm taking hold. Were you flattered?
The word felt too light to describe the dizzying drop in your stomach. You felt like you’d stepped off a ledge. “...Why?” You couldn’t help but ask, the question tearing out of you before you could stop it. “Like, genuinely. I understand you see me as predictable, we’re ‘compatible,’ we’re similar. None of that shit. I’m asking genuinely, Satoru. Strip away the reasons that benefit you. Why me?”
Satoru’s posture tightens. He shifts his footing, his boots making a soft sound against the floor. The air between you suddenly was very difficult to breathe in.
“Do you want to go sit on the couch?” he asks, his voice retreating into neutrality. “I’m tired of standing.”
You study his face, looking for the tell-tale twitch of a nerve or a flicker of hesitation. You notice how he carefully side-steps your question, folding it away like a secret he isn’t ready to bring into the light.
“Hmm...” You purse your lips, watching him closely. You know he’s evading, but you don’t press it. You simply nod, your pulse still racing from his earlier confession. You follow him toward the living area, the space feeling intimate in the dim evening light.
“Tell me more about yourself,” Satoru says, settling into the cushions of the couch. He’s making a genuine effort to get to know you, at least.
“Me?” You tilt your head back, resting against the soft fabric. You’ve loosened up enough that your limbs feel less like lead. “I’m boring, Satoru. Honestly.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs, though there’s no bite in it. He stretches an arm along the back of the couch, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the residual heat from his frame. “You could start by telling me about your parents. I have a feeling they’re the reason you’re so stubbornly independent.”
You pause, an ache settling in your chest. “Erm... they’re sweet. Supportive.” You offer a small, genuine smile. “They love me a lot. And I feel the same, and beyond. I don’t regret coming here, but a part of me misses them every single day.”
You watch the flickering light of the city through the window, your voice dropping an octave. “This is for the better, though. I have high hopes that they’re doing well. We’re in constant communication, so as long as I do well here and keep my head above water, they won’t have to worry. That’s the deal.”
Satoru watches you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “No pressure from them, then?”
“None at all,” you admit with a shrug. “Just from me.”
“Sounds exactly like you,” he murmured, a note of quiet observation that felt strangely intimate.
You chuckled, the sound light in the quiet room.
Satoru proceeds to ask, “Any siblings you might want to tell me about?”
“Oh, I have an older brother,” you say, your thoughts drifting. “He’s in an Ivy League school, actually. I don’t really have that much contact with him, but I hope he’s okay.”
Satoru’s eyes brightened with recognition. “Oh, the guy beside your parents at our graduation, right?”
You blinked, surprised. “You saw him?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “He seemed really humble. Quite the contrast to most of the people we run into in these circles.”
“He is. I want to be just like him,” you confess, then add with a mischievous glint in your eye, “minus the red flags.”
Satoru let out a surprised laugh. “Oh? Is he a bad brother?”
“Not necessarily. He’s just... existing in a different world than mine,” you explain, choosing your words carefully. “I’m the one always running to keep up. But don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it. I’m proud of what I have, and I’m proud of what he has, too. I’m grateful.”
“I’m glad,” he says, sounding entirely sincere.
You turned to look at him. “What about you?”
“Only child,” he said simply.
“Oh,” you softened, a pang of sympathy hitting you. “Sorry.”
Satoru waved a hand dismissively, his expression smoothing back into that mask. “It’s fine. It’s not that bad, ni-ban. Don’t feel guilty for asking.” He leaned back, his eyes catching yours. “Besides, being an only child has its perks. You learn to claim the things you want without having to share them with anyone else.”
He held your gaze, his meaning hanging in the air.
“You ever thought of feeling what it’s like to have that, though?” you ask, gesturing vaguely. “A household that isn't just... transactional?”
Satoru shifts, the leather of the couch creaking beneath him. He doesn't look at you immediately, his gaze tracing the patterns of the rug. “Sure, I’m curious. Who wouldn't be? But I’m not exactly dying to replicate it with anyone else. Be it a family or some random person.”
You turn toward him, drawing your legs up onto the cushion. “You’ve never? Not even once? You’re telling me you’ve spent your entire life in this high-society bubble and never found someone worth sharing that space with?”
He meets your eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the mask slips entirely. There’s a weariness there that doesn't fit his age, a tired sort of clarity. “It’s not that shocking, come on,” he deflects, his voice dropping to a low, dry rasp. “People in my position don’t necessary need to look for ‘someone to share space with.’ Finding someone else is just a waste of time. And I’ve always preferred to be the only one that matters.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your sweater near your knee.
“Besides,” he adds, his smirk returning, though it lacks its sharp edge. “I think the idea of me being ‘domestic’ is a bit of a stretch, don’t you? I’m much better suited for the role of the problem-child of the family. It’s far more entertaining for everyone involved.”
You watch him, unsettled by how easily he pivots back to the nonchalant version of himself. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to keep you from looking too closely at the gaps in his armor.
“You’re a real piece of work, Gojo,” you mutter, though the sting has left your voice. “You know that?”
“I’ve been told,” he agrees, tilting his head with a lazy, satisfied tilt. “Usually by people who are currently trying to figure me out. You’re doing it right now, aren’t you?”
You stiffen, caught off guard. “I’m not trying to figure anything out. I’m just trying to make sure I don't get trapped in your orbit any longer than I have to.”
“Liar,” he breathes, the word barely a whisper, yet it lands as an accusation. He moves closer, the space between you shrinking until you can see the slight flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You’re here, on my couch, asking me about my childhood and my lifestyle. You’re already knee-deep in the orbit, ni-ban. You might as well get comfortable.”
“I’m getting there,” you admit, the words feeling like a surrender. You shift your weight, the distance between you feeling smaller than it was a moment ago.
Satoru chuckles. “My idea of making you come here is working now, isn’t it?” he notes, his voice in that smug, self-assured tone that usually makes you want to bolt.
Right now was an exception.
“It is,” you concede, your gaze drifting to the way his hand rests near yours on the cushion. “But I’m not sure if we’ve actually made any progress, or if we’re just getting better at tolerating the absurdity.”
“It’s still early,” he says, his gaze fixed on you with a focus that makes it hard to look away. “We’ve got plenty more time to get this right.”
You offer a noncommittal shrug, your mind already jumping back to your schedule. “Only if we’re not that busy. I’m pretty sure I’m already behind on three other things.”
“We’ll make time,” he replies, his tone brook no argument. It was a promise, delivered by a man who rarely hears the word 'no.'
“I guess,” you murmur, the concession slipping out. You aren't actually looking for a way out anymore.
Satoru studies your face for a silent moment, his expression uncharacteristically contemplative.
“You’re tired,” he observes, his voice softening. He stands up in one fluid motion, not waiting for your confirmation. “Go get some sleep. You can take the guest room tonight. The one you’ve already managed to turn into a disaster zone. I’ve already moved my other things there so you have some actual space to breathe.”
You stand up, your legs feeling a bit shaky as you catch his gaze one last time.
“And Satoru?” you call out, pausing by the hallway door.
He turns back, one hand resting on the back of the couch, his silhouette imposing in the dim light. “Yeah?”
“Don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you. If we’re doing this, I’m going to make sure your parents believe I’m the most difficult, unyielding woman you’ve ever met.”
A slow, genuine grin spreads across his face. “I’d expect nothing less, ni-ban,” he says. “That’s also part of why I chose you.”
