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the gatekeeper - chapter 4

[tags] highschool years, satoru gojo being a prick, nerd!reader getting hurt, more angst, end of flashbacks

word count: 6.8k words | master list

“Yorozu and ... Kashimo?” You tilted your head, squinting at the screen as you read the names of the Sendai duo.

Satoru remained right beside you, his eyes still lazily tracking the rest of your notes. You had been at this for over three hours, even drank coffee to stay awake but the caffeine from earlier was finally wearing thin. Boredom had started to set in, prompting you to do some deep-dive research into exactly who you’d be facing in the grand finals.

“What about them?” Satoru let out a dramatic sigh. He dropped the sheets and stood up from the sofa to stretch, his hoodie riding up just enough to be distracting.

He only had a black shirt on underneath. You looked away after a quick glance.

“You wanna sleep?” he offered randomly, glancing down at you.

“Of course not. Tomorrow is another big day. I can’t risk it just because I’m getting tired.”

“For someone so smart, you can be incredibly stupid,” he retorted, sitting back down—this time, notably closer than before. “I’m just not risking your sleepy ass making a mistake when we get there. If your brain lags for even a second, we're done.”

“Shh!” You hushed him, leaning toward your phone as a video of Kashimo Hajime delivering a speech started to play.

The man was magnetic. He had his own way of delivering his message, even if his body language was a bit extra—all wide gestures and intense stares. You watched him exit the stage with a confident stride, then scrolled further, finding older videos of him, including his middle school valedictorian speech. He was consistent: definitely a powerhouse of charisma and intellect.

“Surely, you don’t find him attractive, right?” The words were whispered directly against your ear. You almost jumped out of your skin, your heart doing a frantic double-tap against your ribs. Satoru was leaning in, his chin practically resting on your shoulder as he peered at your screen.

“Of course...” You trailed off, trying to ignore the heat of his breath on your skin. “He just speaks well. He’s been partnered with Yorozu almost exclusively to represent Sendai High. They have a similar pattern on things.”

“Pattern is just a fancy word for predictable,” Satoru muttered, his voice dripping with that familiar pettiness he tried so hard to mask as boredom. He reached out, his long finger tapping the screen to pause the video right on Kashimo’s face. “He talks too much. And his hair is ridiculous. We’ll crush them before the competition even ends.”

“He seems like he’d be a good sport...” you trailed off, eyes still lingering on the screen as Kashimo shook hands with an opponent in the video. There was a respectable intensity to him that felt different from Satoru’s effortless, almost mocking brilliance.

“A good sport?” Satoru repeated, the words coming off as flat and dry to you. You were accustomed to that tone, really. He pulled back just an inch, though he didn't move away, his shadow still draped over you.

“That’s just code for ‘he loses gracefully.’ I don't plan on giving him the opportunity to show off his sportsmanship.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. The playful edge in his voice had sharpened into something more competitive and perhaps even a little more personal.

“You’re overanalyzing him,” Satoru continued, his eyes tracking your profile. “Kashimo is a glass cannon. He goes all out on the first few rounds to intimidate the room, but he burns out if the pressure stays consistent. And Yorozu? She’s obsessed with perfect scores. If we clip her ego in the first round by beating her to the buzzer on a high-point question, she’ll start second-guessing herself. I've been against them before. They're nothing we can't beat.”

He reached over, his hand brushing yours as he took the phone from your grip and set it face-down on the bed.

“Stop watching him,” he murmured, his gaze holding yours. The glasses had slid down his nose slightly. “You have the most brilliant partner in the history sitting right here, and you’re wasting your energy on a guy who uses that much hairspray?”

He let out a short, huffed laugh, but he didn't move his hand away from where it rested near yours.

“If you’re so impressed by him, wait until tomorrow. I’ll be the best sport you’ve ever seen once I’m holding the trophy and he’s back on a bus to Sendai.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you mocked, a small smirk playing on your lips as you watched him stand up, finally putting some distance between you and himself. “Just so you know, I’m not one of your fans. I don’t care what you think of yourself.”

Satoru let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest as exaggeratedly as he can. “Ouch. Right in the ego. Truly heartless... Anywayyyy.”

He scrambled off to a door in the corner, opening it to peek inside. “The master bedroom is spacious.” Then he turned back to face your frowning expression, walking back to a couch just near the sofa you were in.

Satoru plopped down the couch, kicked his legs out, looking entirely too comfortable.

“You know what, it’s fine,” he said, rolling onto his side to face you, propping his head up on his hand. The glasses were still slightly askew. “I don’t need you to be a fan. Fans are boring. They just agree with everything I say.”

He paused, his gaze dropping for a split second before returning to yours. “I’d much rather have someone who tackles me over a notebook. Keeps things interesting.”

Why did he have to mention that...

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't quite suppress the heat rising in your neck again. You reached for your bag, pulling out a highlighter and a fresh set of practice problems to avoid looking at him for too long.

“Go to sleep, Satoru,” you muttered, clicking the cap of the highlighter. “If you’re so worried about my sleepy ass making mistakes, you should lead by example. Either way, I'm finishing these.”

“Fine, fine. But if you fall asleep on that sofa, don't complain when I wake you up at 5 AM for a lightning-round quiz on thermodynamics.”

He stood up and clicked off the other lights, leaving only the dimly lit living room. He opened up the curtains by the window, taking in the view of the city. He slowly lied back down the furniture nearest to the window.

“Gojo,” you called out softly, not looking at him. The blue glow of the city filtered through the window, looking far too mesmerizing for even Satoru to look away from. “Are you nervous for tomorrow?”

For a moment, there was no reply, and you thought he might have actually drifted off. As you looked for him, you saw him shift and turn just to face you. He was not wearing the glasses anymore.

“Nervous?” he repeated. The word sounded foreign coming from him. He stared up at the darkened ceiling. The usual mocking edge of his voice was replaced by a contemplative tone you rarely heard.

“I don't really get nervous about the material,” he murmured. “Facts are facts. They don't change just because the lights are bright and there’s a camera in your face.”

He was silent for a beat, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the silk pillowcase of the small pillows surrounding him. He pulled his hood off, the strands of his white hair spilling over.

“But the spectacle of it all?” He let out a short, dry breath. “Everyone expects me to be perfect. They want me to make it look like I'm not even trying. It’s like they’re waiting for the one moment I actually have to struggle, just so they can say I’m human after all.”

He tilted his head toward you, his eyes catching the faint light from the lamp that was helping you read. “So, maybe not nervous about the quiz. But I guess... I'm mindful of the fall.” He paused, his gaze intensifying. “What about you? Are you still worried about being being second to me whether or not we bring back the trophy?”

His honesty catches you off guard.

He didn't sound like he meant for it to be offensive. Rather, he sounded curious if the competition with you that he was so accustomed to was still going to continue.

You hesitated at first. You didn't know whether or not to be honest. Eventually, you surrender and answer with something more personal. “I hate that I’m below you,” you admitted, your fingers tightening around your notes. The words felt raw, stripped of the usual layers of bickering. “That someone as privileged as you beats me over things I know I’m good at. I may not be on the same level as you in class, but I can be better than you... if I tried harder. At least that's what I think.”

You looked at the scribbled formulas, the evidence of your effort. “You’re so arrogant, childish, but competent. I hate it—that someone so privileged can be better than me at everything. In a way, you’re twice as ahead of me.”

Satoru didn't snap back with a joke about your height or a reminder of your rank. He just stayed there, sprawled on the furniture, looking at you with an expression that was disturbingly serious. “You think I’m ahead because of my name, huh?” he asked quietly. He sat up, the duvet pooling around his waist. “I guess it's partially true. Privilege gives you the books and the tutors, sure. But it doesn't give you the brain.”

He sat up, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You hate that I beat you every time...I might have to let you know that you’re the only one who actually makes me work for it. I could even say you’re the only one who keeps trying to close that gap. The closest to achieving it, too.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“If you think I’m twice as ahead, then fine. But that just means you’re the only person I have to look back at. Don't act like your attempts in trying harder don't scare the hell out of the rest of the people who have to deal with you in academics. Including me, sometimes.” He stood up then. “Go to sleep. If you want to be better than me, you’ll need a brain that isn't running on fumes. I’m not losing tomorrow because my partner had an existential crisis at 2 AM. Also, I'm taking the master bedroom.”

“... Okay,” you sighed, finally giving in. You closed your notebook with a final thud and set it on the coffee table.

“Good,” Satoru murmured, his silhouette framed by the glowing city lights behind him. “I promise to keep my ‘bullshit’ to a minimum until the sun comes up.”

You opted for the sofa, letting the coldness envelope you as you didn't even try to look for anything to keep you warm. The room was quiet now, save for the distant hum of traffic far below.

“Gojo?” you called out, your voice barely a whisper in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“We're winning tomorrow,” you declared, staring up at the ceiling.

You heard a soft, genuine chuckle come from him—a sound devoid of his usual performative ego. “I know. Good night, ni-ban.”

The click of his bedroom door followed, and the suite fell into a peaceful silence.

Hours later (probably), your eyelids fluttered open. The room was dark, but you felt a strange sensation of weightlessness. Strong arms hovered around you, lifting you slowly off the sofa.

“Gojo?” you muttered into the quiet, your voice thick with sleep. You tried to cover your mouth, but you couldn't move much once you realized you were mid-air. You blinked twice, your vision clearing just enough to see him already staring down at you.

“Do you even eat?” he asked, his voice in a low rumble. He adjusted his grip, holding you tighter against his chest as he carried you into the master bedroom.

He lowered you onto the bed. The mattress was soft, but your brain was still scrambling to catch up. You lay there for a few seconds, trying to regain your composure after being effortlessly carried like a child.

“Why the fuck are you so light?” he asked, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, immediately scooting back to put some distance between you. “I—I probably have drool all over me,” you stammered, wiping your face in a panic.

“And?” He sounded genuinely confused, as if the concept of being grossed out by you hadn't even crossed his mind. He looked you up and down, his brow furrowing. “You’re a masochist. Your body is freezing.”

Before you could snap back a retort about that comment, he grabbed the white duvet and threw it over you, burying you in a mountain of expensive linen.

“Stay there,” he commanded, though it lacked his usual bite. “If you freeze to death, I’ll have to do everything alone, and that’s just extra work.”

He’s staying on his side of the bed, but you shoved the duvet down just enough to glare at him, the fabric bunching around your waist. “Ha-ha, should I be thanking you?” you retorted, voice dripping with sleep-deprived sarcasm.

Satoru didn't move. He was already propped up on one elbow, watching you with an expression that was entirely too sober for four in the morning. The moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the white of his hair, making him look almost ethereal—if you ignored the fact that he was a total menace.

“A ‘thank youʼ would be a nice change of pace,” he mused, voice dropping into a lower register that vibrated through the mattress. “But I’ll settle for you not rolling off the sofa and breaking your neck before we even win. I need your brain intact.”

He let out a short breath, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. “Besides, you were shivering. It was distracting me.”

You could feel the warmth radiating from him. For someone who claimed to be so above it all, the way he’d carried you felt so different from his usual behavior.

“Take a nap,” he murmured, his eyes closing as he settled into the pillows. “The alarm goes off in two hours. Make sure not to kick me in your sleep.”

You pulled the duvet slightly back up, your heart still doing that annoying, erratic thumping against your ribs. You were seventeen, turning eighteen, and currently sharing a bed with the guy who had just admitted he didn't want you to freeze to death.

But then you remembered you don't even know what time it is. You scrambled to sit up, the expensive duvet sliding off your shoulders as the panic of a missed deadline surged through you. “Uhm, wait,” you stammered, squinting against the dim light. “What time is it?”

Satoru tilted his phone screen toward you.

4:21 AM.

“Relax,” he drawled, his voice gravelly and deep with sleep. “The sun isn't even fully up yet. We have exactly two hours and thirty-nine minutes before I have to drag your body to the lobby.”

He tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with a soft thud and rolled onto his side, facing you.

“You're already doing that thing,” he murmured, reaching out with a lazy finger to poke the space between your eyebrows. “Your brain is already calculating the probability of us losing to Kashimo, isn't it?”

You swatted his hand away, but the adrenaline was already fading, replaced by a lingering exhaustion.

“I'm just making sure we aren't late,” you muttered, pulling the covers back up to your chin. “I'm not losing because my partner decided to sleep in.”

“I don't sleep in,” he countered, a sleepy smirk tugging at his lips. “I power down. There's a difference. Now shut up and use the extra hours.”

...

Kashimo was a literal lightning strike—his reaction time was terrifying, snatching up the questions before the proctor could even finish the sentence.

Beside him, Yorozu's eyes narrowed as she dismantled complex organic chemistry chains with a perfectionist speed. For the first half, you and Satoru were trailing by ten points. The Sendai duo had a rhythm that felt like a well-oiled machine. But then, the blitz round hit.

Satoru leaned into your space, his shoulder brushing yours as the category appeared on the screen. He looked at you.

“Cover the linguistics,” he’d whispered, his cocky smirk back in full force. “I’ll handle the math. Let’s show them why they’re fighting for second place.”

When the question about the historical evolution of Japanese honorifics flashed, you hit the buzzer before Kashimo could even blink. And when the final, tie-breaking question on an item Satoru had quizzed you with in the hotel room you both spoke the answer in a near-perfect unison.

“The final score: 185 to 170. Your winners... Kyoto Educational University High!”

Your jaw dropped. Victory hit you all at once—it was over.

We won.

Before your brain could even process the situation, you turned and threw your arms around Satoru in a fierce, impulsive hug.

You buried your face against the fabric of his blazer, laughing in sheer disbelief. Gold suddenly felt so nice—even if it meant working alongside this prick.

Satoru stiffened for a fraction of a second, his hands hovering in surprise, before he let out a triumphant, booming laugh and squeezed you back, lifting you nearly off your feet.

“Yeah, yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!” he yelled, spinning you around once before setting you down, though he kept his hands on your shoulders. Gold confetti rained down, sticking to your blazer and tangling in your hair. The weight of the gold trophy was heavy in your hands. Soon, you were handed gold medals to match the award. The cash prize was then held by your respective coach, Hanamura-sensei.

As you walked backstage, away from the flashing cameras, Satoru slung a heavy arm over your shoulder, his thumb idly hooking into the collar of your jacket. He smelled like his usual expensive cologne.

“See?” he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I told you. A good sport loses gracefully. And Kashimo looked very graceful shaking my hand.”

He pulled back, his shades sliding down his nose so he could look you directly in the eye.

“You were better than me on that last stretch,” he admitted, his voice surprisingly quiet amidst the backstage noise. “I guess you don't have to try harder anymore. You're already there.”

You were smiling ear to ear, the adrenaline still hummed under your skin as you shook hands with fellow competitors and smiled for what felt like the thousandth photo. The gold medal felt right against your chest. Eventually, the crowd became too much, and you leaned over to Satoru.

“I need to wash up,” you whispered. “I'll be right back.”

Hanamura-sensei was occupied at the coordinator’s table, meticulously checking the names on your official certificates. You ducked away, the quiet hallway contrastimg to the noises in the hall.

After finishing in the restroom, you stepped toward the door, but the sound of familiar voices made you pause. They were just around the corner, near the vending machines.

“You won,” a dry voice said. It sounded just like Naoya Zenin, one of the other quizzers who stayed until the second day just to watch the grand finals.

“Guess I did,” Satoru replied. You could practically hear the arrogant shrug in his voice.

“You carried that team on your back, Gojo. You didn't even need whoever that was sitting next to you. What a freeloader.”

Freeloader.

You froze, your hand hovering inches from the door handle. Your breath hitched, waiting for the rebuttal. Waiting for him to say ‘She got the tie-breaker against Station 7’ or ‘I couldn’t have done the other rounds without her.’

“Gotta let her experience triumph, you know?” Satoru’s voice was breezy, devoid of the warmth it had held just minutes ago on stage. “Gives the commoners something to talk about.”

Commoners.

“Didn’t know you’d gotten so generous,” Naoya scoffed.

“Well, of course. I still have pity for those who need it, Zenin,” Satoru said, tone dripping with a cruel, casual condescension. “She’s a scholar. Her whole life depends on a piece of plastic and a trophy. If I have to do all the heavy lifting to make sure she doesn't lose her ride, so be it. It’s charity work. Keeps my image clean.”

Charity work.

The laughter that followed felt like a blow to your stomach. The gold medal suddenly felt cheap, and humiliating. None of the things you two had done this whole time... was a result of partnership. He didn't see you as an equal, but as a project. A charity case he had to carry to the finish line.

You stood behind the door, the ground beneath your feet feeling like it was falling away.

“A charity case? Seriously, Gojo?” Naoya’s voice was slick with amusement. “I saw her hugging you on stage. She looked like she actually thought she did something.”

Satoru let out a dismissive huff—the kind of sound he usually reserved for a fly he was about to swat.

“Ugh, tell me about it. I almost pushed her off,” Satoru drawled, and you could practically see the bored roll of his eyes. “It’s honestly pathetic how much she clings to this. But hey, if playing the part of the supportive partner gets me the MVP title and keeps her from crying over her precious scholarship, I’ll play along. It’s like keeping a pet. You feed it, you pet it, you let it think it’s helping so it doesn't get in the way of the real work.”

... I almost pushed her off...

Naoya laughed. “She’s been acting like she’s the brains of the operation all day.”

“Let her think that,” Satoru countered, his voice dropping into a cold tone. “It’s easier than explaining that she’s only here because the school needed a diverse face for the brochure. I did 90% of the work in my head before she even finished reading the prompt. I just let her buzz in so she’d feel useful. It’s exhausting, really—having to slow down my brain just so her mediocre ego doesn’t bruise.”

He paused, the sound of a coin clinking into the vending machine echoing.

“Besides,” Satoru added, his voice lighter now, more cruel, “it’s a good look for the Gojo name. ‘Satoru Gojo: Genius, Champion, and Savior of the Underprivileged.’ The headline writes itself. Once the ceremony is over and I get my certificate, I don’t care what happens to her. She served her purpose.”

That dumb joke was the final straw. It was all a performance, and you were just a prop he used to make it look more convincing.

The hallway felt miles long as you stood there, your knuckles white as you gripped the door handle. You had two choices: walk out and face the person who just dismantled your entire sense of worth, or disappear.

Two hours had crawled by, and the initial high of the victory had curdled into irritation. Satoru spent the last 120 minutes leaning against a pillar near the hall's exit, checking his phone every thirty seconds and brushing off admirers with increasingly curt nods.

He was supposed to be at the center of the post-win gala, but he couldn't exactly start without his partner.

“Sensei?” Satoru finally snapped, appearing behind Hanamura-sensei while she was mid-sentence with a group of organizers.

She turned, her expression shifting from a professional smile to one of mild confusion. “What’s wrong, Gojo-kun? Are you looking for her?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice flat, his patience finally snapping. “She went to the restroom two hours ago. Did she fall in the toilet or what? You know where she went?”

“Oh! She already went back to the hotel,” Hanamura-sensei said, blinking in surprise. “She told me she’d already informed you. She looked quite pale, honestly—I assumed she was just exhausted from the pressure.”

Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed, a rare look of genuine bewilderment crossing his face. “She said she told me? No, she didn't.”

“Well, she was very insistent on leaving quickly,” the teacher added, already turning back to her conversation. “She probably just forgot in the haze of winning.”

“Oh. Alright. I’ll go ahead then, sensei,” he mumbled.

He turned on his heel, his jaw tightening. Why hadn't she told him?

He had stayed behind specifically to wait for her, wasting two prime hours he could have spent gloating to the press or basking in the envy of the other schools. After everything he did—she just... left? Without a word?

He’d spent all that time building up a narrative of their win, and she’d just left on a whim, without telling him ahead of time.

“Excuse me,” he grumbled, tone low as he shouldered past a group of women who were trying to catch his eye. He ran a hand through his hair, groaning under his breath. The irritation was blooming into something else—something that felt uncomfortably like a bruised ego.

He had put on a perfect performance, hadn't he? So why did he feel like he was the one who had been played?

You were back in your hotel room, staring at the ceiling until your vision blurred, your chest aching after twenty minutes of relentless crying.

Why did it hurt this much? His opinion wasn't supposed to matter. None of his arrogant, self-centered bullshit was supposed to carry any weight. You gripped your hair, pulling at the strands as if you could physically yank the sound of his voice out of your head. You knew your worth. You knew how many nights you’d stayed up until your eyes bled, memorizing the very formulas that won those rounds. You knew...

So why were you so shattered?

That stupid prick. That condescending, thick-faced heir who looked at the world like it was his own personal property.

His words played on a loop, a mocking soundtrack to your victory. “Keeping a pet.”

A pet.

Is that what he really thought of you the whole time? While you were sharing that tea, while you were laughing together on that stage, while you were hugging him like he was the only person in the world who understood the pressure—was he just looking down at you, counting the seconds until he could stop pretending?

“Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hissed at the empty room, wiping your eyes with a ferocity that made your skin sting.

You weren't crying because you weren't good enough. You were crying because you had actually started to trust him. You had let your guard down for a person who viewed you as a prop in his own PR campaign.

The gold medal sat on the nightstand, its polished surface catching the light. It didn't look like a reward anymore. It looked like a receipt for services rendered.

A loud knocking echoed through the room. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. You immediately knew that was him.

“Hey, number 2?” Satoru's voice came through the wood, muffled but still carrying that annoying lilt. “I know you're in there. Hanamura-sensei said you were tired, but I know you’re just hiding because you don't want to be around crowds. Open up, I brought the rest of the certificates.”

No response.

He stood in the hallway, his hand still raised for another knock that never came.

Did he even realize what he’d done wrong?

After waiting and knocking for thirty damn minutes, Satoru finally gave up. The silence from behind your door was absolute. He shifted his footing, his annoyance flickering into a confused frustration. He figured you were probably just dead to the world, already asleep from the exhaustion.

He retreated to his own room, tossing his blazer onto the chair. As he moved, he mentally replayed the day—the bus ride, the tea, the rounds, the victory. He combed through his actions and words, and his conclusion remained the same: he had done nothing wrong. In his mind, he had been the perfect teammate. He was charming, he was fast, and he secured the gold.

He treated her well. He was so sure.

But a part of him knew something was off.

Was there something that happened that he didn't know about, or were you really that exhausted?

He pulled your certificate out of his folder, laying it on the desk. Your name looked... strangely nice next to his. He caught his own reflection in the mirror—the messy white hair, the blue eyes, and the face of a winner.

He was Satoru Gojo. He didn't give a fuck. He wasn't supposed to. At the end of the day, he had carried the team to a national title. He was the reason that trophy was sitting in the school’s display case. He knew that. The world also knew that.

But as he stared at your name on the paper, a small, irritating part of him stayed bothered.

He shook his head at the thought, letting out an exhale. He didn't do guilt. He didn't do second-guessing.

He stripped off his uniform and stepped into the bathroom, turning the handle until the water was freezing. He let the cold shower hit him, hoping it would wash away the weird, lingering tension of the silence from your room.

You were gone before Satoru Gojo even realized the bed in your room hadn't been slept in for hours. And unfortunately for everyone within a five-mile radius, he was furious.

When he finally spotted Hanamura-sensei approaching the bus, he didn't even wait for her to reach the steps. “Where the hell is she?” he demanded.

Hanamura-sensei blinked, startled by the intensity in his gaze. “Oh, she already headed back to school, Gojo-kun. She caught an early transit at dawn. She said she had some catching up to do on your class's individual projects.”

Satoru didn’t understand. The victory was barely twenty-four hours old, and you were suddenly acting like he was radioactive.

Why were you suddenly so cold?

He couldn't help but run another hand through his hair, his fingers lingering in the messy strands. He remembered your comment from a day ago—that he looked less terrible now. He shook the thought away, his jaw tightening.

Why the fuck did he care about what you thought of his hair?

“You can let someone else sit beside you on the bus,” Hanamura-sensei added, patting his arm. “I’ll see you back at school.”

You let the days pass like nothing had happened. Even though you shared the same air in the same classroom, the silence between you grew over time. He didn't approach you to ask why you’d vanished, and you didn't offer an explanation.

You just... stopped caring whatever war existed between the two of you. You buried yourself in your room, studying until the ink blurred on the pages. When Shoko, Utahime, and Suguru came by your seat to congratulate you on the win, you gave them forced smiles. The same went for your family and even your best friend, Himari. None of them noticed the way your stomach turned every time the trophy was mentioned. They didn't know that every congrats was a reminder of his voice echoing in a hallway, calling you a pet.

Eventually, with just a week left until the term ended, you decided to head home early. The classrooms had been cleaned, the lockers emptied, and the sky decided to match your mood—a heavy downpour.

OH. HOW FORTUNATE. No umbrella. No ride. A long walk ahead. Screw it! Screw the rankings! Screw Satoru Gojo and everything!

Why am I thinking of him again?!

Right, not only did he call me a fucking pet. He even got my first kiss!

You stepped out into the rain, letting the cold water soak through your uniform, when a shadow suddenly fell over you. The rain stopped hitting your head, replaced by the thrum of water against fabric.

Satoru was there, an umbrella held casually over his head, expression a mask of irritated confusion. You didn't even look at him. You stepped back out into the downpour, walking right past him and letting yourself get drenched.

A hand gripped your sleeve, jerking you to a halt.

“The fuck is your problem?” he snapped, voice sharp against the sound of the rain. “You wanna get sick? Get under the umbrella.”

“Clearly,” you snapped back, swatting his hand away with a force that surprised both of you. “I don't interact with arrogant assholes who think everyone is beneath them.”

Satoru froze, eyes narrowing behind his shades. He stepped closer, the umbrella tilting dangerously as he looked down at you.

“Aren't you beneath me, though?” he countered, voice dropping into that terrifying condescension you’d heard in the hallway. “In every metric that matters? I’m the one who ensured that medal is around your neck. I’m the one who made sure you didn't fail. So why are you acting like you're the one who's offended?”

You stood there, soaked to the bone, staring up at him with a look that should have burned.

“Is that all I am to you?” your voice trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of the humiliation. “A charity case? A pet you had to carry so your Gojo name looked good?”

Satoru didn’t even look guilty. If anything, his grip on the umbrella tightened, his expression hardening into something cold and untouchable. The pieces had finally clicked into place and he understood why you acted the way you did.

“I was honest,” he said, his voice cutting through the sound of the downpour. “You were struggling. You were panicking. If I hadn’t stepped in and dominated those rounds, we wouldn't be champions. That’s not an insult, it’s a fact. Why are you so sensitive about the truth?”

“The truth?” You let out a harsh laugh. “The truth is you’re a narcissist who can't stand the idea of an equal. You didn’t see me as a partner; you saw me as a prop for your ego. You told Zenin I was ‘mediocre’ and that you were just keeping your image clean.”

“And?” Satoru stepped closer, looming over you, his blue eyes icy behind his shades. “I gave you what you wanted, didn't I? You got your trophy. The prize money. Most people would be thanking me for the handout, not throwing a tantrum in the rain because their feelings got bruised. You needed me to win. That’s the reality of your situation, whether you like the phrasing or not.”

“I’d rather have lost,” you hissed, your voice cracking. “I’d rather have failed on my own merit than have ‘won’ as your little pet project.”

Satoru scoffed in arrogant disbelief. “Don’t lie to yourself. You were terrified of losing. I saved you from that, and now you’re acting like I’m the one at fault because I didn't stroke your ego while doing it. I don’t take back a single word. I carried that team, and you got a free ride to the top. Get over it.”

He thrust the umbrella toward you, his face composed of bored irritation. “Take the damn umbrella and stop being dramatic. You’re making a scene.”

You looked at the umbrella, then back at his face—the face of someone who truly believed that his brilliance excused his cruelty. Without a word, you turned your back on him and walked straight into the storm, the heavy rain instantly swallowing the sound of your footsteps.

Behind you, Satoru stood alone under the umbrella, his jaw set, refusing to call out or follow. He was Satoru Gojo. He was right, and he wasn't going to apologize for being the best.

By the time graduation arrived, the scent of lilies enveloped the venue. It was packed and filled with families beaming in elation. You stood in line, the silk of your robe rustling as you moved. You had secured the rank of Salutatorian. Of course, Satoru Gojo sat in the seat ahead of you as Valedictorian—a final reminder of the gap he insisted existed between you.

As you looked out into the sea of families and saw Himari waving frantically, your parents beaming with pride, and your older brother looking so formal as he stood on his chair to get a better look at you, the sting of Satoru's words finally began to dull. You were beyond happy. You had your scholarship, your family, and a future that meant you didn't have to see him anymore.

When you walked across the stage to receive your medals and awards, the applause felt genuine.

Eventually, the ceremony ended, and the batch gathered on the grand staircase for the final group photos. You watched from the periphery as Satoru was predictably swarmed by a group of people who showered him with the same praises they had just given you, but he soaked it up with that effortless grace.

You were trying to retreat toward your parents when Hanamura-sensei appeared, her face flushed with excitement.

“Oh, look at my two champions!” she chirped, grabbing your arm. “We need a photo of the National Quiz Bee duo. Just one for the school archives!”

“Oh, sensei, I think the group photos are enough—” you began, your smile tightening.

“Nonsense! Don't be so modest,” your mother insisted, appearing out of nowhere with a camera. Even your brother was suddenly cheering. You had no choice. You were funneled toward the center of the stairs where Satoru stood.

His expression was unreadable behind his shades. As you were pushed toward his side, your arm brushed against his blazer. You recoiled instantly, stepping to the side as if the contact physically burned you. The air between you was charged with all the things that had been unsaid in the rain the last time.

“Gojo! Stand closer to her! You don't look like partners!” Hanamura-sensei insisted, gesturing wildly with her hands.

Satoru, without even an ounce of hesitation, closed the distance in one smooth stride until his shoulder was pressed firmly against yours. You could smell that familiar, clean scent of his cologne—the same scent that now only made your pulse spike with resentment.

He wasn't looking at you, but you could feel the heat radiating from him. He adjusted his stance, his height towering over you, forcing you to remain beside him for one final, grueling set of photos.

The shutter clicked again and again. You kept your eyes fixed on the lens, counting the seconds until you could bolt.

After saying your bittersweet goodbyes to Shoko and the others, you began to weave through the crowd, heading toward your family. Above the chatter of the people and the rustle of graduation gowns, Satoru’s voice cut through the noise, as if your hearing filtered the environment subconsciously.

“Yeah, I’m staying local,” he was saying to a group of juniors hanging onto his every word. “I’ll be at the top university in the country for college. Anything else would be a waste of my time.”

“Which one? Like, the prestigious one in the capital?” another voice asked breathlessly.

You moved past the circle, feeling a familiar prickle on the back of your neck. You looked around, and for a second, your eyes met his.

He didn't have his shades on. Those piercing blue eyes were locked directly onto yours, unblinking but unreadable.

You were the first to look away. You didn't give him that familiar nod, your usual scowl, or even a flicker of recognition. You simply turned your head and kept walking, your pace quickening.

The decision solidified in your mind before you even reached your parents. If he was staying here, then you were going as far as the map would allow.

The best way to ensure your paths never crossed again was to put an ocean between you. You would study overseas and leave Satoru Gojo as nothing more than a bitter memory from what you considered one of your worst high school days.

ch 3. | ch 5.

an: he'll get better. or maybe not

#jjk x reader #anime #anime and manga #jujutsu #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #jjk satoru #jujustsu kaisen x reader #rude satoru #Nerd satoru #nerd satoru #Jjk #jjk fluff #I don't write smut but i read smut #academic rivals to strangers #kashimo hajime #yorozu #the gatekeeper