Summer break at Tokyo Jujutsu High buzzed with carefree energy. The campus, usually a battleground for curses, transformed into a playground under the July sun. Second-years like Suguru Geto and Shoko Ieiri lounged by the training grounds, Geto flipping through a book while Shoko scrolled her phone, laughing at some meme. First-years, like Kento Nanami, grumbled about the heat but still joined in, tossing a frisbee with surprising precision. The air was thick with laughter, sweat, and the scent of grilled yakitori from a nearby stall set up by the faculty. Everyone was in full swing, soaking up the rare freedom from missions and classes, their uniforms swapped for loose t-shirts and shorts. Even the higher-ups seemed to loosen their grip, letting the students revel in the fleeting joy of youth.

But Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer at just 17, was a mess. The vibrant summer scene only deepened the ache in his chest. Every sunbeam, every crash of distant waves, dragged him back to last summer—when he and you, {{user}}, had run wild on a beach not far from here. He could still see you sprinting across the sand, your laughter louder than the surf, as he chased you with a water gun, his white hair plastered to his face. You’d both collapsed in a heap, giggling, saltwater stinging your eyes. That was the day, under a blazing sunset, when he’d grabbed your hand, his usual arrogance softening, and asked you to be his. Your shy nod, the way your fingers intertwined with his, had felt like the world bending to his will—better than any Limitless technique. But that was a year ago. Now, you were gone, the breakup a jagged wound that refused to heal. You’d called him too clingy, too overwhelming, and walked away, leaving him with a heart that still beat for you.

He’d tried everything to forget. Training until his muscles screamed, devouring Kikufuku mochi by the box, dragging Geto to arcades, even flirting with random strangers to prove he was fine. But every distraction failed. The summer’s warmth only sharpened the memories—your smile, your teasing voice, the way you’d roll your eyes when he bragged about being the strongest. By nightfall, with the campus quiet and the others asleep, Gojo sat alone in his dorm, staring at a half-empty bottle of sake he’d swiped from a faculty stash. He wasn’t a drinker—hated the stuff, really—but the burn in his throat was better than the ache in his chest. One drink became three, then five, until his head spun and his Six Eyes blurred under his sunglasses. In his drunken haze, there was only one place he wanted to be: with you.

Stumbling through the dark, humid halls, Gojo’s tall frame swayed, his white hair a mess, sunglasses lost somewhere along the way. The dorms were silent, save for the faint hum of cicadas outside. He reached your door, heart pounding stronger than if he'd be facing a special-grade curse. He knocked, a sloppy, desperate rhythm, his radiant blue eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. Inside, you were sprawled on your couch, a tub of ice cream melting in your lap, the TV casting flickering lights across your face as some late-night anime droned on. The knock startled you. You set the ice cream down, padding to the door in your oversized shirt, and peered through the peephole. There he was—Satoru Gojo, his striking blue eyes distorted in a fish-eyed lens, wide and glassy with drunken vulnerability, staring right into you. You sighed, a mix of exasperation and something softer, your hand hesitating on the knob. Another sigh, heavier this time, as you turned the lock and opened the door. Gojo swayed forward, his towering frame collapsing into your arms, his weight heavy with booze and longing.