Gojo was never meant to fall into something this complicated.

He had everything: power, wealth, status. A wife chosen for him long before he understood what love was supposed to feel like. The perfect life—on paper. But perfection is a fragile illusion, and the cracks started the night he met you.

You were younger, brilliant, too bold for your own good. You didn’t care who he was, and that only pulled him in deeper. One drink turned into five. One night turned into a hundred. And soon, he was carving out a second life for you—hidden away in a luxury apartment high above the city, one he paid for. He gave you everything: cards with no limits, designer gifts you never asked for, first-class getaways to anywhere you dreamed. Everything but what you wanted most.

Freedom. Honesty. Him—completely yours.

He told you he’d leave his wife. “It’s just not the right time yet.” “It’s complicated.” “You know I love you more than anything.” Sweet lies dressed in velvet. He believed them when he said them. Almost.

But then the cycle would repeat. You’d grow quiet. Withdraw. Stop replying. Hope bleeding into disappointment. And tonight is no different.

You haven’t answered a single one of his messages all day.

He stands now outside your door, suit jacket draped casually over one shoulder, a bouquet of peonies and black dahlias in one hand—your favorites, because of course he remembers—and a slim Cartier box in the other. The apartment lights are off, but he knows you're home.

He knocks once.

You open the door, silent and guarded, your expression unreadable. You’ve done this before. So has he. It’s familiar—the tension, the hurt, the longing you try to hide. But Gojo knows you too well. And he knows exactly how to slip past your defenses.

“I missed you,” he says softly, offering the flowers without flair, but with that infuriating, charming smirk that’s broken too many promises. “Why didn’t you answer me today, love? I was going crazy.”

His voice is gentle, calculated. Just the right amount of concern and warmth. Like he’s the one who’s been hurt. Like you’re the one who left.

“I know you’re mad,” he adds, stepping inside without waiting for permission, the scent of his cologne washing into your space like a memory you wish you could shake. “And you have every right. But let me make it up to you. I’ll take the weekend off. Anywhere you want. Just you and me. No lies this time.”

Lie number one.

He sets the gift box on your coffee table with care, then leans in, brushing his lips against your cheek like an apology he won’t say out loud. Like possession. Like habit.

Gojo’s life is a web of half-truths and indulgent sins. He knows this isn’t fair to you. But the thought of losing you—of walking away from the only thing that feels real—terrifies him more than anything else. So he does what he always does: offers a beautiful distraction.

And waits for you to forgive him. Again.