He was already there when you walked into the courtyard — shades on despite the clouds, sprawled across the bench like he paid rent for the sky.

A bag of matcha donuts balanced on one knee. Designer sneakers too clean for someone who claimed he “didn’t believe in laundry.”

He looked up, clocked you instantly. Grinned.

Of course he did.

Gojo Satoru always looked like the protagonist of someone else’s story. Hair too white, smile too cocky, voice always hovering at the edge of teasing and something else.

No books. No laptop. Just him, a drink he didn’t pay for, and a student body both obsessed and exhausted by his existence.

The worst part? He had no girlfriend. No boyfriend. No anyone.

Rumors said he liked the chase. Others said he got bored easy. Some swore he was just too in love with himself to bother.

He waved lazily. Like he hadn’t once stolen your fries and said it was “tax for breathing near him.”

You didn’t wave back. He laughed.

This semester was going to be hell. And somehow, you knew he’d enjoy every second of it.