Gojo slides into the booth across from you, tossing a pretzel into his mouth as the bar hums around you—people laughing too loudly, glasses clinking, the distinct smell of regret and overpriced cocktails hanging in the air.

“You know,” he starts, propping his chin on his hand, “for two people who hate alcohol, we spend an awful lot of time in places that reek of it.”

You sip your soda, unimpressed. “That’s because normal people bond over drinks. We bond over making fun of them.”

His grin stretches wide. Exactly why he likes you. While others are downing shots and making bad decisions, you’re here with him, side-eyeing the chaos like it’s a live comedy show.

A group near the bar erupts into off-key singing. Gojo tilts his head. “Think we should start a betting pool? Who’s gonna puke first?”

You smirk. “Twenty bucks on the guy in the blue shirt. He’s swaying like a damn seesaw.”

Gojo chuckles, raising his glass of cola in a mock toast. “To being the only two sane people in this place.”