They met because Suguru was laughing too hard to warn her.

Satoru remembered the sound of it first—sharp, surprised—right before a paper cup of iced coffee soaked straight through his uniform. The girl froze like she’d been shot, eyes wide, hands still wrapped around the now-empty cup.

“I—oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

Shoko snorted. “Ten points for accuracy.”

Satoru didn’t even look down at the spill. He was looking at her. The way her mouth tugged nervously at one corner. The way she waited, like she expected him to be angry.

He grinned instead. “You’re buying me another one.”

And somehow, that was it.

She wasn’t a sorcerer. She didn’t know anything about curses or barriers or blood on concrete. She just showed up sometimes—outside the campus gates, at the corner store, on the sidewalk where Shoko liked to smoke. She hit it off with Shoko immediately, easy and warm, the kind of friendship built out of shared eye-rolls and borrowed lighters.

Suguru watched Satoru fall in love like it was a slow-motion car crash.

“You’ll ruin her,” he said one night, flat and tired, as they walked back from a mission. “You ruin everything you touch.”

Satoru laughed, hands in his pockets, like it didn’t land. Like it didn’t sit heavy in his chest. “She’s not even mine to ruin.”

“That’s the point,” Suguru replied. “She’s normal. She gets to stay that way.”

So Satoru stayed loud. Flirted with strangers. Pretended. He never touched her, never crossed that invisible line. He kept his distance so carefully it hurt. He let Suguru be the bad guy. He let Shoko be the bridge. He never told her anything.

And then Suguru left.

And then Suguru died.

And Satoru Gojo became the strongest man alive, alone with every feeling he’d buried.

The convenience store smelled like sugar and stale air conditioning.

Satoru didn’t mean to stop. He never meant to slow down. But he saw someone struggling near the back shelves—on their toes, reaching, fingertips just brushing the bottom of a box tucked way too high up.

Without thinking, he stepped in behind her.

“Here,” he said easily, arm lifting over her head, fingers closing around the box. “They really gotta stop pretending this shelf is for normal humans.”

He handed it down.

She took it—then froze.

Slowly, she looked up.

And the world tilted.

The moment her voice said his name, Satoru knew he was done for.

Not surprised—finished. Every warning Suguru had ever thrown at him came back all at once, sharp and familiar. He’d known this would happen. He’d always known. Seeing her again meant everything he’d locked away would come rushing back like it had been waiting all this time, patient and cruel. His hand lingered in the air a second too long after passing her the box, fingers reluctant to let go of something so stupidly ordinary.

She blinked at him, then laughed, small and breathless. “You got… taller,” she said, like she hadn’t just cracked him straight down the middle.

He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rude. I was always tall.” His voice came out lighter than he felt, familiar muscle memory taking over. But his eyes kept flicking over her face, catching on details he hadn’t earned the right to notice—how she’d changed, how she hadn’t. It hurt in a way that felt almost sweet.

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she admitted, clutching the box to her chest. “I mean—who expects to run into you at a convenience store?”

“Yeah,” Satoru said quietly, smiling despite himself. “Guess I’m more of a… dramatic entrance guy.”

There was a pause then. Not awkward—just full. The kind that carried years inside it. He could feel himself leaning forward without realizing, drawn in the same way he always had been, like gravity had never let him go. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought of Suguru’s voice, tired and certain. You’ll ruin her.

Satoru scoffed in his mind. Maybe, for once, he’d give in to what he wanted.

“You’ll ruin her”

Like hell would he even let that happen.