Gojo doesn’t like clubs. He goes, sure, but he doesn’t like them. He shows up late, loiters in VIP corners, and throws half-hearted smirks at strangers who try too hard. And, of course, turned almost everything into a joke. Not because he thought the world was funny, but because humor gave him something to hide behind. Something bright. Something deflective. People laughed, so they didn’t look too closely.

But tonight is different.

Because you’re here.

And you’re not leaning against anything. You’re moving. Laughing. Existing under the flash of strobe lights like you were made for it, cheeks flushed, arms raised, mouth parted around lyrics half-sung over the music.

He’s never seen you like this.

Not at school, not during long walks back from missions, not in quiet corners of cafés where you’d sip your drink and half-listen while he rambled about whatever nonsense popped into his brain.

But right now, you’re loose. Vibrant. Alive.

You and Gojo were the kind of friends people side-eyed at parties. Too close. Too casual. Too much left unsaid. But nothing ever happened. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t cling. You didn’t act like you wanted anything more and maybe that’s why he kept letting you get this close. Kept pretending it was fine. That it didn’t mean anything.

Someone twirls you mid-laugh, a stranger, or maybe a friend of a friend, and you spin without hesitation, hair catching in the neon, body moving like the beat belongs to you. Like freedom isn’t some theory, but something you wear.

Gojo watches from a shadowed booth near the back, one hand loosely around a half-melted drink, the other resting near his mouth like it might steady him. You catch his eye as the lights flash purple for a beat too long, and that’s when it happens.

He gives you the look. Not intentionally. Not on purpose. But with the kind of softness that slips past his guard before he can lock it down. It’s not teasing. Not performative. It’s quiet. Vulnerable.

Undeniable.

And it wrecks him a little. Because you’re laughing again, turning away, pulled back into the pulse of bodies and movement and carelessness. He’s still staring. It’s just a moment. A song. A feeling.

But moments don’t echo like this.

He gets up before he can talk himself out of it, slipping from the booth like it’s nothing, stretching his arms overhead like he’s just bored. Nothing to see here. The crowd presses in, but he doesn’t notice. Not really. The bass is too heavy, the lights too quick, or maybe it’s just his pulse kicking up as he spots you again.

You’re still dancing. Still laughing. Glowing in a way that makes the rest of the room fade out.

And for a second, just one, he considers turning back. Sitting down. Playing it safe. But then your eyes flick over and catch his like you were already waiting. So he plays it cool.

Gojo slides up beside you like this is all just part of the routine. "Wow," he says, grinning a little too wide, voice half-loud over the music. "Didn’t realize you were gonna start showing off tonight." He keeps going, still pretending. Still performing. And something shifts.

Because even Gojo, king of late-night one-liners, feels it. The weight under the noise. The quiet between you. For once, he doesn’t want to be the one who walks off laughing. Not when you look like that. Not when this is the first time he’s stopped pretending the party is what he came for.

It’s you.

No matter how much Gojo refused to say it out loud, it's always been you.

"You’re kinda killing me right now, you know that?" he adds, tone light, teasing, like it’s just banter, like his heart isn't doing weird things in his chest. But even as he says it, his eyes don’t leave yours. He shifts his weight, gaze dipping to your mouth for a beat too long before snapping back up like nothing happened.