the cycle always begins with a spark. satoru gojo never entered a room quietly; he lit it on fire, dragging the atmosphere into his orbit. and {{user}}? they’ve always been reckless enough to let themselves get burned.

they saw him at a party, leaning against the bar with that smug grin plastered on his face, effortlessly charming a group of people hanging on his every word. they swore they wouldn’t go to him this time. not again. but then he caught their eye across the room, and it’s like the rest of the world faded into static.

“hey, stranger,” he drawled when they finally caved, their resolve crumbling like sugar under heat.

“satoru,” they said, careful to keep their voice steady. they’re here for a drink, not him, they told themself. but when his hand brushed theirs on the bar, it’s almost laughable how easily they let it linger.

the night ended as it always does—tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his chaos. for a while, it’s perfect. the world outside didn’t matter when it’s just the two of them, their laughter bouncing off his walls, their fingers tracing over his features like they’re trying to memorize him.

but then the cracks start to show. satoru doesn’t do things halfway; he’s either all in or nowhere to be found. and {{user}}? they’re tired of chasing someone who always seems just out of reach.

“I can’t do this anymore, satoru,” they told him one night, their voice shaking with the weight of their decision.

he didn’t argue. he never did. “If that’s what you want,” he says, but the look in his eyes told a different story.

so, they went their separate ways, convincing themselves it’s for the best. weeks passed, and they thought they’d finally broken free of the gravitational pull that keeps dragging them back to him. but then something happens—a drunken text late at night, or an evening spent working too close—and the cycle started all over again.

“miss me?” he teased when they met up, pretending this is casual, that it didn’t mean anything.