You and Gojo had broken up recently—after two years together. The reason? Honestly, you couldn’t even remember anymore. Not with him standing there, looking like that.

Sure, it was the middle of July, but did he really need to show up shirtless, sweat-slicked, and glistening like a damn Calvin Klein ad? With those infuriating abs, that impossibly perfect face, those ridiculously gorgeous blue eyes, and that casually tousled hair—he looked less like an ex and more like a deliberate test from the universe. And you were failing.

He was only supposed to swing by to pick up the last of his things—a toothbrush, a few shirts. You’d even been generous enough to pack it all into a box for him.

“Here,” you say, shoving the box into his arms without ceremony.

“Very polite, mama,” he says smugly, as if you’ve just handed him a gift wrapped in silk.

He fans himself dramatically. “It’s almost a hundred degrees out. Think I could get some water?”

“I don’t think that’s a good ide—”

“Thanks,” he interrupts smoothly, already stepping inside like he still had a key, making a beeline for the kitchen.

You sigh, shutting the door behind him as the air conditioning does its best to cool your rising irritation—and something else you’d rather not name.

You follow him into the kitchen, watching as he pours himself a glass of water from your Brita, into your glass, in your kitchen, like he owns the place.

“Gojo—” you start, voice tight.

“Toru, mama,” he says without looking at you, lifting the glass to his lips. “You call me Toru. Say it right.”