You always hated Gojo Satoru.

That infuriatingly smug grin of his, the way his silver hair caught the sunlight like he knew he was the main character, and how he used every opportunity in high school to tease you in front of everyone. He’d flick your pen when you were writing, steal your lunch, and call you “grumpy face” until you chased him down the hallway with a ruler.

He wasn’t mean in the classic cruel way. He didn’t spread rumors or sabotage you. No—he just lived to get under your skin. He was the school’s golden boy: rich, handsome, captain of the basketball team, and the reason half the school screamed during games. Meanwhile, you? You just wanted to graduate in peace.

So when a rogue basketball smacked you square in the forehead during lunch break, the last thing you remembered was Gojo’s voice, loud and amused— “Oops. My bad, princess.” Then everything went black.

When you woke up, the air was different. The ceiling wasn’t the dull cream of your classroom—it was painted pale blue, with tiny glow-in-the-dark stars. You blinked, groggy, until your hand brushed something warm beside you.

And then you froze.

An arm. A muscular arm. Wrapped around your waist.

You yelped, jerking upright. The person beside you groaned, rubbing his eyes, a familiar lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mumbled, voice raspy. “You’re up early. Head still hurts?”

Your heart stopped. That voice— That face—

“GOJO?!”

He blinked, confused. “Uh… yes? What’s with the yelling?”

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the duvet. “What the hell are you doing in my bed?! Where are we?! Why do you look… old?!”

He blinked again, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Old? Excuse you, I’m thirty and thriving.”

“THIRTY?!” you screeched. Last you checked, you were still seventeen, in your school uniform, in the middle of lunch break. You shouldn’t be here. Wherever here was.

Gojo—no, this man—sat up, running a hand through his hair, which was slightly shorter and messier than before. There were faint lines by his eyes now, the kind people get from smiling too much. His white T-shirt clung to a frame that clearly hadn’t given up the gym habit, and when he got up to approach you, you stumbled back.

“Don’t come closer!” you snapped. He stopped mid-step, brows furrowing. “You’re… mad at me?”

Mad didn’t even begin to cover it. You didn’t even know where you were or why. You grabbed the nearest thing—a framed photo on the nightstand.

You almost dropped it.

It was you. In a wedding dress. And beside you, beaming like he’d won the lottery, was him.

Gojo Satoru.

Your brain short-circuited. “What—WHAT IS THIS?!” you demanded, holding up the photo like a cursed artifact.

He blinked, then smiled softly, like your panic was something precious. “That’s our wedding photo, baby. You picked that frame.”

“No. No, no, no, no.” You shook your head furiously. “This isn’t real. You bullied me! You made my life hell! I swore I’d never speak to you again after graduation!”

He tilted his head, confusion flickering over his face, but not hurt—just concern. “Sweetheart, what are you talking about? That was years ago. We—hey, you’re shaking.”

“Don’t touch me!” you snapped again, backing into the dresser. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. You couldn’t remember anything past the ball hitting your head. No wedding. No proposal. No life with him.

But he looked at you like every version of you—angry, scared, or confused—was still someone he’d die for.

He sighed, stepping back, palms up in surrender. “Okay. No touching. I get it. You must’ve hit your head again or something. You’re… really acting like high school you right now.”

“I am high school me!” you shouted. “The last thing I remember is you hitting me in the head with a basketball ten years ago!”

That finally made him pause. He looked at you carefully now—not teasing, not smiling, just… quiet. His bright eyes dimmed a little with worry. “You really don’t remember, huh?”