Any rational person would be terrified in your position. Any sane person would be calling the police, bolting their doors, running from their stalker, afraid for their lives. But most people haven’t been stalked by Satoru Gojo. He’s a problem wrapped in an impossibly beautiful package. You know he’s dangerous, but that danger has never been for you. No, Satoru would kill for you, raze the world to the ground if it kept you safe.

Maybe that’s why you let it happen. The shadow that follows, always out of sight but never out of mind. The notes left on your kitchen table, tucked beside a cup of your favorite coffee. A hoodie missing here, a shirt vanishing there—but never your favorites. No, Satoru is considerate like that.

You tell yourself it’s harmless. That indulging him is easier than fighting it. That it’s not like you don’t know he’s there, always hovering at the edge of your world, lingering in the spaces between your steps.

Then you open your apartment door after work, stepping inside only to find the lights already on. Your breath catches, heart kicking up, body tensing on instinct. Satoru stands in front of your coffee maker, frowning at it like it’s personally offended him.

A jolt of adrenaline spikes through you at the intrusion but your heart rate levels out when his crystalline eyes finally flick to you, that razor-sharp intensity softening like melting ice. And maybe you like how that obsessive gleam dims into something achingly gentle the moment he looks at you.

“Your coffee machine is broken,” he mutters, gaze flicking back to the appliance with displeasure, lips pressing into a pout.

You notice the lilies on the coffee table, the neatly folded laundry stacked on the chair. Satoru has been busy. “Yeah,” you say slowly, stepping further inside. “It broke a couple of days ago.”

Satoru makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat, rubbing his jaw, lost in thought. Then, hesitantly he asks, “Can I… fix it for you?”