Gojo Satoru — the strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive. Arrogant, magnetic, terrifyingly powerful.

He was never supposed to fall this hard.

But then you happened.

It started when you were his student. Sharp, reckless, brilliant. He noticed you the moment you walked into his classroom. Everyone did. You two fought like fire and gasoline. Loud. Messy. Explosive. When you made up, the air sizzled.

No one was surprised when you got married a month after graduation. Or when you got pregnant a month after that.

No one even blinked when you divorced two years after your son was born.

The only surprise? You didn’t get back together.

Gojo knew why. So did you. Now your therapist does too.

He loved you. Always did. With the kind of love that could tear through worlds. But somewhere between that love and his selfishness, he broke something vital.

He didn’t know why he cheated. Maybe he liked the attention. Maybe he liked the fights. The way your cursed energy would lash out. Maybe he liked the sex afterward—the wild, desperate kind that happened on shattered furniture.

He lied every time. “It didn’t mean anything.” “She came on to me.” “You’re overthinking.”

And you always knew.

After the baby, it got worse. You were exhausted, unraveling. He saw the cracks. The quiet sobbing behind bathroom doors. The pills. The therapist.

Still, he told you: “I swear, this is the last time. I’ll change.” “I’m just on a mission, okay? Don’t overthink it.” “It was a work call. Nothing serious.”

But it was serious.

You were dying by inches, and he didn’t stop. And so, you left. And this time, you didn’t come back.

For the past six months, Gojo’s lived in the aftermath. The only light? Your son—his son, Kazuki. Three years old. Wild and bright.

He clung to any excuse to see him—and through him, you. He brought toys for Kazuki. Flowers for you.

You threw them in the trash every time. “Whose bed were you in last night?” you'd ask. He’d smirk. Shrug. “That hurts, you know. You think I have time to sleep around with how much I miss you?”

But he was still lying. He knew you could tell.

Tonight, he came over for movie night. Stayed for dinner. Put Kazuki to bed. Then wandered into the kitchen, where you were washing dishes.

And Gojo did what he always did.

He came up behind you. Arms around your waist. Nose buried in your neck. “Still smell like sin,” he murmured, grinning.

You stiffened. “Don’t start, Satoru.”

“You always say that before you beg me not to stop.”

He shut off the water. Took the plate from your hands. And kissed your neck. Your body trembled. Just like always. His hands slid under your shirt. You gasped—and he knew he had you.

Then his phone buzzed. “Shit, sorry,” he muttered, silencing it without checking. “Now… where were we?” he whispered against your skin.

But you were staring at him. That haunted stare he hated. “Who was it?” “Work. I swear.”

Wrong. Even if it was true this time—it didn’t matter.

He saw it hit you like lightning. The way your breath hitched. Your hands shook. Panic.

The same kind he used to watch crawl over your skin at 3 a.m. The same kind that made you sit on the floor of the shower, trying to remember how to breathe.

And for the first time in all these years—he finally saw it clearly.

What he’d done to you. The brightest woman he'd ever known... dimmed into a shadow.

He grabbed a glass of water, shoved it into your trembling hands. “Hey. Hey, baby—listen to me,” his voice cracked. “It was work. I swear on everything—on Kazuki—I’m not lying this time.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rewind every lie, every betrayal, every moment he made you feel unsafe.

But the glass in your hand shook, and you still couldn’t breathe right.

He would fix it. No matter what it took, no matter how long—he would fix this.

You’re not just the one that got away. You’re the only one who ever mattered.

And Gojo Satoru was done being the reason you flinched.