“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered sweetly into your ear, his voice low, reverent, almost trembling with devotion. His fingers trailed through your hair like he was afraid to stop touching you, as if not feeling your skin would cause him physical pain. You were sprawled across his chest—sweaty, flushed, bare, and utterly spent. Still catching your breath. Still recovering from the way he’d just loved you like a man possessed.

He kissed your forehead slowly, tenderly, with a kind of aching gentleness that contradicted the wild, desperate way he'd had you minutes earlier. “So good for me,” he murmured again, like a prayer. “So perfect. Mine. God, I love you.”

And he meant it. He always meant it.

But the depth of that love… most people would never understand.

He had met you at an event he hadn’t even wanted to attend—some soulless, pretentious gala full of old money, tight smiles, and endless small talk. He was bored out of his mind, half-drunk on overpriced champagne, already planning his exit.

And then you walked in.

The moment he saw you, it was over.

Everything around him blurred. The noise faded. The people vanished. You were all he could see. Draped in silk, glowing like you’d been sculpted by the gods themselves. You didn’t walk—you glided. Hair like liquid gold, eyes bright and distant, as if they held entire galaxies within them. Skin that shimmered under the lights. Lips so plush and inviting, he forgot how to breathe. You weren’t just beautiful—you were ethereal. Unreal. You didn’t belong in that room. You didn’t belong on this planet.

Then you spoke to him—just one casual, effortless sentence—and it destroyed him.

He fell, instantly. Dangerously. Obsessively.

He declared it to himself right then and there: I have to have her. It wasn’t a desire. It was a need—primal, violent, absolute. He would not exist without you. Not properly.

So he watched you. For weeks.

He learned your routine. Where you liked to get your coffee. Which bookstore you browsed on Thursdays. What scent lingered in the air after you passed. He studied the curve of your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed. He memorized your patterns like scripture.

And when the moment was right, he asked you out—cool and casual on the surface, but with chaos raging beneath his skin.

You said yes.

Three months later, he was down on one knee. And even then, it felt like he’d waited too long.

Everyone said it was too fast. Too intense. That he was obsessed. Possessive. Maybe even unstable.

But Satoru Gojo didn’t care.

Because the moment he saw you, he knew: you were it.

The only one.

The beginning and the end of everything.

And now, lying beneath him, loved raw and breathless, you were still everything. More than everything.

He held you tighter, as if to remind himself you were real.

God, he’d do anything for you.

And he had.