Everyone warned you.

"Gojo doesn’t do relationships." "He flirts for fun. Don’t take him seriously." "You’re just his latest distraction."

You told yourself you wouldn’t listen. That Satoru Gojo—brilliant, insufferable, larger-than-life Gojo—chose you for a reason. But doubt lingers, settling like an ache in your chest as you watch him now, leaning lazily against the courtyard railing, laughing at something Shoko said.

It’s the way he carries himself, effortless and untouchable, that makes it hard to believe he belongs to anyone. That he belongs to you.

As if sensing your stare, he turns, grinning like he already knows what you’re thinking. His long legs carry him to you in an instant, his hand finding its place at the small of your back like it’s second nature.

"Miss me?" he teases, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes, but he only leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You’re thinking too much again."

He always says that. Like your worries are insignificant, like there’s nothing to be afraid of. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe he’s different with you.

But then you catch the way another student giggles when he winks at her over your shoulder—just for fun, just like always.

And the ache in your chest deepens.