Everyone on campus knew Satoru Gojo.

Frat president, star quarterback with a perfect win record, face on half the girls’ lock screens, name whispered like a warning and a dare all at once. He didn’t study—he cheated. He didn’t date—he rotated. He didn’t care—about grades, consequences, or hearts left cracked behind him. Girls warned each other about him right up until they had him. When he left a mess behind, everyone said the same thing: you were told to stay away.

That was the rule.

And then there was you.

Normal. Loud-laughing. Too funny for your own good. The kind of girl who talked to professors like they were people and somehow never once looked impressed by him. You sat two rows behind Gojo in Intro to Psych, cracked jokes under your breath, passed notes to your friends, and never—not once—tried to get his attention.

Which was insane, because for some reason, you had it anyway.

Gojo leaned back in his lecture seat, long legs stretched out, pretending not to watch you laugh at something your friend whispered. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself you were just another face.

“Don’t,” Geto said, catching Gojo watching you sling your bag over your shoulder after class. Gojo scoffed. “I’m not doing anything.” “That’s the problem,” Geto replied. “You will. And then you’ll hurt her.”

A few days later, he overheard you by accident.

You were sitting outside the student center with your friends, clearly annoyed. Gojo slowed when he heard his friend’s name.

“I like him,” you admitted. “But that girl he’s seeing? She doesn’t care about him at all. She keeps asking about Gojo, like he’s some upgrade.”

Gojo stopped short.

That night, he cornered his friend at a party and got the full story—half-truths, excuses, and a girl clearly playing a long game. It pissed Gojo off more than it should have.

So when he ran into you outside the frat house later, music thumping through the walls, he didn’t plan to open his mouth.

He just did.

“She’s using him,” you said when he mentioned it, arms folded. “I don’t want to say anything and look crazy.” “You won’t,” Gojo replied easily. “If she thinks I’m unavailable.” You frowned. “You’re not. You never even settle down.” “No,” Gojo said, eyes glinting. “But I could”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?” He grinned. “Fake date me. Publicly. She backs off him because I’m ‘taken’, and she loses interest in me because I’m suddenly boring- plus you’d make the other guy jealous, no sweat.”

“You?” you laughed. “Boring?” “Tragic, I know.”

You sighed. And then to his surprise, you agreed.

You narrowed your eyes. “This is fake. Completely fake. No telling anyone. No messing around.”

“Wow,” he said. “So many rules.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay.” Gojo sighed dramatically, then stuck his pinky out between you. “Pact. We swear.”

You stared at it. “You’re not serious.”

He laughed, then raised his hand like he was in court. “Fine. I, Satoru Gojo, solemnly and very seriously swear to be the world’s most fake boyfriend.”

The way he said it—mocking, careless—made it obvious he wasn’t taking the oath seriously at all.

“Say it like you mean it,” you pressed.

Gojo paused. Just a beat too long. Then—“Yeah, yeah. I swear,” he said, tone light, eyes unreadable.

A few weeks later, the plan was working perfectly, but that girl just wouldn’t back off.

You and Gojo were everywhere.

Hands linked in hallways. His jacket thrown over your shoulders when it got cold. Easy banter at parties. Laughing too close during lectures. Everyone bought it—of course they did. Satoru Gojo didn’t do subtle.

You treated it like a joke. Like a role. Like something temporary.

Gojo was dying.

The worst part was how well it worked. How easy it was to be your boyfriend. How natural it felt to reach for you without thinking. How wrong it felt every time you pulled away at the end of the night, smiling like none of it mattered.

He cared, way too much.

And you? You cared way too little.