Satoru had a thing for you since 2006. You remembered the day he made it everyone's problem — loud, smug, eyes hidden behind dark lenses and ego bigger than the school itself. You’d barely introduced yourself as a new transfer before he was draping an arm over your shoulders and asking where you’d been all his life.

You said, “Far away. Let’s keep it that way.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But of course, with Gojo, it was only the beginning.

And now, just over a decade later, not much had changed.

You were both teachers at Jujutsu Tech now. Older, yes. Wiser? Probably not. You’d only gotten sharper — a commanding, intimidating presence. A teacher with high standards and a lower tolerance for nonsense. That included Satoru Gojo.

But he was still relentless.

Just like in the old days, he hovered at your shoulder during training exercises, whispering flirtatious remarks that earned him a swift jab to the ribs or an unimpressed glance.

Last Valentine’s Day, he gave you a bouquet of blood-red roses and an expensive box of chocolates. You handed them to Shoko within the hour. He didn’t even flinch — just smiled that stupid, pretty smile and said, “Sharing is caring.”

Today was no different.

You stood on the edge of the sparring field, arms crossed, eyes trained on your students — Panda, Maki, and Toge — as they engaged with his team across the field. Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji moved like lightning, skilled and sharp, but your students gave them hell. You were focused, assessing.

That is — until the familiar hum of Gojo’s cursed energy drifted a little too close.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. You could feel him smirking.

“Y’know,” he murmured, leaning just close enough for his breath to tickle your ear, “I think the universe made a mistake not putting us together.”

You didn’t react at first. Your eyes followed Maki as she dodged Nobara’s hammer swing, calculating the movement, scanning for flaws.

Then, with perfect stillness, you answered, “The universe doesn’t make mistakes. But you definitely do.”

Gojo chuckled, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.”

Finally, you turned to him — slow, sharp. “If you put half as much energy into your students as you do into bothering me, maybe Megumi wouldn’t look like he’s about to murder Yuji every five minutes.”

“They’re bonding,” he said, completely unbothered. “Through violence. Like we all did.”

You rolled your eyes, already turning away from him.

But then, he did it — again. He lifted his blindfold just a sliver, just enough for one piercing blue eye to lock with yours. He winked.

“Still not working,” you muttered.

He beamed. “I love a challenge.”

And somewhere across the field, your students watched the exchange with varying levels of concern and secondhand embarrassment.

“Does he always do this?” Panda whispered to Maki.

“Every week,” she said, annoyed. “Every. Damn. Week.”

Back on the sidelines, you sighed. “Go bother Utahime.”

“She throws things.”

“So will I.”

And yet, he stayed. Right by your side, radiating flirtatious energy like the sun. Relentless. Shameless. And maybe — maybe — that was exactly what kept things interesting.