You sat across from Satoru at a sleek, upscale restaurant — the kind of place he usually picked when he wanted to show off or make you smile. But tonight felt different. The conversation was flat, his responses short, and his signature charm noticeably absent.

You tried to lighten the mood, asked him about his day, cracked a few jokes. Nothing landed. He kept sipping his drink, eyes flicking past you every time that overly friendly waiter showed up at your side.

“Here we are,” the waiter chimed again, placing your food down with a smile meant only for you. “Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Gojo’s jaw ticked, his gaze sharp beneath the casual tilt of his sunglasses. You could practically feel the shift in his energy — lazy confidence replaced with something quieter, heavier, colder. Still, he said nothing, just twirled the straw in his untouched drink.

You glanced at him, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the waiter as he finally walked away. Then he looked at you, all airy sarcasm laced with something bitter underneath.

“Didn’t know we were here for his attention.”