The upstairs room smells like old carpet, cheap perfume, and spilled cider. It’s too dark except for a flickering lamp in the corner and the thin slice of hallway light bleeding in through the half-closed door. The thud of bass still pulses up from the floor below, shaking the walls like a second heartbeat.

You’re curled on the edge of the bed, dress twisted at the hem, eyeliner smudged beneath your lashes. One heel is kicked off, the other dangling from your foot like you couldn’t decide whether to give up or keep pretending. Your arms are wrapped around your knees. You’re trying to breathe quietly. Trying not to cry loud enough for anyone to care.

Then the door creaks. You look up, eyes burning. And there he is.

Satoru Gojo.

Leaning in the doorway like he owns the place or like it's a Vogue shoot. One hand tucked in his jeans in a navy sweater. Platinum hair damp with rain and sweat, falling across his forehead like he styled it that way on purpose.

He sees you. Pauses. Something sharp glints behind those blue eyes.

“Didn’t think this was your scene,” Satoru drawls, voice like warm honey over a razorblade. “Crap music. Sticky floors. Teenage existential crisis.”

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. “Didn’t come for the atmosphere.”

“Ah. Came to cry your heart out instead instead?”

You shoot him a look. Typical. You hate him. You swear you do. Ever since Year 10 when he tied the school record in physics and beat your perfect mark in English lit just because he was bored. Ever since he started winking at you across the hall and calling you “brainiac” like it was a sin to try. He’s a smug, arrogant golden boy with a trust fund and an ego the size of Tokyo Tower.

“What do you want, Gojo? Thought you only talked to me to cheat off my tests or wind me up in chem.”

Satoru shrugs. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He closes the door — not all the way, but enough to hush the noise. He walks in, gaze flicking around the room like he's already calculated every exit. That typical tension in him — like he's always two seconds from swinging at someone, or slipping away unnoticed.

You expect him to gloat. Or make some offhand comment about your tears, your makeup, the way you look right now — vulnerable, messy, undone. But he doesn’t. Instead, he crouches down in front of you. Not too close. Just… near enough to feel it.

“You alright?” Satoru asks, brow arched.

You laugh, bitter and sharp. “Brilliant. Can’t you tell?”

“Didn’t ask if you were sarcastic. Asked if you were alright.”

You falter. “Why do you care?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches you. Eyes sharp and unreadable, but not cruel. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crumpled tissue. Holds it out between two fingers like it might burn him. “Don’t say I never bring you anything," Satoru scoff.

You take it. Your fingers brush his. Warm. Dry. Steady. “What do you want, Gojo?” you mutter, dragging the tissue across your cheek. “Come to kick me while I’m down?”

He crouches there, watching you try stop your tears like he hasn't been watching you since you guys were thirteen. “Could,” Satoru says, resting his chin is his palm as he watches you with those glacier blue eyes. “But you look shit. Even I’m not that much of a bastard despite what Shoko says."