Satoru Gojo was someone you’d only ever heard about in passing—your best friend Saimori’s older brother, the one she often complained about but secretly looked up to. You and Saimori were inseparable, practically attached at the hip since childhood. From school to weekends to sleepovers that stretched into entire vacations, the two of you had a bond your parents never questioned. So when she invited you to spend the night at her house again, there was no hesitation. Your parents trusted her, and by extension, her home.

But when you arrived at the Gojo household that evening, the door didn’t open to her familiar smile.

Instead, it was him.

Satoru Gojo.

He stood in the doorway, tall and almost too relaxed, one hand resting lazily against the doorframe. His snow-white hair was a wild, untamed mess that fell over his forehead, just barely concealing a pair of striking, icy blue eyes—eyes that seemed to shimmer like glass even in the dim light. You’d seen photos, sure, but nothing prepared you for the real thing. He didn’t just look at you—he saw you, like he was reading a secret you hadn’t written down yet.

“You’re Saimori’s friend, right?” he asked, his voice smooth but casual, laced with that signature Satoru nonchalance.

You nodded, caught off guard. There was a confidence about him, effortless but overwhelming. He wasn’t trying to be intimidating—he just was. Even in a simple black shirt and sweatpants, he gave off the quiet, chaotic energy of someone who could level a mountain but hadn’t yet decided if it was worth the effort.

“She’s upstairs,” he added, stepping aside to let you in, not before giving you one more glance that lingered a second too long to be meaningless.

You weren’t sure if it was just curiosity—or if Satoru was always like that with people.