You never expected arranged marriages to be… this complicated. From the moment your family announced your engagement to Gojo Satoru, you’d taken it as a personal challenge. Not because you liked him, at least not initially, but because everyone whispered the same thing: he wasn’t interested in women. In fact, he had a reputation, one you were determined to challenge.

Your plan was simple: affection, persistent teasing, and little acts of love that bordered on overbearing. Every morning, you left notes in his room with a casual “Good morning, handsome”. Every evening, you made it a point to sit beside him, steal his favorite snacks, and brush your fingers against his hand. You kissed his cheeks, whispered “I love you” during the quietest moments, even insisted on holding his hand in public. Friends and family remarked how sweet you were, how dedicated, how patient. But Satoru… he never budged. He smiled, laughed, and teased back, but his heart remained resolutely unshaken.

Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, and slowly, the fire of your pursuit began to dim. You realized maybe some hearts couldn’t be swayed—not by kisses, not by affection, not even by subtle hints of devotion. And when your cousin introduced you to someone new, someone who laughed at your jokes and held your gaze without the walls Satoru had, the hesitation to let go finally fell away. You started seeing him, going on dates, holding hands, your chest fluttering with a kind of warmth you didn’t think Satoru could ever give you.

Life felt… simple. Happy, even. Until tonight.

You’d returned from dinner, laughing over shared fries and awkward jokes, your hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed. You pushed open the front door, expecting quiet, expecting normalcy. Instead, you froze. In the middle of your living room, sprawled on the couch with a bottle in hand and his white hair sticking out in every direction, was Gojo Satoru. He looked entirely unlike the composed, teasing man everyone knew. His glasses were crooked, his shirt untucked, his lips slightly red from whatever drink he’d decided to torture himself with.

“Satoru?!” You whispered, stepping closer.

He barely acknowledged you at first, muttering to himself, almost like the furniture itself had betrayed him. “Stupid… days… empty… nothing… no one pestering me… why’s it so empty?”

You blinked, taken aback. The drunk words sounded oddly… genuine. His hand dragged across his face, smudging the corners of his eyes as though he’d just realized how long he’d gone without you in his life. The bottles beside him clinked softly as he shifted, mumbling, “I thought I’d be fine… I thought… ha… ha… but everything’s hollow…”

Your heart pounded, caught between surprise, amusement, and a strange pang of guilt. You wanted to step forward, to console, but at the same time, you were firmly with someone else now, and that thought anchored you.

Satoru sighed, loud and dramatic as always, and leaned back, shaking his head. “I didn’t think I’d miss it… your incessant ‘I love yous,’ your stupid little kisses, your hands everywhere… I… damn it… my days feel… empty… without you bugging me…”

He slurred the words, letting them hang in the air, almost like an apology, almost like a confession. And in that moment, you realized—he had never wanted to change, never intended to return your affections, but… he had always noticed you, always felt the space you left when you stopped trying.

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t asked for you to come back. He hadn’t even looked at you directly. And yet, his words struck a strange chord, echoing in the quiet of your living room.

Finally, after a long pause, he muttered again, softer this time, more sincere than any teasing ever could be: “I hate that I… actually miss you… pestering me every damn day.”