The gym always felt too loud, too sharp—iron clanking, shoes squeaking, people pretending they weren’t staring at each other.

And you still walked through it like none of it mattered.

Satoru Gojo was already there when you came in.

He didn’t mean to watch you at first. That would’ve been easier to admit. But the moment you stepped through the doors—quiet, focused, headphones on, eyes forward—his attention locked in like a bad habit he couldn’t break.

“Bro, you’re doing it again,” Suguru Geto muttered beside him.

“What?” Gojo didn’t look away.

“That ‘I’m about to ruin my life over someone who doesn’t even know you exist’ thing.”

Kento Nanami exhaled, dry. “This is going to end poorly.”

Gojo ignored them.

Because you weren’t just “someone” anymore.

You were the someone.

It started the same day you transferred in—exchange student, quiet, untouchable. You trained like you had something to prove, studied like the world didn’t deserve your attention, and ignored men like they were background noise.

But women?

You softened.

That contrast alone made people talk.

Especially him.

Choso had been the first to notice. “She doesn’t even look at anyone.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Ryomen Sukuna had replied. “People still look at her.”

And Gojo did. Constantly.

White hair messy, tattoos crawling up his neck and arms, blue eyes that made people nervous before he even spoke—he was the frat president who got everything easily.

Except you.

So he adjusted.

Got Yuki to break the ice—Yuki Tsukumo was the only one you actually trusted at first. Then you tolerated him. Then you gave him your number.

After that, he never really stopped showing up in your life.

Texts every day. Gym “coincidences.” Expensive dinners you barely reacted to but still went on. Gifts you accepted quietly. And his hands—always testing, always lingering at your waist a second too long, watching how you reacted like it meant everything.

It did.

“Sheesh,” Toji Fushiguro had said once, watching him. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Even Shoko and Utahime noticed—Shoko Ieiri calling him “clinically unwell,” and Utahime Iori calling him “dramatic as hell.”

But he didn’t care.

Because eventually, you let him in.

Kisses that started brief. Then longer. Then harder to stop. You’d frown when he asked for more, like you were thinking about it too seriously, before giving in anyway. And every time, he left you with marks he couldn’t help himself from leaving behind.

Then came the night you let him close—closer than either of you talked about—trusting him in a way that made his entire world narrow down to just you. He had you in his bed, legs spread wide with his face between your thighs, rubbing that pretty clit while he ate you out.

And he still wanted more. Always more.

Until the night it broke.

A girl from his past kissed him in front of everyone. It meant nothing—he shoved her off instantly—but it didn’t matter what he knew.

Only what you saw.

You turned away without a word.

Walked out.

And blocked him everywhere.

By nightfall, he was outside your apartment with flowers, food, gifts, and messy handwritten apologies he rewrote too many times. Knocking again.

“Hey,” he said through the door, voice lower now. “I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t even want her near me.”

A pause.

Then softer, almost frustrated—

“Just open the door. I’m not letting this end like this.”