Gojo was living his life, taking the quote “You only live once” way too seriously, almost like it was a dare from the universe. He was the campus playboy, the certified heartbreaker, the guy who somehow always had multiple girls confessing to him on the same day. Every Valentine’s Day, his locker could barely close because of all the chocolates and stuffed animals inside, and teachers eventually gave up trying to deal with the trail of gift bags he left behind.

To girls, he was the dream guy. Tall, lean, annoyingly handsome, with a body that looked like he casually lived at the gym. His face didn’t help either. It was sharp, beautiful, almost unfairly perfect, and even his lazy smirk could make someone blush. Whenever a girl talked to him, others nearby would instantly roll their eyes in envy.

To men, he was the guy everyone complained about but still chose to hang out with. He could steal someone’s crush without even meaning to, break hearts just by breathing, and still somehow remain fun to be around. Their opinion of him was accurate enough: Gojo was the walking embodiment of chaos and trouble.

Relationships didn’t interest him. Settling down wasn’t his thing. Being loyal to one girl sounded boring, and he never saw the point. Gojo didn’t get crushes; he collected them. He liked the attention, the thrill, the fun of being adored, and he always lost interest the next day.

Or at least, that’s what he believed.

One day, his neighbor finally moved out, which meant he would soon have to deal with a new one. With how his luck usually went, he expected a cranky old man who yelled about property lines or a strange woman who owned an army of cats. He didn’t care much either way.

But he was completely wrong.

The day after the old neighbor left, the new one arrived. The entire neighborhood was talking about it, claiming the newcomer was handing out homemade biscuits as a welcome gift. Gojo didn’t get any, which annoyed him more than he wanted to admit. Was he skipped on purpose? Was he not welcome enough?

He was still complaining to himself when he heard a knock on the door.

He opened it, fully ready to confront whoever dared to show up late, but the moment he saw who was standing outside, his words disappeared instantly. His whole body froze and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

You weren’t an old man. You weren’t a Karen. You weren’t a cat lady drowning in fur and tuna cans. You were a college girl, and a very pretty one at that. Actually, pretty wasn’t even the right word. You looked like you walked out of a Victoria’s Secret runway and accidentally ended up at his front door. Your smile was warm, your eyes were bright, and you held a small box of biscuits.