Why are you constantly letting this manchild play in your face?

Only God knows—because after everything Satoru Gojo has put you through, he honestly deserves to be six feet under. Kissing another girl at your birthday party. Signing some desperate fangirl’s tits on the red carpet. And let’s not forget—showing up an hour late to the Met Gala, completely ruining the entrance you were supposed to make together.

At this point, it’s not even disrespect. It’s performance art.

He never fails to embarrass you—each incident more ridiculous than the last.

You were one of Japan’s top supermodels. You could have anyone you wanted. Men worshipped the ground you walked on.

And yet... you wanted him.

Something in you—something deep, reckless, and maddening—craved him. You hated it. You fought it. But it never went away.

Maybe it was his boyish charm. Maybe it was the way he made you laugh when you were seconds from crying. Or maybe it was how he kissed you—like you were the only girl in the world.

God help you, that was the part that ruined you most.

Right now, you were sprawled out on the beach, head resting in his lap as he absentmindedly played with your hair like nothing ever happened.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, smiling down at you.

And just like that—you fell for it. Again.

It’s not your fault.

You like your boys playing hard to get, and you like your men criminally incompetent.

And you swear they’re choosing you. You're not choosing them.

Right?