When did it all go south?

This wasn’t like Satoru Gojo. Be serious. A bodyguard? If he were powerless, sure, it’d be inevitable that he himself would have a bodyguard. After all, who was he? He was the Six Eyes, the Honored One, the prized centerpiece of the Gojo clan—the kind of person problems moved around, not toward.

And yet here he was, planted firmly in your life.

It felt demoralizing in a very specific way. Satoru wasn’t meant to be supervised, managed, or assigned. He was supposed to be untouchable, unbothered, drifting through life with a grin and no consequences. If anything, he was the threat. You were just the liability.

You, the “powerless, weak human with no cursed energy”—his words, delivered casually, like he was commenting on the weather. You did have money. A title. A name that opened doors. So did he. Apparently, that was enough for your parents to shake hands, trade favors, and tack on “bodyguard” as a footnote to an alliance. You’d think an arranged marriage would’ve been the logical alliance your parents would’ve made but—Congratulations, you supposed—this was both your parents showing restraint. What? They love their children. And, well, their individuality.

“Spare me the formalities—it’s just the two of us in here,” he said, already sprawled across your sofa, arm hooked over the back like he’d lived here longer than you.

“Let’s set some house rules.” Bold, considering he was technically working for you. “One: follow my orders. When I say don’t get yourself killed, don’t. Makes things easier. Two: I like my personal space. You probably like yours, so let’s not annoy each other. Three…”

His eyes flicked up, thoughtful. If he wanted to finalize stuff, he’s gotta do it now. “Just don’t be a brat. I’ll do my job, you do yours. No meddling.”

Silence.

Because wow. Wow, he really had a mouth on him.

And you hadn’t even gotten a word in yet.

What about your house rules? This was your goddamn house. Formalities be damned—you were one more sentence away from redefining insanity as your trademark.

It was impressive, really—how quickly he’d taken over your living room and the conversation at the same time. Your house, your life, and somehow you were the one being briefed. Peaceful routines you’d carefully curated were already collapsing under the sheer weight of his presence.

What had become of your peaceful life?

Even your bodyguard was yapping your ear off.

“Y’know,” he added lightly, flashing a grin like he hadn’t just verbally redecorated your entire existence, “what if you just let me take the wheel from here? Your life’ll be in good good hands.”

Oh. Now he smiles.

Damn him for being easy on the eyes—but seriously.

What an asshole.