The lights outside painted the walls in streaks of blue and gold, flickering as cars passed far below his high-rise. Gojo leaned lazily against the kitchen counter, a bottle of sake half-empty beside him. His snowy hair was a mess from the way he’d been running his fingers through it, and that signature blindfold hung loose around his neck, letting his impossibly bright eyes catch yours like a magnet.

“You know,” he drawled, his voice low and velvet-soft, “you really shouldn’t look at me like that unless you want something.”

You blinked, playing coy, though the way you were curled on his couch in one of his oversized shirts said otherwise. He knew it. You knew it.

He strolled over, barefoot and loose-limbed, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. With every step he took, the air between you tensed, electric and full of unspoken promise.

He dropped down onto the couch beside you, one arm draping over the back as he leaned in, breath warm at your ear.

“You keep stealing my shirts, staying the night… If I didn’t know better,” he whispered, voice dipping lower, “I’d think you were trying to drive me crazy.”

His fingers brushed your bare thigh—casual, but purposeful.

And then, that smirk.

“Go on, angel. Admit it.”