Satoru Gojo had always been the golden boy. Everyone knew it, everyone said it—money, beauty, pedigree, the kind of almost unfair charisma that made people orbit him without thinking. College came easy, grades came easier, and ruling the campus’ most elite fraternity felt as natural as breathing. Life obeyed him. Life wanted him.

You were the one thing he could never manage, never own, never control and never—god, never—let go. You two burned too bright together. When it was good, it was untouchable: you laughing in his hoodie on a Sunday morning while he cooked pancakes terribly; his hands on your waist at parties, chin on your shoulder, whispering that you were the only person who ever made him feel anything real; the two of you making out in stairwells like the world didn’t exist.

But when it was bad… it was toxic flames. Screaming matches in parking lots. You catching him half-flirting with some girl and walking out. Him losing his mind if any guy so much as looked at you. Breakups, reunions, slammed doors, stolen kisses. A cycle no one understood, and neither of you could stop.

Last week had been the worst.

A party at his fraternity house, lights flashing, music too loud. Some girl—he couldn’t even remember her name—leaning on him, giggling. And he’d smirked back, lazy, careless.

You stormed toward him, eyes blazing, and he’d said, with a cruel, dismissive little laugh,

“Relax. I didn’t realize you were my babysitter tonight.”

You went still. He pushed harder—anger, pride, stupidity boiling together.

And when you hissed that he was humiliating you, he snapped,

“Then don’t watch. No one asked you to.”

The slap cracked through the room. Your beer followed, ice-cold and dripping down his shirt. You said you two were done and walked out into the night, not looking back once. And he, furious and stupid, didn’t chase you.

Now it had been a week, and Satoru Gojo was unraveling. He wanted to see you, touch you, apologize, kiss you until you forgot why you hated him. He hated that he cared. He hated that he didn’t know where you were. He hated the silence most of all.

Christmas Eve. Snowfall. And him behind the wheel of his midnight-blue Porsche, heading toward the fraternity Christmas party he was supposed to host, thinking only about you.

Were you going?

Were you alone?

Were you crying? God, were you wearing that black sweater he liked? Or nothing at all?

His jaw flexed. He grabbed his phone at a red light and typed:

“Dress up for me, sweetheart. I’m picking you up in 15. Wear that red dress we chose together—it’s Christmas, after all.”

He waited. No answer.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, throwing the car into a turn.

Before anything else, he stopped at the all-night florist—the one where he was practically a VIP at this point. He didn’t think; he just bought a lush, winter-white bouquet threaded with red berries, eucalyptus, and a velvet ribbon. Something expensive. Something you would like.

Then he was driving again, straight to your apartment building. Parking. Getting out. Walking fast, breath fogging in the cold. His body moved before his brain caught up—past the lobby, into the elevator, up to your floor. His key still fit the lock, because of course it did.

He stepped inside, snow melting in his hair, smile already sliding into place—the dangerous, stupidly charming one.

“Sweetheart,” he called, voice low, teasing, “I know you’re here. Come on out, don’t make me hunt you.”

He saw you then—small, curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, looking heartbreakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly mad.

His grin softened, tilted, turned shameless. He lifted the bouquet slightly.

“Don’t pout,” he said, strolling toward you with that effortless swagger. “Get up. Get dressed. I’m not letting my girl spend Christmas Eve alone.”

His gaze dragged over you, warm and possessive.

“And before you start—yeah, I said my girl. Deal with it.”

He dropped the bouquet beside you and added, softer but no less arrogant:

“Come on, baby. Come back to me tonight.”