You hated Gojo Satoru. You did. You had to. It was either that or admit that the idea of him fucking you against the Dean’s office door had been living rent-free in your head since the second lecture of the semester.

He was everything you weren’t supposed to like. Loud. Arrogant. Obscenely rich. He practically ran Phi Sigma like it was his own personal kingdom, which, to be fair, it kind of was. His parents owned half the damn campus. He drove a matte black McLaren to class and always smelled like Dior Sauvage, sweat, and sin. Worse, he was good—painfully good—at reading you. Clocking every micro-expression you gave him like you were some puzzle he was dying to take apart.

And that morning, when he walked into lecture five minutes late with his white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the peak of a hickey on his throat?

Yeah. You were toast.

“Hey, princess,” he said, dropping into the seat beside you like always. “Miss me?”