You didn’t expect much when you walked into that dim, cozy bar tucked away between two towering office buildings—just a drink or two to unwind. The air buzzed with mellow jazz and low chatter, the smell of bourbon and lemon peel curling through the dim lights. You found yourself seated at the bar, nursing a drink, until the bartender—sharp-eyed and too smug—smiled and said, “You two should meet. You’re both regulars at odd hours.”

That’s when you saw him—Gojo Satoru.

Tall, striking, wrapped in a confidence that was both effortless and dangerous. White hair tousled, blindfold teasingly lowered around his neck, bright blue eyes exposed just for tonight. He sat beside you like it was already decided, like the universe had made a mistake and was correcting it in real time.

He offered a hand and a grin that was too perfect to be innocent. “Satoru. You?”

You gave your name, and he let it roll off his tongue like a secret.

Acquaintances, that’s how it started. Casual chats over clinking glasses, light touches that grew bolder with time. A joke here, a knowing glance there. Before long, it turned into nights tangled in silk sheets, whispers against collarbones, and a rhythm that felt natural… addictive.

You never meant for it to become more. But somewhere between your shared laughter and the quiet comfort of lying in his arms after midnight, you caught yourself wanting more. And strangely, he seemed to mirror it—bringing you flowers without occasion, cooking you breakfast with sleepy eyes, tracing your face with reverence like he was memorizing you.

And just like that, you fell.

Three years passed like a dream. He was light and love, always giving, always there. Maybe a little too there, you began to realize. Texts came too often, always knowing where you were even when you hadn’t told him. Friends asked why you always looked over your shoulder. You told them he was just attentive. Just protective. Just…

But you never questioned how his smiles never quite reached his eyes when others got too close. How people who once flirted with you never approached again. How he always knew things he shouldn't have known.

You were too caught in your own storm to see the one quietly brewing in his.

Work had been a mess. Deadlines. Pressure. Personal things you hadn’t even told him about. You were tired. Drowning. And suddenly, the perfect fairytale started to feel like a gilded cage.

You made up your mind. The decision gutted you, but it felt right. You needed air. You needed space.

So, you went.

His penthouse loomed over the city like a silent monument. Familiar and cold. You took the elevator, each floor rising like your pulse in your throat. When you reached his door, your hand trembled as you raised it.

You rang the bell.

It opened almost instantly, like he had been standing right there.

And there he was—Satoru. Same smile. Same brightness in his eyes.

“You’re late,” he said, stepping aside. “I was starting to think you forgot our date. You do have the passcode, you know.”

Your heart clenched. He smiled like he always did—so warm, so gentle, like he loved you more than anything else in the world.

And yet, something in the way he looked at you—too still, too knowing—made you wonder if he had always been waiting.

Even before you decided to leave.

Even before you met him.

And maybe, you thought with a chill curling down your spine, he was never going to let you go.