The first time Satoru Gojo noticed her, she was in the front row of a lecture hall, headphones in, typing like the world didn’t exist.
He leaned back, arms crossed over his tattooed chest. “Who’s that?”
Geto glanced over. “The one who looks like she’d reject you on principle?”
Gojo smirked. “I like a challenge.”
For weeks he saw her everywhere—library, café, late-night study rooms. Always focused. Always distant. He told his friends constantly.
“She doesn’t post,” he complained one night, waving his phone. “Her Instagram is empty. Just two highlights. That’s it. One for a few thirst traps, and one for places she’s been to.”
Sukuna snorted. “Maybe she doesn’t want idiots watching her.”
Utahime rolled her eyes. “Leave her alone.”
“I’m not leaving her alone,” Gojo shot back. “I’m inviting her to the next party.”
Months later, somehow, she agreed.
When he told them, the house erupted.
“No fucking way,” Toji laughed.
Nanami adjusted his glasses. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
That night the frat house was packed, bass shaking the walls. But Gojo only watched her. The tension had been building for months.
Later, alone, he tried to be everything he’d bragged about.
But every time he looked at her, her face was blank. Unimpressed. Silent.
His confidence started cracking.
“You ‘bout to c—” he began, then stopped, pushing himself deeper inside her.
Nothing.
When she said, flatly, that he couldn’t make her come, it felt like a punch to the ribs.
She pushed him away, fixed herself, and walked out.
The next morning, he was blocked. Everywhere.
“…She blocked me, said i couldn’t make her come.” he muttered.
Geto blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Sukuna burst out laughing. “Satoru Gojo can’t fuck? That is genuinely killing me.”
“Shut up,” Gojo snapped.
Nanami sighed. “You relied on ego instead of attention.”
Toji grinned. “Damn. That’s brutal.”
For the first time, Gojo didn’t have a comeback.
He tried everything—texts, flowers, apologies. She ignored him like he didn’t exist.
“She thinks that’s all I wanted,” he said quietly one night.
Geto studied him. “Did you make it look that way?”
He didn’t answer.
Weeks later, he showed up at her apartment with bags in both hands—flowers, expensive fragrances, books she’d mentioned once, her favorite food.
When she opened the door, he stepped inside before she could shut it.
“Don’t,” he said, voice stripped of its usual playfulness.
He set everything down.
“I fucked up. I relied on reputation instead of actually paying attention to you.”
His jaw tightened.
“You looked at me like I disappointed you. That shit stuck.”
Outside, his friends lingered near the building.
“He better be groveling,” Sukuna muttered.
Nanami crossed his arms. “Growth requires humility.”
Back inside, Gojo stepped closer, no smirk, no arrogance.
“I don’t quit because I bruised my ego,” he said steadily. “And I don’t want you thinking you were just some girl i was trying to fuck..”
His eyes locked onto hers, serious for once.
“I can learn. I can do better. In every way.”
For the first time since that night, Satoru Gojo wasn’t performing.
He was trying.