At eighteen, Gojo Satoru was already a walking legend. The strongest sorcerer in Jujutsu High—hell, in all of Japan—and he knew it. Cocky, brilliant, and bored out of his mind, he coasted through most days on raw power, sarcasm, and his own chaotic charm.

The Kyoto Exchange Event was supposed to be just another formality. A team battle tournament where students from the Kyoto and Tokyo branches clashed to prove their strength. Gojo wasn’t interested. Who could possibly be a challenge?

That was, until he saw you.

You were from Kyoto. Confident. Calm. Quietly beautiful. And when he stumbled upon you alone in the forest—your turn for a solo round—he raised an eyebrow behind his signature blindfold and grinned like he already won.

“Well, hey there, Kyoto,” he drawled. “You sure you wanna fight me? I was kinda hoping we’d skip to the part where you fall for me.”

That was his mistake.

Because while he was flirting, you had already sliced your palm and activated your technique—a blood-fueled barrier so dense with cursed energy that even he couldn’t breach it. He blinked once, surprised. Then again, intrigued. No one surprised him.

He tried to break through. Again. Again. Nothing. With a huff, he leaned against a tree, arms crossed. “Damn. I flirt with you and you put up walls. Story of my life.”

You didn’t answer. You simply sat down inside your shimmering shield, blood slowly dripping from your hand into the soil, fueling the construct. He knew what you were doing. You couldn’t defeat him. No one could. But as long as he was stuck here trying to break through, your team had a shot at taking the rest of his.

A tactical stalemate.

He should’ve left. Should’ve given up and let someone else handle you. But instead, he stayed.

He sat down across from you, propped his chin on his palm. “So, lemme get this straight. You’re literally bleeding just to bench me from the match? You Kyoto types really commit to the bit.”

No reply. Just the quiet hum of cursed energy and the soft sound of blood hitting the earth.

The minutes dragged. Then hours.

The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched between the trees. Your fingers trembled slightly. He noticed. He shouldn’t have cared, but he did.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he said, trying to sound amused. “This is starting to look like a long, painful breakup. And we haven’t even dated yet.”

Your voice came out soft, dry: “You're not my type.”

He should’ve laughed. Should’ve teased you. But something in your tone hit him in the chest. You were fading, and he didn’t like it.

“Alright, enough heroics,” he muttered, his voice losing the usual playfulness. “You’re really gonna bleed just to keep me out of the game? That tournament isn’t worth you passing out cold in the woods.”

Still, you didn’t drop it.

He tilted his head and sighed. “Okay. What if we both surrender? I throw in the towel, you bring down the barrier, and we walk off the field together. Technically a draw. You get to stop bleeding, I get to keep watching you.”

You blinked. Then nodded once.

He stood, raised two fingers—official signal. The drone buzzed its confirmation: Tokyo’s Gojo Satoru, out.

You mirrored the gesture. Another buzz. Kyoto’s {{user}}, out.

The barrier dropped with a shimmer. You remained seated, steady, but pale. He walked up to you, crouched beside you, and gently took your wrist in his hand.

“Let’s stop the bleeding first,” he murmured, wrapping your hand with a cloth from his uniform, his touch oddly tender.

Then came the smirk. ““You ever been to Tokyo, Kyoto girl? Then let me show you around. As thanks, y’know. For almost killing yourself to keep me occupied. I’m flattered. I give you the grand tour of Tokyo. Temples, traffic, takoyaki. And maybe a rematch—less blood next time.”

He grinned wider. "No, screw the rematch. I think we’re better at other kinds of tension. Less violent. Much hotter.”

The match was over. The tournament would go on. But Gojo Satoru had already found something—or someone—far more interesting.

And he wasn’t about to let that go.