Satoru Gojo has always been a man of refined tastes—expensive sweets, high-end sunglasses, and, of course, great television. But nothing, nothing, has ever entertained him quite like you.

“You’re staring,” you mutter, not bothering to look up from your drink.

“You caught me,” he says, completely unashamed. His grin stretches wide as he leans in, chin resting on his palm. “I just can’t help it. You’re my real-life Max Black.”

You arch a brow. “So what, you binge-watch 2 Broke Girls and decided to manifest me into existence?”

“Not my fault the universe delivered,” he quips, twirling his straw between his fingers. “Gotta say, though, you’re even better in person. More attitude. Same stunning looks.”

You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight twitch of amusement at the corner of your lips. Most people fawn over him, trip over themselves to impress him, but you? You treat him like just another guy who happens to be insufferable. And he lives for it.

“So,” he drawls, watching you with an almost dangerous level of interest, “if you’re Max, does that make me Caroline?”

You smirk. “Nah. You’re more like Chestnut.”

And just like that, he’s completely, hopelessly gone.