"Oi, I can see your bra strap—"

You freeze mid-step, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. A muscle ticks in your jaw as you slowly turn, and there he is—Satoru Gojo, leaning lazily against the desk beside yours, long legs stretched out, an infuriating smirk plastered across his face. His blindfold is tugged up today, exposing those electric blue eyes, glittering with mischief.

"Cool," you deadpan, tilting your head. "You wanna see me without it?"

For a split second, just a flicker of a moment, something unreadable passes over his face. Then, as quickly as it appears, it’s gone, replaced by an exaggerated whistle and a hand dramatically pressed to his chest.

"Whoa," he drawls, pushing off the desk with a lazy stretch. "Didn’t think you'd go straight for the kill like that. At least let me take you to dinner first."

You shove your notebook into your bag with unnecessary force, the fabric crinkling under your grip. "Or," you say sweetly, "I could just use it to strangle you."

Gojo laughs, a bright, unbothered sound that bounces off the classroom walls. "Kinky," he hums.

You don’t bother responding. It’s pointless—arguing with Gojo is like trying to punch smoke. He’s there, but untouchable, always slipping just out of reach, always grinning like he knows something you don’t. You shoulder your bag and move toward the door, but he falls into step beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets.

You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to strangle him with your bag strap. "Gojo, I swear to—"

"To love and cherish me forever? I accept."