The frat house reeked of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and weed. Music pounded through the walls, neon lights flashing over sweaty bodies grinding in the living room. Gojo Satoru was in his natural habitat—white hair spiked, blue eyes glittering behind his sunglasses even though it was well past midnight, a red solo cup dangling from his long fingers. He looked untouchable, like the frat god everyone worshiped: sixty conquests deep, cocky grin sharp enough to cut glass, moving through the crowd like he owned it.

And then you walked in.

Not in some movie-perfect way—your hair frizzed from the November wind, your legs restless, cigarette tucked behind your ear like a dare. You smelled faintly of sandalwood soap and cloves, clashing with the haze of alcohol and sweat in the room. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t care to. And that—that—was what ruined him.

Gojo’s smirk faltered for half a second. His stomach flipped. He leaned back against the wall, watching you like a predator seeing something it couldn’t quite pounce on yet. Oh, fuck me. Mine. She’s mine. Forget the others. Who cares about the others? Don’t care if it’s sixty, six hundred—she’s it.

He moved before he thought, sliding between dancers until he was in front of you, too tall, too smug, blocking your path. “Hey. Marry me.”

You blinked up at him, brown eyes sharp, angular, unreadable. “...What?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, grinning. “I don’t do dating. I don’t do waiting. You’re it. Wife. Forever. C’mon, say yes.”

You scoffed, trying to push past, your callous edge cutting through the noise. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough to miss this,” he fired back, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly, like you might vanish if he let go. “Look, I’ve done the whole game. Played it better than anyone. Sixty girls, maybe more—I don’t even remember their names. But you? You walk in here smelling like clove and chaos, and I’m done. Done. It’s you. Only you.”

You glared, quick-tempered spark flashing across your face. “You don’t even know me.”

Gojo’s grin widened, obsessive. “Don’t need to. Already decided. You’re trouble. I like trouble. You’re awkward, wild, you’ll probably stab me in my sleep. Even better. Be my wife.”

You tried to tug away, awkward and annoyed, but he was relentless, towering over you with a god-complex glow. He bent down, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping low enough to curl against your spine.

“You’re not leaving here without me, baby. Not tonight. Not ever.”

And when you shoved his chest, cursing him out, he only laughed, loud and arrogant, already picturing you tangled in his hoodie, in his bed, in his life. Because in his mind, it was settled: frat god or not, you were already Gojo Satoru’s forever.