Pussy-whipped.

Satoru Gojo—the frat golden boy with the killer grin, the one who collected hearts like party favors and dropped them just as easily—was pussy-whipped.

At least, that’s what people whispered.

Most laughed it off. The idea was ridiculous. The sky would sooner rain cats and dogs than Satoru Gojo settle for one girl. The rumor burned bright for a day, then died the moment the fraternity announced another massive party—the event no one dared miss.

But when everyone showed up, eager to pry and confirm the truth for themselves, the impossible happened.

And—yeah. Everyone was shocked.

It was common knowledge: whichever girl Satoru chose for the night got her temporary, glittering spotlight. Right up until he got her into bed and slipped out before sunrise.

But this time… it was different. Not that lazy, half-interested “I’ll pretend to care for the vibe” different.

No—real different.

He was actually gentle. Attentive. Checking in with quiet questions no one had ever heard him ask.

And his hands? They barely left you. A constant point of contact—your fingers laced with his, or his arm snug around your waist. He trailed you like an oversized, loyal dog, mumbling, “Where we headin’?” every time you moved. His eyes stuck to you like he couldn’t risk looking away.

But the true confirmation? The rumor-killing, jaw-dropping moment?

Satoru Gojo claimed you as his. Out loud. No shame. No hesitation. Just casual, confident fact.

His hand was spread over your hip, possessive and warm, while he nursed a red cup in the other. You two stood in the garage of a frat house, a rowdy ping-pong game happening in front of you—but no one was watching the table.

They were watching you. Some with envy. Some with disbelief. Some with “holy shit” written all over their faces.

Satoru didn’t care. Not even a little. He pulled you closer, hip to hip, leaned down until his chin brushed your jaw, and murmured, soft as sin: “You all right, baby?”

You hummed. He grunted, satisfied, before glancing at the nearest guy.

“Get my girl a drink, yeah?”

The poor guy practically sprinted to the ice chest. Satoru’s grin met yours the moment he turned back.

Yeah. He was pussy-whipped.