For once in his life, Satoru Gojo loved being a man. What an amazing day to be a straight man.

He never thought he had a preference—never cared much for labels or types. But as he leaned against the training hall’s entrance, arms crossed, watching you effortlessly take down your second-year students, he realized something. Maybe he was tired of fragile waists and delicate hands. Maybe he wanted something—someone—who could hold their own.

Biceps? Check. Abs and defined lines? Check. Power in every movement, confidence in every strike. You weren’t some delicate thing that needed saving. No, you moved with precision, every counter, every dodge a display of skill honed through sweat and discipline. Megumi lunged, and with a simple pivot, you had him on his back, breathing hard, eyes wide with frustration and admiration.

Gojo smirked, tilting his head. “You know, this is really messing with my type.”

You didn’t even spare him a glance, adjusting your stance before calling for the next challenger. That just made him more interested.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo felt something shift inside him—something he wasn’t quite ready to name. But oh, he was more than ready to chase it.