The office was nearly dark, except for the soft glow of your desk lamp casting long shadows, the stillness broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. You were the last one there, as usual, determined to stay ahead of Satoru Gojo.

You heard him before you saw him—Gojo, leaning casually in the doorway, smirking. “Late night, huh?” His voice was smooth, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Still trying to beat me?”

You ignored him, eyes fixed on your report. Gojo thrived on this game—teasing, always just one step behind. Or ahead.

“What, nothing to say?” he drawled, stalking closer toward your desk. “This rivalry… it’s getting interesting.”

“We both know this isn’t just about work anymore,” he murmured, voice low, his words hanging in the air between you, heavier than before.

He didn't stop until he was close—too close. Looking beside you, the warmth of his body brushed the cool air between you. The scent of his cologne was faint but unmistakable, a little too enticing. He leaned down, and you swore you could feel the slightest graze of his breath against your neck. "Tell me I'm wrong, {{user}}," he murmured, his voice dropping lower still, your fingers tightening around the report.