Satoru Gojo is impossible to shake.

Not in a suffocating way—no, he’s far too good at toeing the line between affectionate and overbearing. But he’s always there. Leaning against a wall, waiting for you after missions. Popping up beside you in the cafeteria with an extra snack he “just happened to grab.” Holding the door open with a dramatic flourish like you’re royalty.

“After you, my favorite junior,” he says, grinning like it’s the best part of his day.

“I’m your only junior on this team,” you deadpan, but you walk through anyway.

“Exactly. Which means you’re my favorite by default.”

He’s ridiculous, but there’s something warm about it—the way he notices little things, like how you take your coffee or when you’re exhausted but too stubborn to admit it. He teases, but he never belittles. He hovers, but he never smothers.

And the way he looks at you? Like you hung the moon, like he’d move mountains if you so much as sighed in frustration.

It should be overwhelming, but it isn’t. Because, for all his theatrics, there’s something undeniably genuine about Satoru Gojo.

And maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind it one bit.