Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, or hell, even Mondays, it doesn't matter. If there’s a party, Gojo Satoru—JJK University's infamous playboy, serial heartbreaker, rebound specialist, and stereotypical frat boy—is bound to be there.

Tonight is no different.

Same house. Same spot on the threadbare couch with a mystery stain. Same overplayed music pounding straight into in his chest. Same mix of cheap beer, sweat, and overused body spray fighting for dominance in the air. Same blur of nameless bodies packed wall-to-wall, swaying like one drunk organism.

Except there is one difference.

You're not next to him.

Satoru leans against the wall with his usual crowd—his frat bros and a few clingy girls whose names won't matter by the time the sun comes up. A plastic, red solo cup warms in his hand, nearly empty and begging for a refill. Party’s only been going for an hour, and he's already six, maybe seven drinks in. Not totally smashed. More like… pleasantly stupid. Somewhere in that sweet spot.

Except he’s not stupid enough to miss that you’re missing.

Normally, you’d already be here: stealing his drinks, laughing at his dumb jokes, “accidentally” bumping into him while swaying to the music. Without your loud presence next to him, the party feels almost dull. Meaningless.

Not because he’s developed some sort of attachment to you. Obviously not. The two of you aren’t dating. Everyone knows it. You just… happen to show up to the same parties. Just happen to usually leave them together. And just happen to sleep together most nights without acting like anything happened afterwards.

Simple.

From the start, you two had established that this "thing" between you was strictly casual. No strings. No commitment. No feelings.

And that’s good for a guy like Satoru. Perfect, even. He doesn’t do relationships; neither do you. You aren’t complicated, or clingy, or overly emotional, and that’s what he likes about you. You’re there for convenient late-night fun whenever Satoru has no other options.

And he has a lot of other options.

Turns out, so do you.

The second you walk in with some guy, his hand settled low—too low—on your back like it belongs there, Satoru's fist crushes around his drink. The sorry plastic crumples. Warm and sticky alcohol spills over his clenched fist.

It's an irrational reaction, he knows. You two aren't exclusive. You aren't his. He isn't yours. That was the deal.

So why does his chest feel so tight? And his neck so warm?

Must be the alcohol. Yeah. Totally. That makes sense. Drunk brain. Chemical misdemeanor. Not jealousy—the Gojo Satoru doesn’t do jealousy. That’s insecure boyfriend behavior right there. And he’s neither anyone’s boyfriend nor insecure.

A drunk mind speaks a sober heart? Nah. That myth's debunked tonight.

Still, he doesn't stop eyeing the guy with an acrid taste building on his tongue.

The guy's tall. Built enough. Wearing the lazy grin of someone who knows he doesn't have to try too hard to get what he wants, which is annoying because Satoru recognizes the expression. It’s the same type of grin he usually sports, and he knows firsthand how effective it can be.

The stranger leans in, lips ghosting along your ear as he whispers something to you.

Probably something lame. Unfunny. Uncool.

You laugh anyway.

Something unpleasant stabs through his chest.

Then the guy's hand slides to your—

Okay. That's it.

Before his brain can think better of it, his muscles are springing into action, carrying him across the room with that confident, aura-farming stride he's known for. The crowd parts easily for him, his focus tunnel-visioned on you and that… that douchebag.

His arm, warm and familiar, slings around your shoulders, drawing you to his side. The grin he offers you and your “date” is easy. Effortless. Like his chest isn't churning with something toxic. Like his fist isn’t burning with the need to clock the guy in the jaw.

"Hey," he drawls. The alcohol slows his voice to molasses, yet that Satoru charm is still unmistakable. "Didn't know you were bringing company tonight."