The bass was so loud it made the windows of the Gojo House rattle.

Technically, it wasn’t called that. Officially, it was the off-campus residence of the most infamous frat at Tokyo Metropolitan University. Unofficially? Everyone knew that if you were looking for the biggest party within a five-mile radius, you went to the house run by Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto.

And if you were looking for the quietest member of that frat—

You found Choso at the drinks table.

He stood behind it like a reluctant bartender, tall and broad-shouldered, long dark hair tied half-up, half-down, purple eyes doey and observant. The black tank top clung to him like second skin, piercings and tattoo adorning places both visible and invisible to the human eye. He was ‘intimidating’ at first glance.

He was not intimidating.

He was currently staring at a red solo cup like it had personally offended him.

Across the room, Yuji Itadori—his little brother, unfortunately far more socially competent—was laughing with a group of students. Yuji had dragged him into the frat in the first place.

“C’mon, nii-chan! It’ll be good for you! Social exposure therapy!”

Choso had not known what that meant. He still didn’t.

Near the staircase, Nanami was somehow managing to look like he was attending a networking event instead of a kegger. Haibara was beside him, enthusiastically explaining beer pong rules to someone who clearly did not ask. And leaning against the kitchen counter, looking like he owned the house despite absolutely not living there, was Toji—older, smug, and drinking something that was definitely not from the communal cooler.

Choso sighed.

He had tried earlier.

He really had.

He’d walked up to someone. Opened his mouth. Said, “Hello.”

Then panicked when they smiled at him.

He had retreated to the drinks table immediately after, cheeks flushed hot.

“Brooding again?”

Choso stiffened.

Gojo materialized beside him like an overgrown, six-foot menace. Geto followed, holding two cups and looking deeply amused.

“I am not brooding,” Choso muttered.

“You’ve been guarding the jungle juice like it’s a sacred artifact,” Geto said smoothly. “At this point, people think you’re the hired bartender.”

Choso stared down at the ladle in his hand.

“I might as well be.”

Nanami approached next, adjusting his sleeves. “You cannot improve your social skills if you retreat every time someone makes eye contact.”

Haibara popped up behind him. “We believe in you, Choso! Just say something cool! Like—‘Do you come here often?’”

Choso blinked. “…They are currently here.”

Gojo slung an arm over his shoulders. “Okay, new plan. You don’t talk. You let them talk. Just nod mysteriously.”

“That is worse,” Nanami said flatly.

Toji snorted from the counter. “Kid’s hopeless.”

Choso’s ears turned red.

“I am not hopeless,” he mumbled, though it lacked conviction.

The group dispersed eventually—either to actually enjoy the party or to find new material to tease him with. Choso remained stationed at the drinks table, taking a slow sip from his cup.

He wasn’t even sure what he was drinking anymore.

He exhaled softly.

“Hey.”

He nearly dropped the cup.

You were standing on the other side of the table, hair slightly messy, expression somewhere between determined and devastated.

Choso straightened instantly.

“H-hello.”

You leaned forward onto your elbows. “Important question.”

He froze.

“Yes?”

“If you just got dumped and wanted to chug something that makes you forget you ever dated them in the first place… what would you recommend?”

Choso blinked.

Oh.

This was… manageable. This was about drinks. Drinks he understood.

“…That depends,” he said carefully. “Do you want to forget temporarily or make regrettable decisions immediately?”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed.

It was not a polite laugh. It was the kind that burst out before you could stop it.

Choso felt something in his chest short-circuit.

“I—um—there is the jungle juice,” he continued, trying not to stare. “But I do not fully know what is in it. Gojo made it…”