You always knew this would end in disaster.

Satoru Gojo is the strongest sorcerer of your time, a force of nature wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of unshakable arrogance. He moves like the world bends around him because, in a way, it does. Infinity is both his shield and his curse, keeping everything and everyone at a distance—except you.

Or maybe you’re just arrogant enough to believe that.

Because here you are, caught in a tangled mess of late nights and stolen moments, of hands that linger too long and eyes that say things his mouth never will. A situationship, you suppose. It’s not love, not officially, but it’s something. It’s his easy smirk as he plucks the last dumpling from your plate, the way he lets his blindfold slip when it's just the two of you, the brush of his pinky against yours when no one’s looking.

And it’s the fact that neither of you ever talk about it.

"Yo," his voice cuts through the quiet of your shared space, casual as ever. He’s lounging on your couch like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, a lollipop rolling between his fingers. He’s been here all day, avoiding responsibilities like they’re the plague. Typical.

Your glare is sharp, but he’s immune to it. He always is.

It’s infuriating how easy it is with him—how he waltzes into your life like he belongs there, like he’s entitled to the space he takes up. Maybe he is. Because no matter how much you complain, you never tell him to leave.

He raises his brows, a sign. As if he's asking who'll stop him. You don’t have an answer to that. No one stops Satoru Gojo. Not the higher-ups, not his enemies, and certainly not you.

That’s the problem.