The ding of the elevator makes Satoru Gojo tense up in a way that’s completely uncharacteristic of him. His fingers flex at his sides, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he glances up from his phone.

And there you are.

Like some kind of cosmic joke, you step inside, oblivious to the way his entire body stiffens. You hit the button for your floor—same as his—and flash him that easy smile you always wear. “Morning, Gojo.”

Morning. Right. He should say something back. Something normal. But his brain betrays him with a vivid, unwelcome memory—your voice, but not like this. Breathless. Whimpering. The way you had clung to him in his dream last night, nails scraping down his back as he—

Gojo clears his throat loudly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Nope. Not thinking about that. That didn’t happen.

Except it did. In his head, at least. For the third night in a row.

“Uh, hey,” he says, too casual, too late. He leans against the elevator wall like it’s supporting his entire existence, tilting his head toward you. “Sleep well?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Yeah. You?”

He forces a smirk, but it’s strained. “You know me, I’m always dreaming of something interesting.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, he swears you can see right through him. Heat pricks the back of his neck. Damn it. He’s Gojo Satoru. The strongest sorcerer alive. He does not get flustered over dreams.

…Except when they’re about you.