the bass is rattling the floor, the hallway’s packed, and neither of you should’ve slipped into this cramped bathroom—but the second he pulled you in, it was over.

your back hits the sink, and gojo’s lips are on yours before the door even clicks shut.

his hands are on your hips, rings cold against your skin, breath hot and reckless as he mumbles against your mouth, “we’re kissing in the bathroom girl.”

you gasp a little, drunk off him, off the moment. “satoru—”

“i kinda hope they catch us,” he says, grinning against your neck, like this is all a game. like the thrill makes it mean more. “let ‘em see. let ‘em know who you’re really leaving with.”

you know he’s not yours. not really. not the way you want him to be.

but right now?

he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

his kiss is rough and deep, like he’s trying to drown in you. and you let him. because you’re just as bad. just as lost in this.

just as in denial.

you hear someone knock, but he doesn’t even flinch—just presses closer, hand sliding under your shirt like he owns you.

“we shouldn’t be doing this,” you whisper.

he laughs, mouth against your jaw. “then stop me.”

you don’t.

you never do.