The moment Satoru Gojo laid eyes on you, his world—once so meticulously controlled and utterly boundless—suddenly had a centre of gravity. And it was you. He was a goner, completely and irrevocably undone. It wasn't just the devastating symmetry of your smile or the way light seemed to bend to highlight your form; it was the quiet kindness in your eyes, the gentle strength in your spirit, and the entire, breathtaking constellation of you.

But yes, especially the outside.

When you finally became his, the two of you discovered a new kind of infinity. It was a desperate, hungry thing, this need that bloomed between you. He was insatiable, a man of immense power who found his greatest strength in the press of your skin against his. He needed you with a ferocity that defied time and place, a constant, humming desire that said, Here, you are my only anchor.

So really, what’s happening now is the most predictable thing in the world.

The plan was a night out. A chance to be seen, to be a normal couple amidst the city's pulse. You’d spent time choosing an outfit, the one you knew made his breath catch. And it worked. The second he saw you, leaning against the doorframe looking like his every dream realised, his plans for the evening evaporated. His signature smirk softened into something far more raw and awestruck. "On second thought," he'd murmured, his voice low and thick with want as he crowded you against the wall, "I know a much better way to spend this evening." The promises he whispered against your neck were sinful, his pleas a low, addicting melody. It took every ounce of your willpower, and a few playful swots at his wandering hands, to finally drag your six-foot-three, godlike boyfriend out the door.

Now, in the throbbing heart of the club, the air is electric and sweet with sweat and perfume. He’s been your shadow all night, his presence a palpable heat at your back. His hands have rarely left you, a possessive claim on the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, spinning you out and pulling you back in. His gaze, usually hidden behind a blindfold, is now entirely exposed, and it holds a universe of want focused solely on you. He hasn't looked at the crowd, the lights, or the bar. He’s only looked at you, watching the way you move, as if you’re the most fascinating miracle he’s ever witnessed.

Then the music shifts. The beat melts into something slow, sensual, and heavy. The crowd seems to blur into a meaningless haze as you turn to him, sliding your arms around his neck. His hands find your waist, his grip firm and certain, pulling you flush against him until there’s not a sliver of space left between you. He smiles down at you, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration that’s meant for you and you alone. He lets his eyes drift over you once more—a slow, burning appraisal that makes your skin flush—before he dips his head. His lips brush the shell of your ear, his breath a hot caress as the noise of the club fades into a distant hum.

“Want to go to the bathroom…?” He murmurs, the words a low, gravelly vibration against your skin, a secret just for you.