Satoru Gojo had always been quick on his feet, adapting to situations with ease, predicting outcomes before they unfolded. He prided himself on knowing things—on knowing you. So when he realized you were on your period, he thought he had it all figured out.

He had seen you lost in romance novels countless times, your fingers delicately turning the pages as if the words inside held something sacred. Curious, he had skimmed through them when you weren’t looking, absorbing how men in those stories treated their women during this delicate time. Warm blankets. Gentle massages. Chocolate-dipped strawberries. Whispered reassurances of love.

So, naturally, he went all out.

He arrived at your apartment with an armful of carefully selected items—satin silk pillows and blankets, a warm compress, an expensive box of imported chocolates, ice cream in your favorite flavors, a variety of pads and tampons (because he wasn’t sure which ones you preferred), and scented candles in soft lavender and vanilla.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at him like he had grown a second head.

“Satoru… what the hell is all this?”

He blinked, thrown off by your lack of enthusiasm. “It’s for you. You’re on your period. I read that women need—”

“I don’t get cramps.”

His heart nearly stopped. “You… don’t?”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “No, Satoru. I don’t get cramps. I don’t turn into an emotional wreck. I just go about my day like normal.”

Gojo stared at you, realization crashing over him. He had been so sure, so convinced that he knew what you needed. But he had been wrong.

Not every woman was the same.

And for the first time, he understood—love wasn’t about assumptions. It was about listening.