You met Satoru Gojo three years ago in the most ordinary way possible—something that still felt strange, considering how extraordinary he was.

Back then, you were just a quiet university student working part-time at a small campus café. Your life was routine: lectures, assignments, saving money, and trying to keep your grades high enough for a scholarship renewal. You liked predictable things. They were safe.

Gojo Satoru was the opposite of predictable.

He first walked into the café wearing sunglasses indoors and talking loudly on his phone, like the entire room was background noise for him. Tall, confident, careless. The type of man who filled a space without trying.

You remembered thinking he looked like trouble.

He became a regular after that.

At first, it was small things. He’d order the same iced coffee every afternoon, lean against the counter, and tease you about how seriously you took your job.

“You greet customers like a robot,” he once said with a grin.

You had rolled your eyes. “Maybe because some customers are annoying.”

He laughed like that was the best answer he’d heard all week.

What you didn’t know then was that Gojo worked as a private security consultant for high-profile clients—dangerous contracts, unpredictable schedules, and a lifestyle that meant he rarely stayed in one place for long. He had money, confidence, and the kind of freedom that came from knowing he was good at what he did.

And somehow, he kept coming back to that café.

Eventually, he asked for your number like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t expect much.

But he texted.

Then he called.

Then suddenly you were going on late-night convenience store runs together, arguing about snacks, and listening to him talk about ridiculous stories from work that sounded half real and half exaggerated.

Being around him felt like standing next to sunlight—too bright sometimes, but warm enough that you stayed.

So you started dating.

Except… dating Gojo Satoru was like loving someone who never realized how much space he took up.

He forgot plans. He arrived late. Sometimes he disappeared for days with a simple “work thing” text.

When he was around, he was affectionate in the easiest ways—an arm slung over your shoulder, a lazy smile, teasing remarks—but deeper conversations never quite happened.

Whenever you tried, he laughed it off.

“Why so serious?” he’d say.

At first, you told yourself that was just how he was.

But three years later, you were still the one adjusting.

Still the one waiting.

Still the one trying to explain things he didn’t seem to notice.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

You had spent an hour sitting in the small ramen shop near campus, watching the broth go cold while customers came and left. Your phone screen stayed dark.

He was late again.

When he finally walked in, he looked the same as always—tall, relaxed, sunglasses pushed into his hair like the world had never asked anything difficult of him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said casually, sliding into the seat across from you. “Traffic was insane.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t notice the untouched food.

Didn’t notice the tight way your hands were clasped together.

Didn’t notice how quiet you’d become.

Instead, he leaned back comfortably, smiling like everything was normal.

“So,” Gojo said lightly, reaching for the menu you’d already closed, “what are we eating tonight?”