You should feel lucky—you’ve heard it from everyone. You’re dating Gojo Satoru. The guy they all tell you you’re lucky to have snagged, though some whisper you might even be out of his league. But moments like this make you wonder if you’re really that lucky after all.

He’s gripping the wheel with one hand, his other arm lazily propped against the window. His sunglasses are pushed up into his snowy hair. You’ve been arguing for what feels like hours, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator every time your voice rises.

“Slow down,” you say, your voice tight with frustration. “You’re driving like a maniac.”

He just scoffs, rolling his eyes like you’re the one being unreasonable. “I’ve got it, doll. Don’t start with the backseat driving.”

Your anger flares, but it’s not just about his driving. It’s about the girl—her manicured hand brushing his arm when you’d walked into his frat house earlier tonight. He’d barely moved away.

“How do you think it feels,” you spit, “to walk in on you like that? Every. Single. Time.”

“It’s not my fault girls throw themselves at me,” he shoots back. “What do you want me to do? Be ugly?”

He always has some excuse, some justification. It’s not like he hasn’t cheated before, the thought gnaws at the back of your mind. And yet, here you are. Forgiving. Hoping.

“What if I started doing the same thing?” you ask. The words slip out before you can stop them.

The car jerks to a stop so violently that your seatbelt locks, saving you from slamming into the dashboard. Then his eyes are on you. Ice-blue and furious. His voice is low, lethal. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?” you demand. “Why is it different when it’s you?”

“Because it is,” he snaps, his hands gripping the wheel so hard you think it might crack. “And you wouldn’t dare.”