The fan in the bathroom barely worked, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Geto leaned against the sink, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding the cigarette between his fingers. It wasn’t like he liked smoking; it just gave him something to do. Something quiet. Something that didn’t ask questions.

Outside, the house buzzed with the sound of his mother chatting with someone in the kitchen. He could hear laughter. A voice, bright, familiar, and annoyingly confident.

Gojo Satoru.

Geto closed his eyes, exhaling a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. His mom’s friend’s son. The one who used to run around in glasses too big for his face, calling him “Suguru-chan” like they were close. Now, he was back for the summer. Older. Taller. Still unbearable.

The bathroom door creaked open before Geto could lock it.

“Wow,” Gojo said, leaning against the frame, grinning. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

Geto didn’t look up. “What type?”

“The brooding, smokes-in-the-bathroom type,” Gojo said, stepping inside like he owned the place. “Your mom’s gonna kill you if she smells that.”

“Then close the door,” Geto muttered.