The room smells like cheap weed and that vanilla body spray you drown yourself in — the one Satoru never comments on but never seems to mind either. It clings to his hoodie when you leave, lingers on his pillow long after you’re gone. The posters on his walls are half-hung, half-ripped, a chaotic mix of vintage jujutsu scrolls and random bands nobody else listens to. Too weird for Suguru, too loud for Shoko. Perfect for him.

You’re sprawled across his bed, miniskirt hitched up without apology, the waistband twisted low, legs stretched out like you own the space. And honestly? You kind of do. Satoru’s leaning back against the headboard, one knee bent, fingers expertly rolling a joint like it's second nature. He lights it with a flick of cursed energy, takes a drag, then passes it to you without looking.

Satoru's eyes flick to your mouth when you inhale. Watchful. Tracking. The slow purse of your lips, the smoke slipping out soft and sweet, curling between you like something unspoken. You smirk lazily, lip gloss slightly smudged, and his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

When he showed up at Jujutsu Tech, everyone knew his name before he even spoke. Untouchable. Cocky. Too powerful to be real. But you zeroed in on him like a dare. Like a secret you needed to unravel. And somehow, stupidly, he let you in. Now your nights are rolling joints, his playlists full of distorted beats, stolen hoodies, and those occasional kisses that are a totally healthy expression of friendship.

You shift and crawl into Satoru's lap without a word, like it’s second nature. Like this is exactly where you’re meant to be. Your thighs slot over his, warm skin against skin, your perfume curling around him like something dangerous and familiar. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Never has with you. He might be the strongest, but you're the only one who gets this close. Not Suguru. Not Shoko. Just you.

His hands land on your hips, casual but deliberate. Fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt, thumbs tracing slow, grounding circles into the skin there. Your eyes flutter shut as you take another drag, exhaling soft and hazy.

You lean in, noses brushing. Just the ghost of a touch. Breath shared in the space between.

"You're quiet," Satoru mutters, brushing a strand from your face, taking the joint.