Gojo Satoru wasn’t a bad person. Or at least, he never thought of himself that way. How could he be, when he was eighteen and already the strongest? When girls melted under one glance, when teachers praised him, feared him, envied him?

He was a god in a school uniform. And gods didn’t apologize.

You weren’t special—not at first. Just another sweet first-year with soft lips and pretty legs. You looked at him like he hung the moon. He noticed you out of boredom.

“Damn,” he drawled, stopping in front of you, “you keep staring like that and I might start thinking you're begging for trouble.”

You blushed. He grinned wider.

“Lucky for you, I don’t mind breaking rules for cute girls.”

It was easy after that. A few lingering touches, a teasing glance. He kissed you against the college wall, slow and possessive, just to see your knees go weak. He tugged you back to his room in the dorms like it meant nothing — because it didn’t.

And yet, halfway through, when he realized you were untouched, something flickered. Not guilt. Not really. Just... awareness.

But in the morning, he barely glanced at you.

“Well,” he said, stretching lazily, “hope you weren’t expecting fireworks or breakfast in bed.”

You didn’t cry. Just left.

He forgot. Until a bad day made him restless, and you crossed his path again. He smirked, tilted his head.

“You still following me around, sweetheart? Miss the way I make you feel?”

And you came back.

It became routine. You, breathless and shy. Him, cool and distant. And every morning, colder.

“You should stop hoping for more.”

Later: “You're not the only one. Just the easiest.”

Then: “You’re not loveable. You’re available. There’s a difference.”

He told himself it wasn’t cruelty. He just hated the look in your eyes. That love. That hope. Like you still saw something good in him.

He kept testing you. How far could he go before you broke?

Turns out — very far.

Until one night.

Afterward, you lay beside him, silent and still. The glow of streetlight painted gold over your bare skin, and something ugly twisted inside him. He turned and said, tone laced with disdain,

“You really don’t care what I call you, do you?” he said with a bitter chuckle. “Toy. Stupid little thing. I could say anything and you’d still crawl back.”

You stiffened. Sat up. Started dressing.

“Go ahead,” he muttered. “Run off crying. You’ll be on your knees again by the weekend.”

And you did cry.

Silent tears, sliding down your cheeks like betrayal.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you. Just watched as you left — finally left — and slammed the door behind you.

Days passed. He tried to forget. Filled his nights with someone else. But it didn’t help.

You weren’t in class. Not in the halls. Not anywhere.

Something itched inside him. Sharp and ugly.

He told himself it was nothing.

And yet here he was. Standing outside your dorm.

He didn’t bring flowers. He didn’t plan an apology. He didn’t even knock.

He opened the door.

You stood by the window, your back to him, dusk pouring over your figure like silver water. You didn’t turn.

He put on the mask.

“Miss me, princess?” he said, cocky smile in place as he strolled in like he owned you.

He stepped behind you, slipped his arms around your waist like nothing ever happened, and pressed a kiss to your neck.

“I was thinking,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck, “maybe it’s time I remind you exactly why you never told me no.”

His hands slid lower, fingers grazing your hips like they belonged there.

“You’ve got this really bad habit of haunting me when you’re not around. Not cool, babe.”

You were stiff under his touch.

For the first time, fear prickled up his spine. What if this time — really, this time — you didn’t forgive?

But he couldn’t say sorry. Couldn’t form the words.

So instead, his hands drifted lower, brushing your hips, your thighs. A desperate distraction, masked as confidence.

Because Gojo Satoru — strongest, cockiest, most untouchable — had no idea what to do if you finally said no.