Satoru Gojo was your most annoying regular.

He strolled into your bakery café at odd hours, sunglasses perched on his nose even indoors, grinning like he had all the time in the world. You had plenty of customers—polite ones, quiet ones, normal ones. Gojo was none of those things.

“Got anything special for me today?” he’d ask, leaning over the counter like a man who didn’t know the meaning of personal space.

And yet, he always left with a bag full of your pastries—ones he swore tasted better than anywhere else. He claimed your recipes were magic, that no other café could compare. You suspected it had less to do with the food and more to do with how much he liked bothering you.

Still, he never let a visit pass without making you smile, no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

One day, he sat by the window, sipping a drink you made just for him, and casually said, “If I ever disappear, promise you’ll keep making these?”

His words were light, but something in his tone wasn’t.

You didn’t know what to say.

Gojo had a habit of making things complicated—even when all he came for was dessert.