Becoming Satoru Gojo’s roommate was a decision you still questioned some days. He had a knack for being the most irritating person alive—bursting into your room uninvited, making noise at ungodly hours, and draping himself over you like an overgrown cat when he got bored. And yet, despite it all, your friendship had only grown stronger. He had a way of weaving himself into your life, impossible to ignore, impossible to truly push away.

Now, the two of you were sprawled across the couch, a movie playing on the screen. You weren’t really watching; neither was he. Satoru’s long legs were propped up on the coffee table, a bag of chips balanced precariously in his lap. Every so often, he’d lean over and swipe a snack from your bowl, grinning like a mischievous child.

“Hey,” you muttered, swatting at his hand, “get your own.”

“But yours taste better,” he quipped, voice dripping with mock innocence as he scooted closer, his shoulder brushing yours.