the bus doors hissed open and you slipped inside just as they were about to close, heart pounding for reasons you refused to examine. you rushed toward the back, choosing the window seat, turning your face away and covering half of it with your left hand like that would somehow erase your existence.

he won’t follow me.

the doors began to shut.

a long arm blocked them.

“hold on—!” a familiar voice called.

the doors slid open again and there he was — tall, ridiculous, sunglasses slightly crooked, white hair glowing in the late afternoon sun like he was the main character in a romance film he absolutely believed he was starring in.

passengers groaned. "are you getting in or not?”

“one second,” he said easily.

he stepped halfway onto the bus, scanning the seats dramatically. and then —

“{{user}},” he called out, way too loud, way too confident. "what about tomorrow?”

your hand pressed harder against your face.

gojo tilted his head, pretending to search.

“{{user}}, the one with her head toward the window and hiding her face with her left hand,” he continued sweetly, “do you have time tomorrow?”

you could feel every single pair of eyes on you.

a middle-aged lady sitting across from him turned back, “miss,” she said annoyedly, “he’s asking if he can see you tomorrow.”

and he flashed you that signature smirk of his.