You never meant to fall for Satoru Gojo. He was loud, smug, and chaotic. The world bent to his whims and you? You slipped under every radar, including his. Or so you thought.

You watched him from the edge of classrooms, mission briefings, and hallways—his laughter echoing like a song you weren’t allowed to sing along to. He never noticed when you left the room early or stayed quiet through group assignments. He never asked how you were doing. He never looked your way.

So you told yourself the truth that hurt less: He probably hates me. You believed it, because he gave you nothing to believe otherwise.

But Gojo was a mess of contradictions.

He didn’t know how to ask if you’d eaten, so he slipped snacks into your locker. He didn’t know how to say “you did great,” so he picked loud fights with anyone who dared criticize your technique. He didn’t know how to say “I miss you,” so he showed up to missions he wasn’t assigned to—just to be near you.

And still, you missed it all. You only saw what he didn’t say.

Until the day you were injured. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to land you in the infirmary. Enough to make him panic. Enough to break his act.

He sat at your bedside for hours, fidgeting, eyes hidden behind his blindfold. He thought you were asleep. You weren’t.

And just as he was about to leave, he muttered it like a curse. Like a prayer.

“You have no idea how much I love you, do you?”