Chapter Text
You’ve never really believed in love at first sight.
You always thought it was the kind of thing people said when they didn’t want to admit they’d fallen for someone shallow — someone hot, someone charming, someone dangerous. A crush wrapped in a prettier word.
But then Satoru Gojo looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he already knew the shape of your name, the curve of your throat, the kind of kiss you’d give when no one else was watching. He smiled like he’d been waiting.
And that was it.
You didn’t even stand a chance.
The thing about Gojo is that everyone wants him. Everyone. There’s a reason girls cross their legs when he walks by and smile like they’ve just remembered something sweet. He’s gorgeous, sure — silver-white hair that never listens, lazy eyes that know too much. But it’s more than that. He’s effortless. Like he was born to be wanted.
And yet, somehow, he chose you.
Well, that’s what you tell yourself on days like this when you wake up beside him, tangled in your sheets, wearing nothing but last night’s lipstick and the faint trace of his cologne. That’s what you tell yourself when he hums your name into the crook of your neck, fingers brushing your waist like he’s already halfway asleep again.
You love the taste of him in the morning — sleep-warm skin and lazy kisses, the kind that don’t need words. You love the way he feels beside you, like a secret only you get to keep. You’d never admit it, but you’ve started to believe in love again. Not the kind that’s written down. Not the kind with promises or definitions. But the kind that breathes quietly between bodies, just enough to convince you it’s real.
And really — could you be more obvious?
The sheets are still warm when he pulls away.
Your skin still tingles where his hands were, like his touch left sparks instead of fingerprints. The morning light pours in golden through the windows, soft and dreamy, casting him in a halo as he stretches — shirtless, yawning, the muscles in his back rippling under pale skin. It’s almost too much to look at. Almost.
He looks like something out of a dream. Yours, specifically. And you drink him in like you’re parched.
“You leaving already?” you ask, voice too gentle, too hopeful. You try to sound casual, but it betrays you — airy, breathless, like you’re still caught up in the echo of his name against your lips.
He glances at you over his shoulder, grinning in that crooked, careless way that makes your stomach knot. “Didn’t know I was on a schedule.”
You smile a little too quickly, like that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You don’t even know why. Maybe because he’s still here. Maybe because his laughter feels like sunlight, and you’re starving for it.
He tugs on his shirt, movements slow and lazy. His hair’s a mess — your fault, mostly — and the faint bruises blooming on his throat and collarbone are like secret signatures. Yours. That means something, doesn’t it? You gave him everything last night. Every soft sigh, every whispered please. That should count for something.
“I just thought… maybe you’d stay.” You clutch the blanket tighter around you, heart thudding. “Just for a little while.”
He steps closer, and your chest swells. He leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead — featherlight, tender, almost real. The kind of kiss that makes you want to believe. And you do. You let yourself believe, just for a second. It’s easy to, when he’s this close. When he smells like your sheets. When your world shrinks to the dip of his mouth and the slow, sleepy drag of his fingers down your arm as he pulls away.
“Next time,” he murmurs, that same familiar promise. “I’ve got stuff to take care of.”
You nod, already memorizing the way he said it. You won’t ask what kind of stuff — you never do. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t matter. That he will come back. That next time will finally mean something more.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand, thumb already scrolling through unread messages. Your eyes trail him discreetly from the bed, trying to memorize him in the quiet — the curve of his back, the lines of his arms, the way the morning clings to him like even the sun doesn’t want to let go.
You want to say stay. You want to say I love you. But your mouth doesn’t move. You smile instead. Like that’s enough.
Then—
“Hey,” he says, pausing in the doorway. Your heart leaps like a fool. You sit up straighter, too fast.
“Yeah?”
He winks, playful and easy. “Don’t miss me too much.”
You laugh, a little breathless, and wave. He’s already turning away.
The door clicks shut, and the room exhales with him. You’re alone again. But everything still smells like him — warm and sweet and dizzying. His voice still lingers in your chest like a held breath.
You press your face into the pillow he slept on and smile like an idiot.
Maybe he’ll come back tonight. Maybe he’ll surprise you.
He probably won’t.
But the thought of him is still here, curling around your ribs like silk.
And right now, that’s more than enough.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Some while later, you finally peel yourself out of bed, stretching like you didn’t just get left behind by the boy who never says goodbye properly. But it’s fine. It’s always like this. That’s just… how he is.
Besides, you’re not just a hookup. You know that. Or at least, you believe it — and honestly, what’s the difference? He stays the night. Kisses your forehead like it means something. Makes your coffee exactly the way you like it without even asking. And the way he touches you — slow, reverent, like he wants to memorize you — it can’t be casual. Not really. It feels like love. And that has to count for something.
The floor’s cold as you pad into the kitchen, still wrapped in that huge shirt he left behind weeks ago. You wear it like a second skin. Like armor. He hasn’t mentioned it being gone. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he left it on purpose. You like to think it was the second one. A quiet kind of offering.
The coffee machine is already on — started by him, of course. Your favorite mug waits by the counter, the one with the tiny painted flowers. Inside: two sugars, a splash of oat milk. Just the way you like it.
No note. No text. But he remembered the drink. And the mug.
And that means more to you than any good morning message ever could.
You cradle it in both hands, sipping slow, like it’s sacred. The sunlight spills in across the floor, warm and soft, and for a moment your whole apartment feels like it’s holding its breath — like even the walls remember him. Everything always feels a little brighter after he’s been here. Like he left some of his magic behind.
Your phone buzzes once. Not him. Just a group chat you’ve been ignoring.
Still, you scroll through your messages, thumb hovering near his name. He hasn’t texted yet. That’s normal. Sometimes he takes a while. Hours. Days. But he always comes back to you in the end. He always does.
You type something out anyway, fingers moving before you think:
you make it home okay?
You picture him reading it — grinning, maybe. Typing something sweet and cocky in return. Miss me already? Something that would make you smile into your cup.
You smile anyway. Then backspace the message, one letter at a time.
You leave your phone on the counter and turn to the window, watching the pinkish sunrise melt into bright blue. You don’t think about who he might be with. What other beds he might warm. That part of the story never gets written in your version. Not because you’re naive — just because this feels better. Cleaner. Prettier.
You choose the version where he remembers you first. Where the coffee means everything. Where the silence between texts is just time stretching until he can find his way back to you.
And for now, that’s more than enough.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Others that I've had had to impress me before
But I knew you were the real thing
When you walked through the door
I didn't think that I would have to spell it out
You weren’t looking for anything that night.
You’d gone out because someone begged you to — friend of a friend’s birthday, some rooftop bar with overpriced drinks and half-decent music. You’d smiled, nodded, let your fingers curl around the rim of your glass while strangers made small talk you wouldn’t remember in the morning.
And then he walked in.
You didn’t hear him.
You felt him.
The air shifted like it was pulled toward him, like gravity itself tilted just a little in his direction. He was all white hair and lazy confidence, sunglasses pushed up into his hair despite it being well past midnight. And that smile — half-sweet, half-wicked, like he already knew every secret you hadn’t told anyone.
He didn’t even look at you at first.
He was talking to someone — laughing at something dumb, probably flirting without even trying — but the second his eyes found yours across the room, it was like everything else fell away.
You’d had people flirt with you before. You’d had them chase you, charm you, pull out their best lines and wait for your laughter like it was a prize. And maybe it was for them — but not for him. He didn’t seek that reassurance, that validation from anyone, yet he got it anyway.
Gojo didn’t need to try. And maybe that was what the worst part.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away, even though you barely understood what you were feeling.
Everyone was talking, laughing, moving, but to you, it all faded into a blur except for the way his eyes flicked in your direction.
And when he looked at you, really looked — it was like the noise quieted. Like he saw something inside you that no one else had.
You had never believed in love at first sight.
But in that moment — when he crossed the room and stood just inches from you, smiling like he’d been waiting for this — you wanted to believe.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and smooth, like he was sharing a secret just for you.
Your heart hammered so loud it felt like it might break your ribs.
You swallowed hard.
And just like that, everything changed.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The memory lingers like honey on your tongue — slow, golden, impossibly sweet.
You’re alone now, curled up in the oversized hoodie he left behind that night, the fabric swallowing you whole. It still smells like him. Warm skin. Something a little expensive. Something his. You bury your face in the collar like it’s a secret — like maybe if you breathe deep enough, you can bring him back.
Outside, the city buzzes the way it always does — busy and brilliant and far away. Somewhere out there, he’s walking through it like he owns the place. Like he doesn’t know he’s still living in your head rent-free.
You smile, small and stupid, tracing your fingers over the seams of the hoodie like they mean something. And honestly? They do. It’s proof. That he was here. That once — even if just for a night — he saw you, chose you, stayed.
You let yourself believe that first moment meant something. That it wasn’t just luck or timing or a well-rehearsed smile. That something shifted in the air between you. That it started then.
You glance at your phone again. His name is still pinned to the top, like it’s sacred. Like you’re waiting for a miracle and pretending it’s casual.
Maybe he’ll text. Maybe he’ll show up again, stay a little longer next time. Maybe he’ll kiss you like he means it and forget to leave in the morning.
Or maybe not.
But you don’t let the thought sink too deep. You’re too full of that fuzzy ache he always leaves behind — the kind that makes the world feel a little softer around the edges.
This is enough. For now.
Just this feeling.
Just him.