Satoru Gojo

Satoru Gojo was, by all conceivable definitions, a catch. With looks that could make a supermodel swoon, a bank account that could probably buy a damn country, and a sense of humor that was both infectious and utterly ridiculous.

He was golden retriever energy incarnate—loyal, exuberant, and endearingly clumsy with his affections. He was the kind of guy who would bring you soup when you were sick, remember your favorite flower, and probably cry during a particularly heartfelt commercial.

And that was the problem.

His apartment was a shrine to Korean dramas. Evenings were often spent buried under a soft blanket, his screen illuminated by the dramatic, heart-fluttering scenes of Crash Landing on You. He’d sigh dreamily during the passionate confessions in What's Wrong With Secretary Kim, and he’d laugh with giddy recognition at the faux-relationships-turned-real in Business Proposal.

He was constantly waiting for his meet-cute, for the universe to deliver his fated partner in some grand, cinematic gesture.

His two best friends, Suguru Geto and Shoko Ieiri, were his sole witnesses to this relentless quest for a storybook romance. They loved him, they truly did, but their support was almost exclusively delivered through a thick layer of sarcasm.

"Maybe you'll bump into her at the grocery store and your shopping carts will get tangled," Shoko would say, not looking up from her medical textbooks, a cigarette dangling from her lips. "And then a single, perfect apple will fall from your cart and roll directly into her hands."

Suguru, ever the instigator, would nod sagely. "A profound metaphor for your heart rolling into her life, Satoru. It's brilliant. You should start hanging out in the produce aisle. I hear it's where all the great loves begin."

Satoru would just beam, completely missing the teasing tone. "You guys get it! It's all about the meet-cute! The universe has a plan, I just know it!"

Shoko and Suguru would exchange a long-suffering look. They rooted for him, in their own strange way, but they also made it their part-time job to gently mock his grand expectations of a love written in the stars.

They were convinced his "the one" was more likely to be a charmingly delusional character from one of his shows than a real, breathing person.

---

The night it happened started like any other chaotic evening with the trio. They were at a dimly lit izakaya, and Shoko, as usual, was putting away sake like it was water, her sobriety a thing of unshakable legend. Suguru, on the other hand, was in a mischievous mood, his focus entirely on a very specific target—Satoru.

“You’re such a lightweight, Satoru,” Suguru teased, watching his friend grimace after a single sip of beer. “You can’t handle anything.”

Satoru’s pride, a fragile and magnificent thing, was instantly pricked. “I can handle anything you can handle!” he declared, slamming the glass down. “I’ll drink you under the table!”

Shoko, already on her third drink without so much as a flush, merely raised an eyebrow. “This is a terrible idea.”

Satoru, who famously hated the taste of alcohol, was currently being dared to finish a bottle of some horrifically strong shochu.

"Come on, oh great romantic," Suguru teased, a smirk playing on his lips. "A real hero wouldn't back down from a challenge. What if your 'the one' is waiting for you on the other side of this bottle? You'll never know if you don't take the leap."

It was a spectacularly terrible idea. Satoru, true to his word and his foolish pride, chugged one bottle after another until five empty bottles stood as a monument to his poor life choices. The world had become a soft, tilting blur.

Suguru was holding onto the edge of the table, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, while Shoko remained perfectly composed. Shoko just sighed, stubbing out her cigarette. "You're going to be the death of him, Suguru."

They stumbled out onto the cool night streets, Suguru half-carrying a wobbly Satoru that is now weaving down the sidewalk, his usual grace replaced with the clumsy charm of a newborn giraffe.

“You know,” Suguru said, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “in all those dramas you love, the meet-cute is always so dramatic. Why don’t you go find your ‘the one’? I dare you. Kiss a few strangers. See if you feel any sparks.”

Satoru’s face lit up with a goofy, sloppy smile. “A quest!” he slurred, his eyes shining with determination. “For love!”

His first attempt was a passionate, a loud, smacking kiss on a rough brick wall. “Mwah! A noble beginning!” he declared.

He then embraced a cold, metal streetlight, pressing his lips to it with reverence. “Your cold exterior… hides a warm heart!” he slurred to the pole.

He then spotted a cafe with a brilliantly clean glass window. He shuffled over and pressed his entire face against it, leaving a smudge as he puckered his lips. A furious worker from inside started yelling, waving a cleaning rag at them.

Suguru was wheezing with laughter, and even Shoko cracked a smile, pulling Satoru away from the scene with a quick apology.

It was all a hilarious, chaotic spectacle until Satoru’s wandering gaze landed on you.

You were standing under the soft glow of a streetlamp, deep in conversation with a friend, a small smile on your face. To Satoru, in his drunken, drama-fueled mind, the world seemed to slow down. A soft, imaginary soundtrack swelled in his ears.

His eyes lit up as if he’d just found the North Star. A goofy, yet devastatingly handsome smile spread across his face. He shrugged off Suguru's hold and made a beeline for you, his movements a clumsy, determined waltz.

Before you could even process his approach, he threw his arms around your neck, slumping his much taller frame down to rest his head on your shoulder. He smelled like expensive cologne and cheap shochu.

You stood there, frozen for a second in pure, unadulterated confusion, a light amusement quickly following as you took in the situation.

Then, with zero warning, he puckered his lips and pressed a quick, soft, duck-like peck right onto your lips. It was less a kiss and more like how a duck would affectionately greet its mate.

“Satoru!” two voices yelled in unison, both looking equal parts horrified and entertained.

Shoko and Suguru came running, their faces a mixture of horror and apology. “We are so, so sorry,” Shoko said, reaching for your arm to check if you were okay while Suguru grabbed the back of Satoru’s jacket.

“Alright, Casanova, let’s go,” Suguru grunted, trying to pull him away.

But Satoru only tightened his hold on you, his face buried in your shoulder. “No!” he cried out, his voice muffled but firm. “No, you can’t make me!”

In a surprisingly swift move for a drunk man, he let go of you just to shimmy out of his jacket, sending Suguru, who was pulling with all his might, stumbling backward to land hard on the pavement. Shoko burst into such loud, unexpected laughter that the cigarette dangling from her lips fell to the ground.

Freed from his jacket, Satoru immediately turned back to you, his eyes wide and earnest, glistening with unshed tears and pure, unadulterated conviction. He wrapped his arms around you again, this time in a tight, desperate hug, burying his face in your shoulder. His voice was a muffled, heartfelt wail against your skin.

"No! Don't take me away from them! You don't understand! I found them! I finally found them! This is my person! My one and only! The love of my life in my story!" His words hung in the air, a drunken, dramatic, and utterly undeniable proclamation as he held onto you for dear life, his grip tight and his heart, for the first time, feeling completely full.