Satoru Gojo

The bass from the speakers is vibrating so hard it feels like a medical hazard. You’re standing in the corner of the Sigma Chi basement, completely out of your element in an oversized vintage leather jacket, black Lacey dress, heavy jewelry and black boots. You only came because your roommate begged you to be her emotional support human for a night. Now, she’s off somewhere in the crowd, and you’re left nursing a lukewarm drink, wishing you were back in your studio with your headphones on. Then, the crowd shifts, and he appears. Satoru Gojo. The star left winger of the university hockey team and the undisputed king of campus Greek life. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap, a white tee stretched tight across ridiculously broad shoulders, and Calvin Kleins peeking above gray sweatpants. He’s currently flexing his bicep for a group of laughing freshmen, a plastic cup dangling from a string between his teeth as he winks at someone across the room. He’s loud, obnoxious, and utterly used to getting exactly what he wants. You roll your eyes, turning toward the wall to check your phone. Ten more minutes, and I’m calling an Uber, you think. "Hey. You're ruining the vibe over here." A shadow falls over you. You look up, and Gojo is leaning against the concrete pillar right next to you. Up close, his bright blue eyes are almost obnoxious, fixed entirely on you with an amused, lazy grin. "Is that so?" you say, keeping your voice flat. "Then feel free to move to a different vibe." Gojo blinks, completely caught off guard. Usually, girls are tripping over themselves to hand him a drink or get a picture. He takes the cup out of his mouth and chuckles, leaning down slightly to match your eye level. "Ouch. Tough crowd. I'm Satoru," he says, flashing a brilliant, practiced smile that usually works like a charm. "I know who you are. The whole campus does," you reply, taking a slow sip of your drink. "I’m just not interested." An delighted spark ignites in his eyes. He loves a challenge, and a girl with an attitude, a nose ring, and zero interest in his hockey stats is exactly the kind of distraction he didn't know he was looking for. He steps closer, entirely invading your personal space with an arrogant, boyish grin. "Not interested in hockey, or just not interested in me?" he teases, crossing his massive arms. "Both," you say, looking him up and down before looking back at your phone. "You're loud, Satoru." "I'm energetic," he corrects smoothly, leaning in close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne over the stale beer smell of the basement. "Come on, live a little. Let me get you a drink that isn't whatever sad mystery fluid you're holding." "I'm fine." You take a step to the side, preparing to escape into the crowd. "Go back to your fan club, Gojo. They're waiting for you." Instead of letting you pass, he shifts his weight, effortlessly blocking your exit with his massive frame, that infuriatingly handsome grin never leaving his face. "Not a chance," he says softly, his voice dropping into something surprisingly genuine beneath the frat-boy bravado. "They're boring. You're interesting. Give me five minutes. If you still hate me by the end of it, I'll walk you to your Uber myself."

The morning sun is blindingly bright, casting a harsh glare over the passenger side of Satoru’s ridiculously expensive sports car. The engine rumbles heavily underneath you, a stark contrast to the absolute silence inside the cabin. Your head is pounding, a mix of the bass from last night’s party and the sheer panic of looking at the dashboard clock. You’re supposed to clock into the record store in exactly ten minutes. You look out the window, you can still feel the ghost of his hands gripping your hips, pinning you against the mattress in his room while the bass shook the floorboards below. It was supposed to be a one-time lapse in judgment—a moment of weakness because he was too persistent, too big, and too intoxicating to say no to anymore. "You're remarkably quiet today," Satoru drawls from the driver's seat. You glance over. He looks infuriatingly awake. He’s wearing a fresh white hoodie, his signature dark sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and one massive hand is casually draped over the steering wheel. He looks exactly like the campus golden boy he is, while you feel like a walking disaster. "I'm trying to mentally prepare for an eight-hour shift," you say, your voice flat as you stare straight ahead. "And I'm trying to forget last night." Satoru lets out a low, amused huff, downshifting as he takes a sharp turn toward the downtown strip. "Forget it? Come on. I'm pretty sure my performance last night was memorable enough to warrant at least a five-star review." "It was a mistake, Gojo," you say sharply, crossing your arms. "You were drunk, I was tired—" "I was completely sober when I carried you up those stairs," he interrupts, his tone dropping into that low, gravelly register that makes your stomach do a sudden flip. He doesn't look at you, keeping his eyes on the road, but his smirk is entirely gone, replaced by a lazy, dangerous confidence. "And you didn't seem to think it was a mistake when you had your hands in my hair telling me not to stop." Your face burns hot. You bite your lip, turning your head away so he can't see the flush creeping up your neck. "We live in two completely different worlds, Satoru. You’re a frat jock. I’m just... not. Let's just leave it at last night." The car abruptly pulls up to the curb right in front of the record store, the engine idling with a heavy purr. You immediately reach for the door handle, desperate to escape, but before you can pull it, a heavy, warm hand clamps down over your wrist. His grip isn't painful, but it's massive, completely locking you in place. You look back at him. Satoru tilts his sunglasses down with his free hand, letting those piercing, impossibly blue eyes fix entirely on yours. The playful frat-boy persona is completely gone. "I don't care about 'different worlds,' and I'm not leaving it at last night," he says softly, his voice full of a quiet, stubborn intensity that catches you completely off guard. He leans across the console, invading your space until you can smell his mint gum and expensive cologne. "You can pretend it didn't mean anything all through your shift if it makes you feel better. But I'm picking you up when you clock out at nine." He releases your wrist, his thumb giving a lazy, possessive swipe against your pulse point before he pulls away and leans back into his seat, the smirk returning to his face. "Have a good day at work."

The heavy rain is drumming a relentless rhythm against the glass of the university’s student gallery, blurring the campus lights outside into smears of yellow and red. It’s 9:45 PM. The building officially closed fifteen minutes ago, and you are alone, packing up your canvases and charcoal sketches into a waterproof portfolio. Well, you thought you were alone. The heavy double doors of the gallery swing open with a loud groan, letting in a gust of cold, wet air. You don't even have to look up to know who it is. The sheer volume of the heavy, dripping footsteps gives him away. Satoru Gojo steps into the quiet, dimly lit art space, looking entirely out of his depth among the delicate sculptures and oil paintings. He’s wearing his team-issued black track jacket, the fabric soaked across his broad shoulders, and his white hair is damp and unruly without his usual cap. A massive hockey duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, smelling faintly of the ice rink and sweat. He stops a few feet away from your makeshift workstation, dropping the heavy bag to the floor with a loud, echoey thud. "You're a hard person to find," he says, his voice cutting through the quiet gallery. It lacks his usual loud, booming frat-house energy; it’s lower, slightly raspy, and tired from a three-hour practice. "The gallery is closed, Gojo," you say without looking at him, carefully zipping up your portfolio. "And how did you even know I was here?" "I asked your roommate. Bought her a twenty-pack of nuggets to get the location," he drawls, stepping closer. He slips his hands into his pockets, his sky-blue eyes scanning the charcoal dust on your fingers, then moving up to your face. He isn't wearing his sunglasses. "You haven't answered any of my texts since Tuesday." "Because I told you last weekend was a one-time thing," you reply, finally looking up to meet his gaze. You try to keep your voice cold, anchoring yourself in the boundary you've been trying to build all week. "We had fun. You got what you wanted. Now go back to the rink and leave me alone." Satoru stands there for a long moment, the quiet between you stretching out until the only sound is the rain against the glass. The lazy, cocky smirk you usually hate doesn't appear. Instead, his jaw tightens. He takes a slow, heavy step forward, entirely closing the distance between you until his towering frame is blocking the glow of the gallery's track lighting. "You really think I just wanted to check a box?" he asks, his tone dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that makes your pulse spike. He reaches out, his large, calloused hand—still warm from his gloves—gently but firmly gripping the edge of the table you're leaning against, effectively trapping you between his arms. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. The raw, intense focus in his eyes is dizzying. "I've had fifty girls text me tonight asking where I am," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes. "And I'm standing in a dark art building at ten o'clock on a Tuesday because the only person I want to look at is currently trying to pretend I don't exist." He reaches up with his other hand, his long, athletic fingers gently catching your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a heavy, possessive gesture that shatters whatever resolve you had left. "Tell me to leave," Satoru whispers, his eyes darkening as he tilts your head up just a fraction more. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me to lock these gallery doors right now, and I'll walk out. Say it."