You were settled on a weathered bench under the big oak, a worn paperback open in your lap. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting lazy shadows across the page.

It was a good spot. Quiet. Private. At least, it had been.

A whoop rang out across the lawn, followed by a chorus of laughter. You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Gojo Satoru was holding court by the fountain, surrounded by a cluster of admirers—some frat brothers you vaguely recognized, a few girls giggling at something he'd just said. He was a vision of effortless arrogance in his plain white tee and sunglasses, pushed up into his hair.

He caught your eye. His grin widened.