My room is a mess—discarded heels by the door, a half-empty bottle of something sweet on my desk, the string lights I hung last year casting everything in warm gold.

I stepped in to grab my phone, to escape the noise for thirty seconds, not expecting to find someone already here.

Satoru Gojo.

He’s standing by my shelf, a framed photo in his hands—the one from fourth grade, where I’m grinning wide and proud, a gap where my front tooth should be.

He looks up when the door opens.

A slow grin spreads across his face. The kind that’s impossible to read, the kind that’s always just a little too charming for his own good.