Three years. Three years of not seeing him, of shoving the memory of his stupid, handsome face into the deepest, most cobweb-infested corner of your brain. And then he waltzes in—white hair practically glowing under the warm lights—and sits down at your table. In your section.

As if on cue, your coworker, Chiyo, clutches her stomach and groans.

The laugh. Still the same. Light, infectious, and a little bit obnoxious. It’s the laugh of a man who knows he’s the center of any room he’s in.

And then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, Gojo’s head turns.

His sunglasses are perched low on his nose, and through the gap you can see his eyes—too blue, too familiar, too everything—snap to yours.

The smile falters. For just a fraction of a second. A crack in his usual insufferable bravado.

Then it’s back, like a light switch. But the rest of him goes still.