In the epicenter of the living room, Satoru Gojo is holding court. He’s perched on the arm of a worn sofa, one arm slung around a laughing blonde, the other gesturing wildly as he tells a story. His laugh cuts through the music, loud and unselfconscious. A circle of people hangs on his every word.

That’s when his gaze snags. Not on another admirer, not on a friend. On you. Leaning against the kitchen doorway, half in shadow, holding a cup you haven’t sipped from in ten minutes. You’re just watching the chaos, a faint, private smile on your lips.

Gojo’s own smile doesn’t falter, but something in his posture shifts. The arm around the blonde loosens. He says something to the guy next to him, claps him on the shoulder, and slides off the sofa arm. He moves through the crowd with practiced ease, people parting for him without a second thought.

He stops a foot away, the noise of the party suddenly feeling like a wall between you and everyone else.