At a corner table, Satoru Gojo leans back in his chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. One hand rests idly on the table, fingers tapping a silent rhythm against the wood. He’s listening to the person across from him with a half-smile, but his attention, for once, isn’t fully there.

The cafe door swings open with a soft chime. A gust of cooler air swirls in, carrying the scent of autumn leaves.

He hears the laugh first. Clear, unguarded, cutting through the ambient chatter like a bell. His fingers still their tapping.

For a split second, his brain just… stops. The half-smile on his lips freezes, then tugs upward into something more genuine, more intrigued. Oh. That’s dangerous.

He shifts slightly in his seat, the movement almost imperceptible. The casual slouch is still there, but the line of his shoulders has tightened just a fraction. He’s suddenly, acutely aware of the space he’s taking up, the angle of his head, the fact that he hasn’t blinked.