You weren’t even a week into your new job as the university’s career counselor when you learned two important things about the campus:

1. First, the aerospace engineering students apparently never slept. They drifted into the counseling office at all hours—red-eyed, caffeine-shaky, smelling faintly of burnt solder—asking whether it was “too late” to change majors to something “less mathy.”
2. Second, there was a group of male idiots roaming the grounds like feral pigeons, collectively lowering the IQ of the institution by simply existing.

The ringleader was easy to spot.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattoos curling over his hands and disappearing beneath rolled-up sleeves. Always smirking like he’d just bet someone he could make you mad in under thirty seconds.

You heard about him before you ever saw him—whispers from the admin staff over the printer. “Campus gangster.” “Part-time weed dealer.” “Full-time liability.”

The rest of his posse was a disaster lineup that sounded like the draft picks for some underground sport:

• Gojo Satoru—tall, loud, and apparently allergic to shutting up.
• Geto Suguru—quieter, but only in the way a man with a full bag of questionable ideas is quiet.
• Zenin Toji—built like he should be working in construction, not casually sitting in engineering lectures.
• Hajime Kashimo—always dressed like he’d either just come from or was on his way to start a fight.

It would have been fine if they kept to themselves.

They didn’t.

The other thing you learned was that these men had somehow latched onto a set of completely unwilling victims—respectable, intelligent students who looked like they’d accidentally subscribed to an ongoing harassment service with no unsubscribe button.

And somehow… you were starting to suspect you were about to get dragged into whatever this was.

Sukuna & Nanami

Nanami Kento was a PhD student in medical sciences—the sort who arrived at 8:00 AM sharp with a pressed shirt, gold-framed glasses, and a face that could make a grown toddler (Gojo) cry. Even in the humid chaos of campus, he carried himself like an overworked salaryman on his way to file for divorce.

Sukuna saw him once across the library—a fleeting, unremarkable moment for everyone else—and for reasons known only to him, decided that this man would be his personal project.

Not to date. Not even to seduce in any earnest way.

Just to… stick to him like burrs on a sweater.

It became a ritual.

Nanami would claim a desk in the quietest corner of the library, spreading out his papers with the precision of a surgeon laying out scalpels.

Ten minutes later, Sukuna would appear, dropping into the seat across from him with the heavy, deliberate thud of someone who wanted to be noticed. He’d lean forward on his elbows, tattoos peeking from rolled sleeves, grinning lazily.

“If you ever need a sugar daddy to fund your research, baby, I’m available,” Sukuna would say, voice low enough to carry but not low enough for Nanami to pretend he hadn’t heard.

Without even glancing up from his notes, Nanami would reply, “If you ever need a life insurance policy, I’ll gladly recommend one. For your family. Because I will kill you.”

The exchanges never escalated. They didn’t need to.

The real entertainment— at least for Sukuna —was in the persistence. He’d show up at Nanami’s lab under the flimsy excuse of “picking something up” from a mutual acquaintance, leaning against the doorframe until Nanami finished an experiment, just to comment on his “strong hands” or ask if lab coats came in tighter sizes.

Once, on your way past the campus café, you overheard Sukuna telling Gojo, “I’m not even trying to date him. I just like knowing he hates me personally.”

Gojo laughed, clapped him on the back, and said something about “true love in its purest form,” which only seemed to encourage him.

It wasn’t flirtation in the traditional sense.

It was harassment , but wrapped in the strange, almost courteous consistency of a daily newspaper delivery—unwelcome, but inevitable.

Kashimo & Hiromi

Hajime Kashimo was the sort of political science student who could make a crowd gather without trying—the charisma of a cult leader, tempered by the restless energy of a man who might burn the cult down just to see how quickly it’d happen.

He came from a dynasty of powerful politicians, the kind whose names opened doors, got parking tickets forgiven, and, in Kashimo’s case, ensured that his habit of running with drug dealers never seemed to leave a permanent mark on his record.

It was, frankly, baffling to watch him roam with Sukuna’s crew—a tattooed weed peddler, a mechanical engineering ex-con-looking man named Toji, a walking Xanax prescription named Suguru, and Gojo, who was… whatever Gojo was. But Kashimo fit right in, all sharp smiles and unapologetic chaos.

Higuruma Hiromi, on the other hand, came from a rival political family—the kind with less scandal and more cold precision. A law student whose posture was straight enough to pass military inspection, Hiromi wore pressed suits to class and carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who could ruin you with a strongly worded letter. His eyes carried a permanent subtext: I will sue you and win.

They were natural enemies.

Which, in Kashimo’s mind, made them perfect for each other.

Toji & Atusya

Then there was Zenin Toji—a mechanical engineering major, black tank tops year-round, and a jawline that could make your grandma wet too.

His target: Kusakabe Atsuya, doing some degree that you weren’t even sure existed. You’d seen his attendance sheet—half blank, half just “Absent” written in angry red pen.

Toji’s idea of courtship?

• Calling him “sleepyhead” and sending 12 “u up?” texts at noon.
• Planning dates that he didn’t bother to tell Atusya about until the last second.
• Showing up at Atsuya’s dorm with takeout and breaking in when Atsuya didn’t answer the door.

Atusya’s idea of romance?

Sleeping through all of it.

Gojo & Suguru

These two were already dating and used their relationship to make everyone else suffer.

Gojo was an aerospace engineering student (god help you all), and Suguru was in psychology, which just meant Suguru knew exactly how to enable his boyfriend.

Example:

• Gojo sending “Nana-chan, Sukuna’s longingly staring at you again 😍” during lectures.
• Suguru bringing popcorn to watch Hiromi throw Kashimo out of the law library.

Hiromi’s alliance with Nanami was purely transactional—two martyrs shackled to the sinking ship of Campus Morality—both of them spearheaded the campus anti-drug protests, organizing rallies outside the library and petitioning for tighter enforcement on “illegal activities.”

Nanami handled speeches with a single girl dad’s precision. Hiromi handled the legal loopholes and media statements with a headache.

Every. Single. Rally.

Kashimo materialized like a politically funded ghost.

Not protesting. Not heckling. Just… observing.

He’d lounge against the “Drug-Free Campus” banner itself, sunglasses perched on his nose, smirking as he lit Hiromi’s flyers on fire with a monogrammed lighter. “Relax, counselor. Arson’s not on the banned substances list.”

Sukuna and Gojo were his backup dancers.

Sukuna sparked joints directly under Nanami’s nose, crooning, “Breathe deep, Nana-chan. It’s medicinal… for my broken heart.”

Gojo live-tweeted it all, “🔥DAY 7: Nana-chan’s jawline could cut coke. Sukuna’s tears could water it. #ProtestChic”

When Hiromi ran a study group for first-years in the law library, Kashimo appeared, sliding into a seat without invitation.

He never brought notes, never spoke unless directly asked, and when he did, it was to say something like, “Don’t you think we’d look good in court together?”

Hiromi would pause mid-sentence, inhale slowly, and respond in the flattest tone possible, “The only place we’d be together is in a criminal case where I’m prosecuting you.”

By the second week of term, Hiromi was threatening him with assault charges twice a week, sometimes preemptively, as soon as he spotted Kashimo across the quad.

It didn’t deter him.

If anything, it seemed to be exactly the kind of attention Kashimo thrived on.

Then came another day when the anti-drug rally was supposed to be serious.

Nanami and Hiromi had invested two weeks in this. Flyers. Sound permits. Atsuya’s attendance (theoretical).

In practice, getting Atsuya to a protest was like trying to get a housecat into a bathtub.

Architecture degree, perpetually tired, attendance sheet a tragic work of red-ink art. Nanami slid energy drinks under his door; Hiromi served fake subpoenas titled “RE: Your Existence as an Event Decoration.”

Both were ignored in favor of “accidentally” sleeping until noon.

So when Atsuya finally arrived halfway through the rally, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, hair flat on one side from a nap, it was a miracle.

A miracle that immediately soured when he pulled out a cigarette, leaned against a sign that read "Drug-Free Campus Now," and lit it.

The problem was, the Sukuna-Satosugu-Kashimo-Toji peanut gallery was already in attendance, scattered along the edge of the crowd like they were watching an outdoor theater performance.

Sukuna stood with his arms folded, eyes locked on Nanami like a cat watching a fishbowl.

Kashimo leaned on the back of a bench, tossing water bottles at Hiromi’s head. “Hydrate or die-drate, gorgeous.”

Gojo was filming everything on his phone. “Suguru, bet 500¥ Nanamin snaps first.”

Suguru was eating potato chips out of a crinkly bag, quietly egging him on for the best angles. “Baby, his tie’s still straight. He’s a pro.”

When Atsuya took his first drag, Hiromi stopped mid-sentence in his speech, climbed down from the podium, and smacked the cigarette out of his mouth. “Are you clinically incapable of reading?!”

Atsuya blinked, slow and unimpressed. “It’s tobacco.”

“It’s performance art,” Kashimo called. “Symbolism, Hiromi! He’s rejecting your oppressive sobriety agenda!”

Before anyone could process, Toji emerged like a tank-top-clad avalanche, like a dog hearing someone raise their voice near its food bowl.

“Hands.” His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried. “Off. My. Investment.”

Hiromi gaped. “You’re defending a smoker at an anti-drug rally?”

Toji puffed his chest. “Tobacco’s a vegetable. My lawyer said so.”

Atsuya facepalmed so hard he nearly napped mid-motion.

Nanami stepped in, tie quivering with rage. “Remove yourselves before I repurpose Sukuna’s spine as a coat rack.”

Sukuna practically purred. “Threaten my boys again, baby, and I’ll sue for custody… of you.” He invaded Nanami’s space, smirking venomously. “Wanna be my dependent?”

“I am not your—” Nanami began, but Kashimo was already sliding in on Hiromi’s other side, pressing chilled Evian to his neck. “You’re flushed. Is it the heat? Or my presence?”

Hiromi hissed, “It’s your impending wrongful death suit.”

“Romantic,” Kashimo sighed. “Write the eulogy together? I’ll bring champagne.”

The rally was halfway through its scheduled two hours when the whole thing collapsed into a standoff worthy of bad campus reality TV.

On one side: Nanami and Hiromi, all righteous purpose and tight shoulders, the only two men on campus who could make holding a clipboard look intimidating. Nanami’s tie was perfectly straight despite the heat or his emotional support object. Hiromi’s suit jacket was still buttoned, and the Evian bottle in his hand was a potential murder weapon.

They looked like they’d stepped out of a campaign poster about civic responsibility by Batman.

On the other hand, Toji, Sukuna, and Kashimo, who hadn’t read the flyer, didn’t care what the rally was about and were clearly only here to enjoy the chaos. Toji was already cracking knuckles, whispering, “Naptime after this, ‘kay?” to Atsuya. Sukuna had that lazy, sharpened grin of his, tracing Nanami’s jawline in the air with a tattooed finger. Kashimo’s hands were in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like a man who’d shown up for a wedding he wasn’t invited to.

The rest of the crowd was already edging back, sensing trouble.

Gojo shoved his phone in Hiromi’s face. “Smile for discovery, lawyer-kun! Hashtag: RallyFail!”

Hiromi’s eye twitched. “I will dissolve your scholarship in court.”

Gojo kept going undeterred, “Cute of you to assume I need a scholarship to  be here.”

Suguru crunched chips like a war correspondent. “Awareness exercise! Toji—describe Hiromi’s aura.”

Toji squinted. “Like a pissed-off Chihuahua. Cute.”

Hiromi lunged.

Kashimo caught his wrist. “Assault with intent to adore me? Guilty.”

Sukuna pouted at Nanami. “Yuji’s boyfriend packed him two onigiri today. Where’s my bento, Kento?”

Nanami snapped. “In your delusions. Alongside my affection.”

“Aww, you taglined it!”

Suguru stepped between them, still chewing. “Gentlemen. This is a rally for awareness, not a rally for… whatever this is.”

“What’s your definition of awareness?” Toji asked without looking at him.

“Awareness of each other’s feelings,” Suguru said, deadpan.

Gojo laughed so loudly it echoed off the library walls. “You sound like my therapist. Wait, no, you sound like your therapist.”

He turned his phone back on Nanami. “Quick, Nanamin, tell us how you feel about Sukuna staring at you like that.”

“My feelings,” Nanami said evenly, “are that I would like him to be arrested.”

“Aww, will you come visit me in prison with that tight ass of yours, baby?” Sukuna asked, his curiosity evident.

The question was so absurd that Nanami Kento sputtered for a full moment before finally looking away.

Meanwhile, Hiromi was still gripping the Evian bottle like it was a weapon. “Kashimo, if you don’t leave right now, I will—”

“Will what?” Kashimo interrupted. “Sue me? You’d lose. I’ve got better lawyers.”

“Those lawyers work for your father,” Hiromi said, his voice going flat and cold. “And your father still lost the last municipal election to mine.”

“Rival families.” It was unclear whether Kashimo didn’t hear him or simply didn’t care. “Face it, Hiromi—we’re Romeo & Juliet with better lawyers. My dad’s suing yours over parking fines as we speak.”

Hiromi looked ready to combust. “I. Hate. You.”

Kashimo beamed. “Now that’s a love confession. Your honor, I rest my case.”

Before the shouting could escalate, Gojo threw himself between the two “teams,” arms wide like a human barricade. “Okay, okay, everybody calm down before we get expelled for disrupting college property. Which, by the way, would be good for my epic fails compilations, but still.”

Suguru sidled in beside him. “If anyone’s going to get expelled, it should be me. I’ve been planning for it all semester.”

“This is not helping,” Hiromi snapped.

“It’s not hurting either,” Gojo said. “And my beautiful princess with a disorder gets whatever he wants.”

Suguru grinned smugly from behind Gojo.

Campus security arrived to Nanami strangling Sukuna with his own lanyard, Toji carrying Atsuya off like loot, and Kashimo bribing officers with “recovery water” for Hiromi.

Sukuna blew Nanami a kiss. “Same time Thursday, sugartits?”

Nanami’s reply was muffled by security hauling him away.

Gojo waved his phone. “Viral! #RallyRumble #SimpKuna”

Suguru sighed dreamily. “True love is so messy.”

Kashimo trailed after Hiromi with two more bottles of expensive water, apparently prepared for a full day of rejection.

Then They Came to You

It was a Thursday, which already had a reputation for going wrong.

Not in the ‘paper jam’ sense. In the ‘Japanese gods drawing straws to see who gets to ruin your life’ sense.

Thursdays were when the universe remembered you worked in this office and sent its most chaotic emissaries to test your will to live.

The knock never came. Instead, the door slammed open with the force of a small car accident, making your pen skid a jagged line across your neat margin notes.

Sukuna strolled in—if ‘strolled’ could describe a man moving like the physical embodiment of a bad decision—smirk loaded with intent and the gait of a man who’d never once considered knocking.

Nanami followed, wearing the expression of a man who’d just been told he had to disarm a bomb with a teaspoon—he looked like he’d been yanked directly from his lab just to endure this humiliation.

Sukuna planted himself in the middle of the room and announced, “We need couples therapy.”

You blinked slowly. “...Congratulations on the relationship—”

“We are not in a relationship,” Nanami cut in, voice flat enough to level a bookshelf.

“Exactly,” Sukuna crossed his arms. “And I need to know why.”

You set your pen down as if it might be the last object you’d handle before homicide. “I’m a career counselor. I help students find jobs. I don’t—” you made aggressive air quotes “—do ‘romantic interventions.’ ”

Sukuna dropped into a chair like he was claiming disputed land. “Write this down: discrimination against young, self-made entrepreneurs.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s a drug dealer.”

“See?” Sukuna grinned. “We’re communicating.”

Before you could banish them, the door banged open again.

This time it was Toji, all black tank top and shoulder muscle, dragging Atsuya by the hood of his sweatshirt like a mother cat carrying an uncooperative kitten.

He deposited him in the empty chair next to Sukuna. “Fix him. Keeps ditchin’ my dates.”

Atsuya didn’t open his eyes. "Sleeping isn’t ghosting. It’s self-care."

You held up a finger. “Not a couple. Not my problem.”

“Not yet,” Toji corrected, puffing his chest. “I installed blackout curtains, and last week I got him 50 energy drinks! Strategic courtship."

Atsuya cracked one eye. "I kept one. Evidence for the restraining order."

Toji beamed, satisfied. "See? He’s sentimental."

Then Atsuya made direct eye contact with you and mouthed, "Help me."

You mouthed back, “Earn it.”

Ten minutes later, you were considering locking the door.

Because you barely had time to draw breath before Kashimo burst in like the problem child of an energy drink and a cult initiation, one hand on the shoulder of Hiromi—immaculate suit, immaculate hair, immaculate scowl.

Kashimo grinned at you like you were a receptionist at a hotel. “We need counseling.”

“We need a restraining order,” Hiromi countered, trying to peel him off. Failed.

Kashimo slapped a fake subpoena on your desk. “Article 5, Section B: Defendant must kiss plaintiff by sunset.”

Hiromi tore it in half without looking. “Campus bylaw 4.2: Public Nuisances. Penalty: 500 feet.”

You pushed your chair back so hard it squeaked, planting your palms on the desk. “Here’s how this works: I charge ¥50,000 an hour for this circus. Pay up, or get out.”

Gojo’s voice drifted in from the doorway. “Kinky.”

And just when you thought the room couldn’t get more crowded, the final nail in your professional coffin—Gojo and Suguru sauntered in without knocking, carrying iced coffees and a bag of caramel popcorn like they were here for a matinee.

“And I’m charging double,” you said, pointing at the door. “First idiot to say ‘sexual tension’ owes me ¥100,000.”

“We don’t need therapy.” Gojo sat down on the floor. “We’re here for bro support.”

“And to judge.” Suguru added, already unwrapping a chocolate bar. His psychology textbook poked out of his bag, as if to mock you.

You ignored them, flipping open your laptop. “Fine. Let’s start. Who’s going first?”

Sukuna leaned forward like he’d already bought the VIP package. “We are.”

Nanami didn’t look up. “If you think I’m going to dignify this—”

“You’re like a hot DILF when you’re righteous,” Sukuna grinned.

“Die,” Nanami looked away, the tips of his ears red from anger or embarrassment; no one dared point out.

You didn’t even blink. “And now you owe me ¥100,000.”

Nanami glanced at you with something almost like gratitude.

Toji elbowed Atsuya like he was waking a teammate on the bench. “Tell her how you feel about us.”

Atsuya didn’t open his eyes. “It’s fake.”

Toji smirked. “That’s my sleepyhead. Always playin’ hard to get.”

“Can I leave?” Atsuya asked.

“No,” Toji said, without even looking at him. “We’re in therapy. This is intimacy.”

Meanwhile, Kashimo had leaned so far into Hiromi’s space, like an albino rat circling expensive cheese. “I think our biggest problem is sexual tension.”

“Our biggest problem,” Hiromi said, voice like a scalpel, “is that you exist.”

Nanami groaned from his corner. “You sell drugs on campus. You are a criminal.”

Sukuna flicked his forehead. “I’m saving up for our kid’s college fund, baby. That’s called long-term planning.”

You pointed your pen at Sukuna. “Your idea of a ‘college fund’ is two duffel bags and plausible deniability.”

Atsuya, eyes still closed, leaned into Toji’s shoulder like gravity had given up on him. “I literally don’t know why I’m here.”

Toji’s hand automatically landed on his head. “Because I like you, you sleepy bastard.”

Atsuya tried to roll away from Toji’s massive grip. Failed. “…And that’s my problem.”

Hiromi crossed his arms. “Hajime, we have nothing in common.”

Kashimo passed him a chilled Evian like it was a peace treaty. “We both hate everyone else in this room. That’s romance.”

Gojo, talking through a mouthful of popcorn, said, “Except me.”

Everyone, without missing a beat, yelled, “Shut up, Gojo.”

Suguru was quietly taking notes—not for therapy, but like he was preparing an assassination dossier. Every few lines, he’d lean toward Gojo and murmur something that made him grin like someone had just handed him a flamethrower.

You clapped your hands once, hard enough to make Atsuya twitch. “Alright, ground rules. No touching without consent, no bribes under ¥10,000, and if you say ‘soulmate’ in my office, I bill extra.”

Sukuna ignored that completely. “Why won’t he meet my parents?”

Nanami’s head snapped toward him. “Because I refuse to acknowledge the gene pool that spawned you.”

Sukuna frowned like a chonky hamster, “They’re nice! My mom makes great rice balls.”

Nanami glared. “Your mother, Mrs. Kaori, tried to sell me edibles.”

Suguru snorted coffee out his nose.

You nodded. “Genetic contamination concerns are valid. Next couple.”

Toji jabbed a thumb at Atsuya. “He keeps skipping my dates. I plan romantic stuff.”

Atsuya yawned. “You planned paintball at 8 AM.”

Toji spread his arms like this was irrefutable. “Prime romance hour. You break a sweat, you bond.”

Atsuya muttered, “For war crimes maybe.”

Kashimo suddenly put on a fake-serious face. “Hiromi won’t even consider giving me enemies-to-lovers head—”

Hiromi smacked the back of his head. “Finish that sentence and I will litigate.”

Kashimo pointed at the concept of Hiromi’s existence. “See? This is our problem. No intimacy.”

Hiromi’s jaw tightened. “You set my case notes on fire.”

“Accidentally.”

“You yelled ‘watch this’ first.”

Gojo raised a hand like a game show host. “So the takeaway here is that love comes in many forms—”

Suguru sipped his coffee. “—and some of them are felonies.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said, winking at Suguru. “But not for us. We’re elite.”

Thirty minutes in, the ‘session’ had turned into open warfare.

Sukuna leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If you just admitted you liked me, we could end world hunger.”

Nanami didn’t flinch. “If rejecting you could cure cancer, we’d have a global shortage of hospitals.”

Toji was trying to convince Atsuya that breaking into his dorm was a ‘grand romantic gesture.’ “He calls my dorm invasions 'home invasions'—when it’s clearly just surprise cohabitation!”

Atsuya was explaining how that was literally home invasion. “Surprise felony isn’t foreplay.”

You scribbled on your pad: Defendant believes crime = courtship. Refer to a law textbook, any of them.

Kashimo tried sliding cash across your desk. “Write ‘Go on a date with him’ on his career plan. For love.”

Hiromi’s eyes narrowed. “I will sue both of you.”

You didn’t look up. “Great. Double-billable hours.”

Gojo had been livestreaming the whole thing to an unknown audience.

Suguru tapped his chin. “Let’s go around and name one thing we like about our… partner.”

“He’s punctual,” Nanami said dryly, “about ruining my day.”

Sukuna grinned. “His tits are immaculate.”

Nanami made a move for his throat; Gojo blocked him with one arm and kept eating popcorn.

“He brings me food,” Atsuya mumbled.

Toji smirked. “Progress.”

“He’s loaded,” Kashimo said, twirling a strand of his own hair.

“He’s not in prison yet,” Hiromi said, trying to find a way out of this room of drug dealers.

Gojo raised his cup. “I love that we’re perfect and make everyone else feel bad about it.”

Suguru clinked his drink to his. “To us.”

Nanami deadpanned, "His ability to exist silently. A skill he’s yet to demonstrate."

Sukuna’s grin went feral. “The way his eyelashes flutter when he imagines my murder.”

You lifted your coffee in a mock toast. “Mutual toxicity. Billable.”

By the end, Sukuna had booked “weekly therapy” just to be in Nanami’s space, Toji was asking if therapy couches came in king-size “for cuddle emergencies” (Atsuya slow-rolled away), and Kashimo was slipping you more cash to convince Hiromi to meet him for dinner.

“Hiromi looks cute in handcuffs,” Kashimo said.

Hiromi surged to his feet; Gojo tripped him before he could lunge.

Then Gojo promised to bring “more clients” next Thursday “so it’s like a season finale.”

You closed your note titled "Retirement Fund: Hostage Situation Log"—not that you’d written anything useful—and wondered if war correspondence might actually be a quieter job.

Because at least in a war zone, people got paid to be insane.

Six months later, your office still smelled like stale coffee and poor life choices.

You’d just submitted a request to have your job title officially changed to Unhinged Containment Specialist when the door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Toji walked in carrying Atsuya—not over the shoulder, not dragging—carrying him like a smug shoplifter holding the world’s laziest prize.

Atsuya’s hood was pulled low, breathing slow, clearly mid-nap.

“We worked it out,” Toji announced, like he was at a press conference. “Turns out if you install a king-size nap pod in his dorm and stock it with his chips, he stops ghosting you.”

Atsuya cracked an eye. “It’s not ghosting if I never agreed to the date in the first place.” A pause. “But yeah, the blackout curtains helped.” Then he closed his eyes again like the conversation had already taken too much energy.

You stared. This was the man who once broke into Atsuya’s room to build a pyramid of energy drink cans tall enough to violate safety codes. Now he looked like he’d converted to the Church of Sleeping Catboys in the form of a napping architecture student.

“…Congrats?” you tried.

Toji set Atsuya on your couch—careful, but still with the air of someone tossing a duffel bag. “Nah. We’re here ’cause the lawyer’s about to lose his mind.” He jerked a thumb at the hallway. “And Gojo wants footage for his drama channel.”

Minutes later, Hiromi stormed in like a thundercloud in a tailored suit. His tie was crooked. His eyes said homicide .

“Explain,” he hissed, slamming a newspaper onto your desk.

Headline: Rival Dynasties Unite! Higuruma Heir Engaged to Hajime Scion in Shocking Alliance

Photo: Hiromi and Kashimo badly photoshopped into a gala picture, both looking like hostages.

You held up your hands. “If I’d planned this, there would’ve been pyrotechnics and a restraining order.”

“My parents,” Hiromi snapped, “announced it at a fundraiser. Before telling me. ‘Strategic merger.’ They sold me like a racehorse.”

The door swung open again.

Kashimo leaned in the doorway, smirk sharp like this was the best day of his life. “Relax, gorgeous. I negotiated terms.”

He tossed a document onto your desk. “Prenup’s airtight. Section 4a: you get the penthouse when you inevitably stab me.”

Hiromi’s eye twitched. “You knew?!”

“Found out this morning,” Kashimo shrugged. “Mom texted: ‘Wear blue to the engagement shoot, darling! P.S. You’re marrying the Higuruma boy.’”

He winked. “I did send flowers to your dorm. Forever ones. You ignored them.”

Hiromi looked ready to leap across the desk. “I thought they were a bomb!”

“Romantic,” Kashimo sighed.

Nanami and Sukuna appeared in the doorway like they’d been drawn by the sound of chaos.

“Aw, Thunderbolt’s getting hitched!” Sukuna crowed, smacking Kashimo’s back. “Need a best man? I’ve got knives. Will kill anyone who objects.”

“I’ll officiate if it speeds up the divorce,” Nanami muttered to Hiromi like he was offering condolence.

Gojo and Suguru arrived next, wheeling in an actual popcorn machine.

“We’re live!” Gojo shouted, phone in hand. “#WeddingOfTheYear! Donate to Hiromi’s escape fund!”

Hiromi flipped through the prenup, looking like each clause personally offended him. “‘Joint custody of the hedge fund’? ‘Mandatory date nights’? And what’s clause 7b?”

Kashimo leaned close. “That’s the fun one. We have to at least try consummating before annulment.”

Hiromi recoiled. “I’d rather make out with a toaster.”

“Kinky,” Gojo approved.

You massaged your temples. “Alright, options: one, elope to a country with no extradition treaty; two, fake your death; three—”

“—embrace it,” Toji cut in, stroking Atsuya’s hair while he dozed. “I kidnapped ’Tsuya for months. Now he wears my hoodies. Love’s weird.”

You and Nanami shared a look that said, ‘don’t acknowledge the nickname.’

Atsuya murmured without opening his eyes, “Still have the energy drink can. Evidence for the trial.”

Kashimo slid a new document toward Hiromi. “Counteroffer?”

THE KASHIMO-HIGURUMA NON-AGGRESSION PACT

Article 1: No arson during marital disputes.

Article 3: Mutual veto power on hideous wedding china.

Article 5: Weekly dinners where you try not to poison me.

Hiromi stared. “This is insane.”

“So’s your family auctioning you off,” Kashimo countered. “But my plan has perks.”

He tapped another clause. “I send you dirt on your dad’s tax evasion. You ‘forget’ to bust my weed business.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “…That’s almost pragmatic.”

“Almost?” Hiromi snapped.

Kashimo smirked. “C’mon, marry me. We’d make power couples look boring.” He nudged Hiromi’s foot. “Plus, it’ll piss off both our dads.”

Hiromi stared at him for a long moment. “…Do I get to pick the divorce lawyer?”

“Baby,” Kashimo said smoothly, “I’ll be your divorce lawyer.”

One month later, the Thursday curse hadn’t lifted.

It had just… evolved.

The door to your office didn’t slam anymore—now it swung open with the smug weight of routine.

Sukuna stepped in first, looking like a man who’d spent months being wrong about everything but refused to admit it.

“We have a problem,” he said, like it was an urgent matter of national security.

Nanami followed, a stack of lab papers in hand, looking like he’d been dragged away from something far less disgusting— possibly dissecting live snakes.

“You have a problem,” Nanami corrected. “I have a chronic migraine named Ryomen Sukuna.”

Sukuna ignored him completely. “My brothers are in better relationships than me.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Tragic. I’ll start a candlelight vigil.”

Gojo and Suguru wandered in next, Gojo pouting like a kid who’d just been told Santa unfollowed him.

“And it’s not just his brothers,” Gojo added. “We were supposed to be the model couple on campus.”

Suguru shrugged. “Apparently not.”

You raised an eyebrow. “This is about Choso and Ino, isn’t it?”

The groan that escaped Sukuna was half-defeat, half-offended pride. “It’s about both of them. First, Choso—my younger brother—goes and gets himself a graphic design boyfriend who listens to him and  actually packs him lunch. Lunch! Who does that?”

Nanami deadpanned, “Functional adults.”

“And then,” Sukuna went on, stabbing a finger at you, “Yuji—my baby brother—starts dating Megumi. And Megumi’s in veterinary school, which means he’s like… compassionate or some crap.”

You tapped your pen against your desk. “So your brothers found men who feed them, remember their birthdays, and don’t threaten to kill them fifteen times a day.”

“Sixteen today,” Nanami said without missing a beat.

Gojo crossed his arms. “But we were supposed to be the peak. The blueprint. The—”

“—campus yaoi power couple?” you cut in.

Gojo brightened instantly. “Exactly!”

“Sorry to break it to you,” you said, leaning back, “but apparently peak romance isn’t weaponized codependency. It’s knowing your partner’s coffee order and not turning public places into your foreplay stage.”

Suguru coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

Sukuna jabbed a thumb at him. “See? Even he thinks it’s a problem!”

Suguru smiled lazily. “No. I think it’s hilarious.”

By now, your compassion reserves for these men had been bankrupt for months.

You pointed toward the door. “Go watch your brothers be happy. Learn how to hold a conversation without escalating it to a death threat.”

Nanami adjusted his stethoscope. “I’d settle for him going thirty seconds without speaking.”

“Impossible,” you said. “That would be character development.”

Sukuna pointed at you like you’d just kicked his puppy. “You’re supposed to be on our side.”

“I am,” you said sweetly. “On the side of anyone who keeps you farthest from my office.”

Same time next week, it began—like most bad ideas—with Sukuna pacing your office like a tiger that had just spotted another predator in its zoo enclosure.

“They think they’re better than me,” he muttered, jaw tight, rings clicking as his hands flexed.

You didn’t look up from your email. “They are better than you.”

He froze mid-step, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing that thing where you antagonize me on purpose.”

“It’s called accuracy.”

Nanami was leaning against the filing cabinet, still in his lab coat from the morning lecture, scrolling his phone. “Why am I here again?”

Sukuna spun on him, stabbing the air like this was a PowerPoint presentation. “Because I need to observe them. Figure out their… tactics.”

Gojo, perched on the edge of your desk like a very smug white pigeon, tilted his head. “Reconnaissance? You gonna take notes, big guy?”

“Maybe I will,” Sukuna said.

From the corner, Suguru sipped his coffee. “You do realize you’re talking about your brothers like they’re enemy combatants, right?”

“Exactly.”

The ‘plan’ —if you could call it that without insulting actual plans—took shape in under ten minutes. Sukuna, Gojo, Nanami, and Suguru would casually ‘pass through’ the campus courtyard where Choso and Ino usually had lunch, conveniently timed for when Yuji and Megumi left anatomy lab.

For your own amusement, you suggested they “blend in.”

They took that to mean:

• Gojo wearing a baseball cap like he was on the lam.
• Sukuna in an oversized hoodie that made him look like he’d robbed a Hot Topic.
• Suguru carrying a sketchbook for ‘cover.’
• Nanami holding a campus map like he was auditioning to be an undercover cop in a bad TV show.

They parked themselves on a bench under a ginkgo tree, pretending to admire the fountain.

You followed with your iced coffee because if this train wreck happened, you wanted first-row seats.

Choso arrived first, with paint on his hands and a portfolio case slung over his shoulder. Ino was already at their table, unpacking an actual bento box. He waved Choso over with the ease of someone who had never communicated through passive-aggressive Post-its.

“See that?” Sukuna hissed. “Home-cooked food. He feeds him.”

Nanami didn’t glance up. “I feed myself. Revolutionary concept.”

Before Sukuna could bite back, Yuji jogged into view, backpack bouncing. Megumi followed at a calmer pace, expression mildly annoyed but eyes soft—like he’d already forgiven whatever chaos Yuji caused in the last ten minutes. Yuji carried a smoothie in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other.

“That’s two food-based acts of service,” Sukuna said sharply. “Two.”

Gojo patted his shoulder. “Maybe your love language is starvation.”

At their tables, the couples settled in, blissfully unaware they were under deeply incompetent surveillance from fifteen feet away.

Choso pulled a jar of homemade pickles from his bag. Ino laughed, brushing a speck of paint off his cheek. Sukuna visibly stiffened.

Yuji animatedly told a story, gesturing so wide he nearly took out the smoothie. Megumi caught it one-handed, never breaking eye contact, still listening.

Suguru rested his chin in his palm. “You know… they’re just nice to each other. No power plays. No weird dominance games.”

“Boring,” Gojo declared.

“Functional,” Nanami corrected.

Sukuna scowled. “I don’t see what’s so special.”

Right on cue, Ino leaned closer, murmured something to Choso that made him go pink. Yuji passed Megumi a napkin before he even asked.

Sukuna made a sound like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “…Okay. I see what’s so special.”

That might have been the end of it—just a quiet spiral into jealousy—if Gojo hadn’t decided to “get closer for better intel.”

He slid off the bench, pretending to stretch, and sauntered toward the fountain. “Gonna get some ambiance shots,” he called back, holding up his phone.

You took a slow sip of your iced coffee. You’d seen enough disasters to recognize the opening scene.

Gojo didn’t just walk past the couples. He stopped right next to them, raised his phone, and chirped, “Smile!”

Yuji blinked. “Uh… hi?”

“Don’t mind me,” Gojo said brightly. “Just documenting true love for the gram.”

Ino squinted. “Aren’t you—”

“—Gojo Satoru,” Choso finished flatly. “Sukuna’s… friend?”

On the bench, Sukuna stiffened.

All four heads turned toward him.

Megumi’s gaze flicked over the hoodie, the sunglasses, and Nanami’s campus map. “…Are you spying on us?”

“No,” Sukuna said. Way too fast.

“Sure looks like it,” Ino muttered.

Choso raised an eyebrow. “You’re sitting under a tree, staring at us, with your entire little gang. In disguise.”

“I’m not part of his gang.” Nanami protested, slamming the map shut.

“Not a disguise,” Gojo said, still filming.

“Looks like one,” Ino muttered.

And then Toji arrived late, dragging a very drowsy Atsuya behind him like a kid’s helium balloon. “What’d we miss?”

“Subtle surveillance,” Suguru said dryly.

“Cool,” Toji replied, shoving Atsuya down next to him. “Is this the part where we yell at ‘em? I brought energy drinks.”

Atsuya cracked one eye. “I’m not here willingly.”

“Kidnapping’s just surprise quality time,” Toji said, patting his head.

Before Sukuna could recover, Kashimo strolled up with Hiromi in tow—Hiromi’s jaw clenched like he’d been dragged into hell in broad daylight.

“What’s the op?” Kashimo asked, peering toward the couples.

“Apparently,” Nanami muttered, “envy.”

Hiromi’s eyes narrowed. “You idiots are spying on your relatives?”

“Research,” Sukuna corrected.

Yuji leaned forward from his table, chin in hand. “Why would you spy on us?”

Sukuna opened his mouth, but Nanami cut in, “Because he’s pathologically competitive and insecure.”

You snorted. Loudly.

The whole “mission” fell apart in under sixty seconds. Yuji and Megumi stood and walked over, Choso and Ino close behind, bento box still open.

Megumi crossed his arms. “What was the plan? Score us like a sports event?”

Gojo grinned. “A-minus. Needs more PDA.”

“Not helping,” Suguru muttered.

Ino smirked at Sukuna. “You’re jealous.”

“Am not.”

“Sounds like jealousy,” Yuji said.

“Am not!”

Choso stared at Sukuna, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous. I’ll let Kaori know.”

“Don’t tell Mom. I’m not jealous.”

Kashimo, clearly enjoying the show, nudged Hiromi. “See? We’re normal compared to them.”

Hiromi didn’t blink. “We are not normal.”

Toji leaned back with a smug grin. “I’m winning though. Mine doesn’t even leave the house anymore.”

Atsuya, eyes still closed, said, “Stockholm syndrome isn’t winning.”

Yuji tilted his head at Sukuna. “What exactly are you jealous of? We’re just… dating. You could date someone too, y’know.”

Sukuna gestured wildly at Nanami. “I am—”

Nanami cut him off immediately. “We are not dating.”

Megumi deadpanned to Yuji, “Healthy.”

You laughed again—not even trying to hide it.

Satisfied with their moral victory, the couples went back to their tables. Yuji stole a pickle from Choso’s jar; Megumi handed him a fork without looking. Ino slid another bento divider closer to Choso. Kashimo loudly declared he and Hiromi should “outdo them next Thursday.” Hiromi threatened litigation.

Back at the bench, Sukuna sank deeper into his hoodie like it was a foxhole. Gojo muttered about “rebranding their image.” Toji offered Atsuya the last chip in his bag and was promptly ignored. Kashimo was already plotting next week’s sabotage. Nanami checked his watch and muttered about wasted time.

You stood, tossed your cup in the trash, and glanced over the lot of them.

“Next time you want to feel bad about yourselves,” you said, “don’t make me an accessory.”

Then you turned and awakened off.

You could still hear Gojo behind you: “So… next Thursday, same time?”

One week later, Toji and Atsuya were spotted napping in a lecture hall supply closet—Atsuya curled up like a cat, using Toji’s abs as a pillow.

“He’s comfy,” Atsuya told the bewildered professor, who’d just opened the door, blinking up like he’d been caught mid-dream. “And he doesn’t snore anymore. Progress.”

Toji didn’t even look embarrassed. “We’re testing the acoustics.”

Meanwhile, Hiromi and Kashimo dominated the society pages again.

The photograph was a study in contrasts: Kashimo in a cobalt-blue suit, grinning like he’d just won a bet against God; Hiromi standing at his side, jaw locked, eyes like he’d swallowed a wasp and it was still alive in there.

The caption read: Love’s Bitter Pill.

By noon, Sukuna had printed fifty copies of the article, scrawled NEED A DATE? in Sharpie across his own forehead in each, and mailed them all to Nanami.

Nanami used them for target practice in the lab. His med classmates still found confetti-like shreds of Sukuna’s face in the recycling bin a week later.

When you came into your office, there was a pile of gifts waiting:

• A “#1 Trauma Counselor” mug (from Gojo—the irony wasn’t lost on you).
• A stapled, 23-page draft titled When Kashimo Inevitably Ruins Your Life (from Hiromi).
• A single brass key labeled “Nap Pod” in Atsuya’s handwriting, taped to the side of a snack-sized bag of chips (from Toji).

On top sat a folded note, written in a mishmash of pen colors and handwriting styles:

Thanks for nothing. See you Thursday.

– The Happy(??) Couples

P.S. Satoru’s streaming the wedding. Wear fireproof gear.

You sipped coffee from your new mug, stared at the key for a long moment, and thought— maybe naps were the answer after all.

Twenty Years Later , It was a rainy afternoon in the campus café—or rather, what used to be the campus café, now a wine bar with too much reclaimed wood and not enough decent lighting. The six of them sat at their usual pushed-together tables, though ‘usual’ now meant once a year at best.

The empty ninth chair stayed empty.

Nanami adjusted his reading glasses, leaning back in his chair like his spine had finally started charging him interest. His wedding band glinted under the light as he nursed a coffee. “I got the memorial invite this morning. You all going?”

“Obviously,” Sukuna said. He looked the same, only with more ink, less hair, and a face that had grown comfortable in its own shamelessness. “The counselor was the only reason I didn’t get expelled for… most things.”

“You mean the counselor keeping the administration from noticing half your crimes,” Nanami corrected.

Gojo was already halfway through his wine. “She still dated Yuki though. Whole time we thought she was single, and she was having—”

“—an actual adult relationship,” Suguru finished, shaking his head in mock disbelief. His hair had silvered at the temples, but he still had that therapist’s smooth cadence, like every sentence had been proofread in his head before leaving his mouth. “Professor Yuki’s.. was a good match for her. Sharp. Knows how to keep secrets.”

“Back then, we didn’t even think she had a personal life,” Hiromi said. His tailored suit was sharper than ever, and his wedding band matched the gold pin on his lapel. “And here we were making her babysit our disasters every Thursday.”

Kashimo lounged next to him, bright cyan hair streaked with white, suit jacket hanging loose over the chair. “Babysitting’s what she lived for. You think she stayed late because she liked paperwork? Nah. She liked the entertainment.”

“She hated the chaos,” Atsuya mumbled from behind his coffee, dark circles under his eyes—not from all-nighters anymore, but from having four kids under ten. “She told me once she’d rather fight a bear than listen to you two argue about prenups again.” He jabbed his thumb toward Hiromi and Kashimo.

Toji chuckled, his hands big and calloused from decades of mechanical work. “And yet she still came to all our weddings.” He tilted his head toward Atsuya. “Even ours. Twice.”

“That’s ‘cause you forgot to file the paperwork the first time,” Atsuya deadpanned.

Gojo grinned, swirling his glass. “You think she’d be proud of us now?”

Nanami snorted. “No. But she’d at least be relieved none of us committed a felony this year.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sukuna muttered, smirking into his drink.

Kashimo leaned back, stretching. “I dunno. I think she’d be proud. We turned out… fine. Mostly married. Gainfully employed. Kids that aren’t in juvie.”

Hiromi’s mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “And we still meet on Thursdays.”

The rain hit harder against the windows. The empty chair stayed empty, but none of them rushed to fill it.