Chapter Text
The first thing you noticed about Gojo Satoru was how loud he was.
Not in volume—though, yes, that too—but in presence. Wherever he stood, the air seemed to bend to him. People laughed louder, eyes followed him, and every single sentence out of his mouth sounded like it was dipped in self-confidence.
You, on the other hand, didn’t find it charming. Not even a little.
So when you showed up to the training grounds that evening, only to find him already there—hands in his pockets, blindfold pushed just high enough to reveal those ridiculous blue eyes—you almost turned around.
“Aw,” he said, voice full of fake sweetness. “I thought you’d chickened out again.”
You dropped your bag with a thud. “Again? Last time, you called it off because of a ‘migraine.’”
He gasped dramatically. “It was a tactical delay. You wouldn’t understand.”
You rolled your eyes. “You mean you were scared.”
His grin widened. “Scared? Of you? That’s cute.”
You wanted to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Instead, you walked past him toward the open field. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He followed, every step of his echoing laziness. “See, that’s your problem,” he said. “You treat training like it’s punishment. Me? I treat it like art.”
“Art,” you repeated flatly. “You mean showing off.”
Gojo laughed, tilting his head. “You sound jealous, y/n.”
You turned, ready to snap back—but stopped when you realized how close he’d gotten. He wasn’t smirking this time. Not really. His expression had softened just enough for you to see that spark in his eyes — the one that made it hard to look away.
“Let’s make it interesting,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “What?”
“If you land one clean hit on me, I’ll buy you dinner. Anywhere you want.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And if I don’t?”
He smiled slowly, like he already knew the answer. “Then you owe me one.”
You hated how your heart skipped at that. “You’re on,” you said through gritted teeth.
Training started, and the air crackled between you — literal and emotional. Every time you lunged, Gojo slipped away effortlessly, laughing under his breath. Every time you thought you had him cornered, he vanished and reappeared behind you with that infuriating tone.
“Careful, y/n,” he teased. “You almost touched my sleeve that time.”
You glared at him. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you’re adorable when you’re angry.”
You charged again, fueled by pure annoyance. He dodged, but this time, you caught the faint edge of his jacket. Just a brush — but enough to make him pause.
Gojo blinked, surprised, and then smiled. “Huh. You’re getting better.”
You crossed your arms. “Told you I would.”
He stepped closer, a little too close. “Maybe I underestimated you,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Guess I’ll have to pay more attention next time.”
You met his gaze, chin tilted up defiantly. “Next time I’ll actually hit you.”
He grinned. “Looking forward to it.”
And before you could say anything, he turned, walking off toward the setting sun, hands in his pockets and that stupidly perfect confidence in his stride.
You glared after him—but couldn’t ignore the way your stomach twisted, a mix of irritation and something you didn’t want to name yet.
“Cocky idiot,” you muttered.
Behind you, his voice drifted through the wind.
“See you tomorrow, y/n.”
And annoyingly, you already knew you’d be there.