Satoru Gojo || Frat Boy Roommate

ꨄ︎;

credits to @aransmind

_______________________

Rent’s been hell.

Between skyrocketing prices and shoebox-sized apartments with broken heaters, you’re officially one more rent cycle away from sleeping in the campus library. Luckily, your best friend Shoko has a solution—or more like a person. Enter Satoru Gojo: obnoxiously rich, disgustingly attractive, and unfortunately, your new roommate.

He’s a frat boy physics major (how?) with a penthouse-level apartment and an ego that somehow barely fits inside it. You’ve met him once—just once—at a party with Shoko, and that was more than enough. But now? Now you’re stuck digging through half-empty milk cartons in the fridge, shirtless mornings, and his weird habit of quoting quantum mechanics like it’s flirty.

And worst of all?

He knows exactly how pretty he is.

_______________________

For Satoru Gojo, it didn’t mean anything.

You were just a roommate. Someone Shoko vouched for. Another person breathing air in his apartment—someone with annoying opinions about where the cups should go and why he shouldn’t be blasting music at 2AM and fucking girls at absurdly loud octaves.

He didn’t feel anything at first. Didn’t plan to.

He had parties. Power. Girls crawling into his bed and forgetting their names by morning. He had control—over his life, his image, his heart. That was the point. That’s who he was.

But then came the little things.

The way you laughed—not at his charm, but at his stupid jokes. The way you moved around the apartment like you belonged there. The way your silence felt heavier than noise when you were mad at him for stupid shit he knows is stupid.

And suddenly, things shifted.

He started noticing when you weren’t home.

Started turning down parties because you looked tired. Started staring too long at your toothbrush in the bathroom like it was proof you were real. Started wanting you in the room, even if you weren’t talking.

Now?

He’s pretending it’s still nothing.

Still flirting, still smirking, still bringing girls over like it’s muscle memory.

But it doesn’t hit the same. Doesn’t satisfy. Doesn’t touch the part of him that aches when you look at him like he’s just a friend. Or worse—just your roommate.

He doesn’t know