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Naoya remembers the first time he saw you like it was yesterday.
It was 2006. He was fifteen, finally deemed important enough to sit beside his father and uncles at the annual meeting of the three clans. A privilege, they called it. Proof that he was shaping into something worth acknowledging. A real man.
The room had been divided cleanly, as tradition demanded. Zenin to the left, Kamo across from them, and the Gojo section ahead, noticeably empty.
The meeting had been going on for hours. Voices echoed endlessly through the open space. Old men droning on about lineage, influence, and power. Clan politics, chronically boring.
Naoya had tried to look attentive. Tried to sit like a man. But even then, boredom had weighed heavy in his bones.
He had thought this meeting would be different. Thought it would be a chance to show he was more than a spoiled heir. Instead, he’d learned something far more disappointing. This was what power looked like. And it was tedious.
The sharp slide of a shoji door cut through his thoughts.
Every head in the room turned in unison, irritation already etched across their faces, until they saw you.
You walked in without ceremony, tall enough to draw attention instantly. Taller than any woman Naoya had ever seen. A deep blue kimono hung loosely on your frame, tied like it had been thrown on in a hurry. The front of it open and showing your cleavage and collarbones. A bottle of sake dangled casually from your hand. You made your way toward the lone empty seat, stumbling once then twice before dropping onto the tatami without grace.
The room filled with murmurs and whispers. The Kamo clan head was the first to explode.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked. “This is a meeting of clan representatives only!”
You tipped the sake bottle back and drank, slow and deliberate.
“Relax,” you grumbled. “Satoru couldn’t make it. I’m just filling in for him.”
Naoya’s father hadn’t even tried to hide his disdain.
“That Gojo brat sent a woman in his place?” Naobito scoffed. “Is he so arrogant he thinks we’ll take this seriously?”
A woman representing the Gojo clan. Undisciplined, sloppy, drunk. It was almost laughable.
If Gojo Satoru were half the man people claimed, he wouldn’t hide behind a woman, he thought.
He studied you more closely. He’d never seen you before. You had to be a Gojo. Your stark white hair gave that away. But your eyes weren’t that blinding, arrogant blue Satoru carried. Yours were pitch black. More jaded.
“You finished?” you asked flatly. “I’d like to get this over with. I’ve got places to be.”
The sheer disrespect made Naoya’s blood boil. Who did you think you were?
He leaned forward, seizing his moment. “Interrupting men of authority just to rush us?” he said sharply. “Someone ought to put you in your place.”
Your gaze snapped to his face, those dark eyes locking onto him like a vice. They weren’t just cold but amused. You weren’t taking this seriously at all.
And then your lips split into a lazy grin.
“Put in my place, huh?” you say, a puff of air escaping your nose like an almost laugh.
Naoya’s eye twitch with irritation. Who the hell did you think you were?
Suddenly you stood up and took a long swig of your sake. You stretch your arms wide grin still apparent on your face.
“Well, cmon then! Teach me a lesson, tough guy!”
He freezes. He didn’t really plan past the smart remark but now the whole room is watching and his father gives him an expectant glance so now he has to commit to this.
Naoya stands and walks toward you, jaw tight. This was his chance. His moment to prove himself. To put this drunk, disrespectful woman in her place.
When he stops in front of you, the height difference hits him again. He barely reaches your shoulders.
He looks up and meets that infuriatingly smug expression. Lazy. Amused. Unbothered. Not only that but the smell of booze was overly apparent this close up. It made his nose crinkle in disgust.
He wants to wipe that grin right off your face.
With a sharp breath, he raises his hand and swings for a slap—
—but before it can land, you catch his wrist with your free hand.
Despite the alcohol in your system, your grip is iron. Precise. Nothing like the stumbling drunk from before. In one smooth motion, you step past him, twist his arm, and shove him forward. Hard.
Naoya hits the tatami face-first with a heavy thud.
“W—wha—!”
The words die in his throat, shock and humiliation choking them off.
The room falls dead silent.
Then you break it, throwing your head back and laughing. It’s loud, ugly, and a little unhinged.
“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, kid!”
“How dare you!” he snarls, scrambling. “What the hell was that?!”
You sigh, rolling your shoulders, with a satisfied smile. “Listen, I don’t got the time to play with you. That’s your daddy’s job.”
You turn toward the exit, steps unhurried.
“I’m assuming there’s nothing else worth talkin’ about. I’m leaving.” you call out.
You don’t look back. Unbothered by the furious whispers swelling behind you as you walk out.
Naoya is left there on the ground, fists clenched so tightly his nails bite into his palms. His face burns hotter than the sake on your breath ever did. He had been beaten, dismissed, emasculated. In front of everyone.
It follows him into every training hall, every family gathering. They never let him forget it.
He never saw you at another clan meeting.
But he swore if he ever saw you again, he’d get you back. No matter what.