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sixeyesonathiel · 10 days ago

Text

in case of academic emergency, kiss me

pairing — nerd satoru x fem reader

synopsis : you’ve never liked muscles—too veiny, too try-hard, too gym-bro coded for your taste—which makes satoru gojo the perfect academic crush: lean, bookish, annoyingly brilliant, and safely tucked behind oversized sweaters and wire glasses. he’s the kind of boy who corrects professors mid-lecture and times his pen clicks like a ritual, which you absolutely haven’t been documenting in your notebook instead of actual math. you’re three rows behind him in advanced calculus and catastrophically gone, convinced he’s harmless—until a coffee shop collision, one t-shirt, and a deeply inconvenient bicep reveal send you into a full-blown crisis you may or may not kiss your way out of.

tags -> oneshot, fluff and humor, college au, study dates that are actually dates, mutual pining, character study disguised as a crush spiral, satoru is insufferable and hot about it, reader is so mentally ill about one man, study session or seduction who can tell, she thought he was safe (he wasn’t), calculus is the least of her problems, emotional damage but cute, he takes off his sweater and ruins her life, majestic art by @/rinoomii on twt ♡

wc — 10.7k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?

a/n: this was for that one anon who requested a drabble with sleeper build nerdjo, sorry it took so long, take this 10k beast instead mwah 😽

you’ve always believed that muscles are fundamentally disgusting.

not in a mean way—more like how some people think feet are gross or how the texture of velvet makes them want to crawl out of their skin. it’s visceral, unexplainable, the way your stomach turns at the thought of all that bulging mass and veiny definition. which makes your current predicament absolutely, catastrophically ironic.

because here you are, sitting three rows behind satoru in advanced calculus, completely and utterly gone for a boy who couldn’t look more like he’s never seen the inside of a gym if he tried.

the morning light filters through the lecture hall windows, catching the mess of his hair—not quite platinum, not quite pearl, but something like the color of fresh snow under streetlights, if snow could defy gravity and stick up at impossible angles while somehow still looking effortlessly perfect. you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time cataloging the way it moves when he turns his head, the way it catches light like spun silver thread, the way one particular strand always falls across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back with that same precise, annoyed gesture.

(you’re pathetic. you know you’re pathetic. you’ve literally counted the number of times he does that little hair-push thing per lecture—it’s seventeen on average, and you’re horrified by the fact that you know this. even more horrified by the fact that you’ve started timing the intervals between each gesture. twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take.)

professor yaga’s voice drones on about derivatives, but you’re lost in the way satoru’s shoulders hunch slightly as he scribbles notes, the careful precision of his long fingers around his pen—fingers that are almost delicate, pale and elegant like they belong to a pianist rather than a college student. the way he occasionally pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle—never his fingertip, always his knuckle, like he’s afraid of smudging the lenses or maybe like he’s performed this exact motion so many times it’s become muscle memory.

there’s something almost ritualistic about it, this careful maintenance of his perfect image. you’ve noticed he does a quick check of his appearance every time he enters a room—subtle, barely perceptible, but you’ve been watching him long enough to catch the way his eyes briefly scan his reflection in any available surface, the way his fingers make minute adjustments to his hair or the position of his glasses.

you wonder if he knows how pretty his hands are. you wonder if he knows you’ve been staring at them for the better part of two months, memorizing the way his thumb taps against his pen when he’s thinking, the way he flexes his fingers when he’s about to write something he’s particularly proud of. you wonder if he knows that you’ve started taking notes about his note-taking habits instead of actually taking notes, which is definitely going to bite you in the ass come exam time.

(seriously, your notebook is less “advanced calculus” and more “comprehensive guide to satoru gojo’s micro-expressions and fidgeting patterns.” you’re a fucking disaster.)

you’re so busy staring at the way his neck curves when he tilts his head—and god, what a neck, all pale skin and sharp angles, the kind of neck that makes you want to trace your fingers along the line of it—that you don’t notice the classroom has gone quiet until professor yaga’s voice cuts through your reverie like a blade.

“miss,” yaga says, and you can hear the barely contained irritation in his voice, the way he draws out the word like it’s personally offensive to him, “perhaps you’d like to solve this equation for us?”

your stomach drops to somewhere around your ankles. the whiteboard might as well be covered in ancient sumerian for all the sense it makes to you. you enrolled in this class for exactly one reason, and that reason is currently turning in his seat to look at you with those eyes—god, those eyes that aren’t just blue but something deeper, stranger, like the color of deep ocean water when afternoon light hits it just right, or maybe like the heart of a glacier, all crystalline and impossible.

his head tilts slightly as he looks at you, and you catch the way his lips part just a fraction, the way his eyebrows draw together in what might be concern. there’s something almost protective in his expression, the way he leans forward slightly in his seat like he’s preparing to spring into action.

there’s a collective shift in the room, students turning to look at you with expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright schadenfreude. jennifer, two seats over, is definitely smirking, her perfectly glossed lips curved in a way that makes you want to throw your textbook at her head. you can feel your face burning, can practically hear your heartbeat in your ears, and you’re acutely aware that everyone—including satoru—is watching you flounder like a fish out of water.

you catch the way your hands start to shake slightly, the way your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face is doing that thing where it goes blotchy and red in the worst possible way. your mouth opens and closes once, twice, no sound coming out, and you’re pretty sure you look like you’re having some kind of breakdown.

(this is fine. this is totally fine. you’re just about to publicly humiliate yourself in front of the boy you’ve been mooning over for eight weeks. no big deal. just your entire academic reputation and any chance of ever talking to satoru again going up in flames. totally manageable.)

you’re about to open your mouth and make a complete fool of yourself when satoru’s hand shoots up with the kind of lazy confidence that makes half the class want to throw things at him. but you catch the way his fingers tremble slightly, so briefly you almost miss it, the way he presses his lips together for just a moment before speaking.

“actually, professor yaga,” he says, and his voice carries that particular blend of polite condescension and casual arrogance that makes your chest flutter even as you watch three people in the front row visibly bristle, “i think there’s an error in the problem setup.”

the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. you can practically feel the collective eye-roll rippling through the lecture hall like a wave. behind you, someone mutters “here we go again” under their breath, and you have to resist the urge to turn around and defend him. but you’re too busy watching the way satoru’s jaw tightens slightly, the way his free hand curls into a loose fist on his desk before he forces it to relax.

yaga’s eyes narrow dangerously, his entire posture shifting into something that suggests he’s about to commit murder. “excuse me?”

“the coefficient in the third term,” satoru continues, completely unbothered by the teacher’s glare or the way half the class is now shooting him looks that could kill. his fingers drum once against his desk before he catches himself and forces them to still—a tiny crack in his perfect composure that somehow makes you want to protect him, want to build a wall between him and everyone else in this room. “it should be negative, not positive, based on the previous step. common mistake, really.”

and there it is—that little smile, barely there but unmistakable, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s just performed a particularly clever magic trick. his chin lifts slightly, and you catch the way his eyes briefly flick toward you, checking to see if you’re watching, if you’re safe.

(common mistake. god, he’s such a little shit, and you’re completely gone for him. absolutely, irrevocably, pathetically gone.)

the silence that follows is deafening. you can see yaga’s jaw working, can practically feel the collective urge to murder emanating from your classmates like heat waves. satoru just sits there, chin tilted up slightly, that insufferable little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh, the way his shoulders are held just a little too rigidly.

there’s something almost performative about it, the way he wields his intelligence like a shield, deflecting attention from the fact that he’s just saved you from public humiliation. again. you’re starting to recognize the pattern—the way he times his interruptions, the way he makes his corrections sound like casual observations rather than calculated rescues.

but more than that, you’re starting to recognize the cost of it. the way other students look at him like he’s some kind of academic boogeyman, the way professors tolerate him with barely concealed irritation, the way he sits alone in every class despite being the smartest person in the room.

“you’re right,” yaga says finally, and the admission sounds like it physically pains him, like each word is being dragged from his throat with pliers. he turns back to the board with more force than necessary, chalk scraping against the surface with a sound that makes half the class wince. “thank you for the... correction.”

as the professor erases and rewrites the equation, you catch the subtle way satoru’s shoulders relax, the way his fingers uncurl from where they’d been gripping his pen. his head drops slightly, and you see him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a way that suggests he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

he’s nervous, you realize. he’s just as affected by these moments as you are, just better at hiding it behind layers of calculated arrogance and that insufferable smile.

that’s the fifteenth time this semester—you’ve been counting, because apparently your brain has decided to catalog every single instance of satoru saving you from academic humiliation. fifteen times in eight weeks, and each time you fall a little bit deeper into this ridiculous, hopeless crush. each time you’re more convinced that you’re the only person in this entire lecture hall who doesn’t find him completely insufferable.

(you’re also probably the only person who’s noticed the way his ears go pink when he’s called out, or the way he clicks his pen three times before he raises his hand, or the way he always makes sure his “corrections” benefit you specifically. you’re definitely the only person who’s noticed the way he glances over at you after each rescue, checking to make sure you’re okay, that little furrow between his brows that suggests he’s genuinely worried about you.)

because that’s the thing about satoru—he’s brilliant, and he knows it, and he’s absolutely shameless about wielding that intelligence like a weapon. he’s the type of person who corrects professors mid-lecture with a smile that suggests he’s doing them a favor, who finishes exams in half the allotted time and then sits there looking bored while everyone else scrambles, occasionally glancing around the room with barely concealed amusement.

but you’ve started to notice the moments when the mask slips. the way he sometimes looks out the window with an expression that’s almost wistful, like he’s thinking about being anywhere else. the way he doodles in the margins of his notes—not equations or formulas, but little sketches, delicate and precise, usually of things he can see from his seat. a leaf, the corner of a building, once, memorably, a tiny sketch of the back of someone’s head that looked suspiciously like your silhouette.

he’s condescending without meaning to be, arrogant without trying, and you’re pretty sure he’s never encountered a problem he couldn’t solve or a question he couldn’t answer. you’ve watched him turn in homework assignments written in what you can only describe as mathematical poetry, each solution more elegant than the last, and you’ve seen the way professor yaga’s mouth tightens every time satoru raises his hand.

it should be annoying. it should make you want to throw things at him like everyone else does. jennifer actually did throw a pencil at him once—it bounced off his shoulder and he just turned around and smiled at her like she’d given him a compliment, but you caught the way his smile faltered for just a moment, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to rub the spot where it hit.

instead, it makes you want to lean over and whisper ‘thank you’ directly into his ear, makes you want to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, makes you want to mess up his perfectly styled hair just to see what he’d do. probably fix it with that same precise, methodical care he applies to everything else, but maybe—just maybe—he’d let you be the one to mess it up again.

you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore. it’s concerning. it’s the kind of pathetic that would make your friends stage an intervention if they knew. the kind of pathetic that has you checking your reflection in every surface before class, wondering if today might be the day he actually notices you beyond your academic incompetence.

the lecture continues, yaga’s voice taking on that particular sharp edge that suggests satoru has ruined his entire day, and you watch the way your classmates shoot covert glances at the boy three rows ahead. there’s resentment in those looks, the kind of frustrated irritation that comes from being consistently outshone by someone who doesn’t even seem to be trying.

but you’re not watching them. you’re watching satoru, cataloging the way he takes notes with the same meticulous care he applies to everything else, his handwriting neat and precise even when he’s obviously bored. you’re watching the way he occasionally glances toward the window, his expression going soft and distant, like he’s thinking about something far more interesting than derivatives.

you’re watching the way he doesn’t look back at you, but you catch the subtle way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces his hand to still. you notice the way he shifts in his seat, adjusting his position so that he’s angled slightly toward you, like he’s subconsciously trying to keep you in his peripheral vision.

you wonder if he knows what he’s doing, if he’s keeping track too, if he notices the way you always seem to be in trouble right when he’s ready with an answer. you wonder if he’s cataloging your expressions the way you’ve been cataloging his, if he’s noticed the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous.

(he is. he’s been counting too, actually, though his count is higher because he includes all the times he’s wanted to interrupt but didn’t, all the times he’s watched you panic in that particular way that makes your eyes go wide and your bottom lip disappear between your teeth. he’s been cataloging your expressions the same way you’ve been cataloging his, though he’s infinitely better at being subtle about it. he knows you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, knows you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous, knows you have this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to work through a problem. he’s memorized the way you look when you’re happy, when you’re confused, when you’re frustrated. he’s got it all filed away in his brain like the most important data he’s ever collected.)

you’re wondering what it would be like to know him outside of this careful academic performance when the lecture ends, students immediately scrambling for the exits with the kind of urgency that suggests they’re fleeing rather than simply leaving. you can hear fragments of conversation as people file out—“such a show-off,” “can’t believe yaga puts up with that,” “probably thinks he’s smarter than everyone”—and you want to defend him, want to point out that he is smarter than everyone, but you’re too busy shoving your barely-touched notebook into your bag, trying to look like you weren’t just spending ninety minutes staring at the back of someone’s head.

your hands are shaking slightly as you pack up your things, a combination of leftover adrenaline from your near-humiliation and the growing realization that you’re about to be alone with him, maybe for the first time since this whole ridiculous crush started. you fumble with your bag’s zipper, curse under your breath when it catches, and generally look like the disaster you are.

when he appears beside your desk, you’re struck by how different he looks up close. all sharp angles and pale skin, the kind of boy who looks like he’d snap in half if you hugged him too tight. which is perfect, actually, because you have no interest in the alternative.

but more than that, you’re struck by how he seems to take up more space than his slight frame should allow. there’s something about his presence that’s magnetic, commanding, the way he stands with his weight shifted slightly forward, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that makes you want to lean closer, something that makes you think of morning frost and expensive soap.

there’s something almost fragile about him when he’s not performing for the class, something that makes you want to handle him carefully. his glasses have slipped down his nose slightly, and when he pushes them up with that familiar gesture, you catch the way his eyelashes flutter against the lenses, impossibly long and pale.

“rough lecture?” he asks, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way he says it, like he’s aware that his interventions might be drawing unwanted attention to you. his head tilts slightly, and you notice the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he doesn’t bother to push it back this time. there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious, concerned.

you catch the way your breath hitches slightly, the way your fingers tighten around your bag strap. “depends on your definition of rough,” you reply, slinging your bag over your shoulder, hyperaware of how close he is, how the simple act of standing puts you almost at eye level with him. “if by rough you mean completely incomprehensible, then yeah, absolutely brutal.”

he laughs, and it’s nothing like the polite chuckle he gives in class. this is genuine, warm, the kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “it’s not that bad once you get the hang of it,” he says, falling into step beside you as you head toward the door. you notice the way he shortens his stride to match your pace, the way he holds the door open for you with casual politeness, his fingers briefly brushing yours as you pass through. “calculus is just like... a language. once you learn the grammar, everything else falls into place.”

the brief contact sends a jolt up your arm, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you shiver slightly, the way your cheeks flush. you step through the door, and he follows, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. the hallway is busy with students rushing to their next classes, and you have to resist the urge to grab his arm to keep from losing him in the crowd.

“easy for you to say, mr. perfect score on every exam,” you say, and you can’t help but smile at the way he preens slightly at the compliment, his chin lifting just a fraction in that familiar gesture of pride. his eyes light up in a way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“perfect score is an exaggeration,” he says, but he’s clearly pleased, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a way that makes you want to trace the path of it with your fingertips. his fingers fidget with the strap of his bag, and you wonder if he’s as nervous as you are, if he feels the same electric tension that seems to crackle between you whenever you’re this close.

“ninety-eight percent is still perfect in my book.”

“that two percent haunts me,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest with such dramatic flair that you can’t help but laugh. his eyes are dancing with mischief, and you catch the way he leans slightly closer as he speaks, like he’s sharing a secret. “keeps me awake at night, wondering where i went wrong.”

this is how it always goes with satoru—easy banter that makes you forget why you were ever nervous around him in the first place. he has this way of matching your energy, of making conversation feel like a game where you’re both trying to make the other laugh first. it’s addictive, the way he responds to your sarcasm with his own, the way he seems genuinely delighted when you give as good as you get.

but underneath the easy conversation, you’re hyperaware of every detail—the way he gestures when he talks, his hands moving in precise, elegant motions like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. the way his eyes light up when he’s about to make a joke, the way they seem to focus entirely on you like you’re the only person in this crowded hallway. the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize your expressions, the way his smile goes soft and genuine when he thinks you’re not looking.

you notice the way other students move around you both, giving satoru a wide berth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. he’s too focused on you, on the conversation, on the way you laugh at his ridiculous dramatics.

“hey,” he says suddenly, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more hesitant. his fingers find the strap of his bag, fidgeting with the buckle in a way that suggests he’s more nervous than he’s letting on. “i was wondering... would you maybe want to study together sometime? i mean, if you want. no pressure or anything, but i think i could help you with some of the concepts that are giving you trouble.”

you stop walking so abruptly that the student behind you nearly crashes into your back, muttering something unflattering about people who don’t know how to walk in hallways. satoru takes two more steps before he realizes you’re not beside him anymore, then turns back with a slightly confused expression, his eyebrows raised in question. behind his glasses, his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossible color that makes your brain short-circuit and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

“you want to study with me?” you ask, and you hate how breathless you sound, hate the way your voice goes up at the end like you can’t quite believe it. students flow around you both like water around stones, and you’re vaguely aware of someone muttering “move it along” as they squeeze past, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“well, yeah,” he says, and now his ears are definitely pink, a flush creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater. he pushes his glasses up his nose in that familiar gesture, and you realize it’s become a tell—something he does when he’s nervous or uncertain. “i mean, you’re smart, obviously. you just need someone to explain things in a way that makes sense. and i...” he trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting your eyes again. “i like talking to you. about math stuff. and non-math stuff too.”

there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, the way his fingers twist in the strap of his bag, the way he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s fighting the urge to flee. you catch the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the way he bites his lower lip briefly before releasing it.

your heart is doing something acrobatic and probably medically concerning in your chest. you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he’s just offered you the moon, and maybe that’s not far from the truth. this beautiful, brilliant boy who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry wants to spend time with you outside of class.

“okay,” you say, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, can feel the way your cheeks are starting to hurt from the sheer width of your grin. you probably look deranged, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “yeah, i’d like that. i’d like that a lot.”

“really?” the relief in his voice is so obvious it’s almost endearing, and you catch the way his shoulders relax, the way his grip on his bag strap loosens. his smile transforms his entire face, making him look younger, softer, less like the intimidating academic weapon everyone thinks he is. “cool. great. how about friday? there’s this coffee shop off campus that’s pretty quiet, good for studying.”

“it’s a date,” you say, and then immediately want to melt into the floor because who says that, who actually says ‘it’s a date’ in response to a study session invitation, what is wrong with you—

but satoru’s smile goes soft and genuine, transforming his entire face, and he says, “yeah, it is,” and suddenly your mortification transforms into something warm and fluttery that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

there’s something different about the way he looks at you then, something that makes the busy hallway fade into background noise. his eyes seem to trace your features like he’s memorizing them, and you catch the way his lips part slightly, the way his breathing seems to quicken.

you’re standing in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around you like water around stones, and for a moment it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. you can see the exact moment when he realizes how close you are, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes.

then the moment breaks as someone jostles past you, muttering about people blocking the hallway, and you’re both laughing, a little breathless and a lot overwhelmed. the spell is broken, but something has shifted between you, something that makes the air feel charged with possibility.

“i should probably get to my next class,” you say, even though you want to stay here forever, want to memorize every detail of this moment, want to bottle up the way he’s looking at you and save it for later.

“yeah, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t break eye contact. his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you, and you wonder what would happen if you just took that step closer, if you eliminated the careful distance he’s maintaining.

you can see the internal struggle playing out on his face, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides. there’s something he wants to say, something he wants to do, but he’s holding himself back.

“friday,” you say, and it comes out softer than you intended, almost like a promise.

“friday,” he agrees, and then he’s walking away, but not before you catch the way he glances back over his shoulder, the way his hand lifts in a small wave that’s almost shy.

you watch him go, noting the way other students move out of his way, the way conversations seem to pause as he passes. he’s magnetic in a way that draws attention even when he’s not trying to, and you realize with a start that everyone else sees it too—they just respond to it differently than you do.

where you see brilliance, they see arrogance. where you see careful precision, they see showing off. where you see someone who’s maybe just a little bit lonely behind all that intelligence, they see someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else.

maybe he does think he’s better than everyone else. maybe that’s part of what makes him so fascinating.

you’re still standing there, watching his retreating figure, when you realize you’re going to be late for your next class. but you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy replaying every moment of the conversation, already counting down the hours until friday.

this is dangerous territory, you think as you finally start walking toward your next class, your feet practically floating above the ground. this is the kind of crush that could completely derail your academic career, the kind of infatuation that makes you do stupid things like enroll in advanced calculus just to stare at someone’s neck.

but as you think about the way satoru looked at you, the way his voice went soft when he asked you to study with him, the way he said “yeah, it is” like he meant it, you decide that maybe dangerous territory isn’t such a bad place to be.

especially when it comes with the promise of friday afternoon coffee and the chance to finally figure out what makes satoru gojo tick.

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.

you’re so screwed.

friday arrives like a slow-motion disaster, the kind where you can see the crash coming from miles away but you’re powerless to stop it. you’ve changed your outfit three times—first too casual, then too formal, then back to casual because this is just studying, right? just two people and some textbooks and definitely not a date despite what you said in that moment of temporary insanity.

(except he said “yeah, it is” with that soft smile and those impossible eyes, and you’ve been replaying that moment on loop for three days straight like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.)

the coffee shop is exactly the kind of place you’d expect satoru to choose—minimalist décor, overpriced drinks, the sort of aggressively hip establishment where the baristas have philosophy degrees and the wifi password is something pretentious like “nietzsche123.” you spot him immediately, sitting in a corner booth with textbooks spread across the table like he’s preparing for academic warfare.

he’s early. of course he’s early. probably calculated the exact time needed to arrange his hair in that perfectly imperfect way, probably positioned himself at the precise angle where the afternoon light would catch the silver threads woven through the pearl-white strands like he’s his own personal photographer.

when he sees you, his face transforms—eyebrows lifting slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what starts as surprise before blooming into something genuine and warm. he stands up with fluid grace, all long limbs and careful coordination, and waves you over with a gesture that’s somehow both casual and theatrical, fingers splaying wide before curling into a beckoning motion.

“you made it,” he says when you reach the table, and there’s something almost breathless in his voice, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. his fingers drum once against the table edge before he catches himself, shoving his hands into his pockets with a self-conscious laugh.

“did you think i wouldn’t?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him, your knee bumping against his under the table. he doesn’t move away—if anything, he seems to lean into the contact, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.

“honestly? kind of.” he pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckle, and you’re starting to recognize it as his tell for when he’s being more honest than his usual performance allows. his gaze drops to the table for just a moment before meeting yours again, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. “i have this effect on people where they find me charming for about thirty seconds and then remember i’m insufferable.”

you’re watching the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he emphasizes certain words with tiny gestures—a tilt of his head, a slight lean forward, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip when he’s thinking. it’s hypnotic, the careful choreography of his expressions, and you’re rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.

“thirty seconds? wow, that’s generous.” you’re unpacking your bag with deliberate slowness, trying to give your hands something to do so you don’t reach across the table and touch the strand of hair that’s falling across his forehead. “most people clock you as insufferable immediately.”

“ouch,” he says, but he’s grinning now, the kind of sharp-edged smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them shine like winter light on water. his head tilts to the side, and you can see the way his hair shifts with the movement, revealing the elegant line of his neck. “and here i thought you were different.”

“i am different,” you say, finally looking up at him fully, and something in your tone makes his expression shift. his smile softens, becomes less performative, and he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand in a way that makes his eyes seem impossibly large behind his glasses. “i think you’re insufferable and charming.”

the silence that follows is loaded with the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too tight. satoru’s fingers drum once against the table—index, middle, ring, pinkie in perfect succession—before he catches himself and forces his hand to still. you can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin.

“well,” he says finally, and his voice has dropped to something softer, more intimate, the words shaped carefully around a smile that’s trying to be casual but comes out fond instead. “i can work with that.”

he’s already ordered you a coffee—somehow knew exactly how you like it, which should be creepy but instead makes your chest feel warm and fluttery like you’ve swallowed a handful of butterflies. when you raise an eyebrow at him, he shrugs with practiced nonchalance, but you can see the way his ears go pink at the tips.

“you get the same thing every morning from the campus café,” he says, pulling out his calculus notebook with movements that are just a little too precise to be natural. his fingers trace the edge of the cover before flipping it open, and you notice the way his handwriting is perfectly neat even in the margins. “vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam. you also tap your card exactly three times before you put it away, and you always check your phone right after ordering.”

you stare at him, and he meets your gaze with something that’s trying to be confident but comes across as almost shy. his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“that’s either very observant or very stalky.”

“i prefer observant,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s admitting to more than just casual people-watching. his fingers fidget with his pen, clicking it once, twice, three times before he realizes what he’s doing and forces his hand to still. “i notice things. especially when they’re interesting.”

you’re hyperaware of every micro-expression—the way his eyebrows lift slightly when he’s waiting for your response, the way his lips part just a fraction when he’s thinking, the way his eyes track your movements like he’s cataloging every detail for later review.

“are you calling me interesting?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the way your hands are trembling slightly. the movement draws his attention to your mouth, and you can see the way his gaze lingers there before snapping back to your eyes.

“i’m calling you distracting,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. his voice drops to something almost husky, and you can see the way his fingers tighten around his pen. “do you know how hard it is to focus on derivatives when you’re sitting three rows behind someone who makes the most adorable face when they’re confused?”

you nearly choke on your coffee, and satoru’s immediate reaction is to half-stand, his hand reaching across the table like he’s going to pat your back before he catches himself and settles back down. but his eyes are wide with concern, and you can see the way his whole body has tensed with the impulse to help.

“adorable face?” you manage once you’ve stopped coughing.

“mmm,” he hums, and now his smile is pure mischief. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you get these little lines right here—” he reaches across the table and almost touches the space between your eyebrows before catching himself, his hand hovering in the air for just a moment too long. you can see the way his fingers curl slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to make contact. “and you do this thing where you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking really hard.”

your face is burning. absolutely burning. you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“you’re making that up.”

“am i?” he tilts his head, and his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest. “you’re doing it right now.”

you immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider. his whole face lights up with delight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he does this little victorious bob of his head that’s so smug you want to throw something at him.

“see? adorable.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in it. you flip open your own textbook with more force than necessary, and you can feel him watching the movement with obvious amusement. “we’re here to study, remember?”

“right,” he says, but his tone suggests he’s not particularly invested in the idea. you can see him in your peripheral vision, the way he’s propping his chin on his hand, the way his eyes are still tracking your every movement instead of looking at his textbook. “studying. with calculus. very serious business.”

(this is hopeless. you’re supposed to be learning about derivatives and instead you’re cataloging the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. you’re supposed to be focusing on equations and instead you’re wondering what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore.)

for the first hour, he actually does help you study. he’s a good teacher, you’ll give him that—patient in a way that surprises you, breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces without making you feel stupid. but he’s also incredibly distracting in ways that feel almost intentional.

he keeps scooting closer under the pretense of getting a better look at your notebook, his movements casual but deliberate. first it’s just his knee pressing against yours under the table, then his shoulder brushing against yours when he leans over to point at something in your textbook. you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated with hints of cedar and something else that’s purely him.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, leaning closer to look at your work. his breath ghosts across your cheek, and you can see the way his eyes dart to your lips before focusing back on the page. “see, right here? you’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

his hand covers yours on the pen, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers are slightly longer than yours, the careful way he guides your movements. his touch is gentle but sure, and you find yourself focusing more on the pattern of his breathing than on whatever mathematical concept he’s trying to teach you.

“are you paying attention?” he asks, and there’s something almost smug in his voice, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. when you look up, he’s closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his storm-cloud eyes, can count the individual eyelashes behind his glasses.

“yes,” you lie, trying to focus on the equation in front of you instead of the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on your knuckles.

“liar,” he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly. “you’re not thinking about calculus at all, are you?”

you pull your hand away, probably too quickly, and immediately miss the contact. satoru’s expression flickers—just for a moment—with something that looks like disappointment before he covers it with that trademark smirk.

“i’m thinking about how insufferable you are.”

“mmm,” he hums, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied expression. his head tilts slightly, and you can see the way his hair catches the light, the way his eyes are still tracking your movements. “and how charming?”

“jury’s still out on that one.”

“i’ll take it,” he says, and then he’s back to explaining derivatives like he wasn’t just completely derailing your ability to form coherent thoughts. but you can see the way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces them to still.

(he’s nervous too. the realization hits you like a freight train—satoru gojo, who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry, who wields his intelligence like a weapon and his smile like a shield, is nervous around you. it’s a heady thought, knowing that you affect him even a fraction of how much he affects you.)

this is how the afternoon goes—moments of genuine studying interrupted by satoru being absolutely shameless about testing your boundaries. he finds excuses to touch you, to lean close, to make comments that toe the line between helpful and flirtatious.

when you get frustrated with a particularly difficult problem, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek for just a moment too long. you can see the way his eyes soften, the way his touch is gentle despite the calluses on his fingertips.

“there,” he says softly, and his voice has gone impossibly fond. “now i can see your face when you’re thinking.”

when you finally solve a problem correctly, he grins like you’ve just discovered the cure for cancer, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight. he does this little pleased wiggle in his seat that’s so endearing you want to kiss him senseless.

“knew you had it in you, smarty pants.”

when you make a joke about his handwriting being too neat, he leans over and deliberately writes something messy in your notebook, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. the movement draws your attention to his mouth, and you can see the way his lips curve around the task, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly when he’s focusing.

“there,” he says, sitting back with a pleased expression, his eyes bright with mischief. “now we match.”

(you’re in trouble. deep, catastrophic trouble. every small gesture, every casual touch, every moment of shared laughter is another nail in the coffin of your carefully constructed emotional defenses. you’re falling for him in real-time, and he seems to know it, seems to be cataloging every blush, every stutter, every moment you lose track of what you’re supposed to be doing because you’re too busy staring at him.)

it’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin, how he seems to know exactly which buttons to push to make you flustered. but it’s also kind of thrilling, the way he focuses all that sharp intelligence on figuring out how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you forget that you’re supposed to be studying.

by the time the sun starts to set, painting the coffee shop in shades of amber and gold, you’ve made decent progress on your calculus homework. but you’ve also developed what feels like a permanent blush and a serious case of satoru-induced brain fog. the other patrons have thinned out—the philosophy-major barista is cleaning the espresso machine with the kind of methodical precision that suggests closing time is approaching.

“we should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone and trying to ignore the way satoru’s face falls slightly at the suggestion. “it’s getting late.”

“probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move to pack up his things. instead, he leans back in his seat and studies you with those storm-glass eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side. you can see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his glasses have slipped down his nose just a fraction. “can i ask you something?”

“shoot.”

“why’d you take advanced calculus?” he asks, and there’s something genuinely curious in his voice, like he’s been wondering about this for a while. his fingers drum against the table—that same precise rhythm you’ve started to recognize as his thinking pattern. “i mean, it’s not required for your major, right?”

you freeze, your hands stilling in the process of shoving your textbook into your bag. because how do you explain that you enrolled in a class you have no business taking just to stare at someone’s neck? how do you admit that you’ve been making academic decisions based on a crush that’s gotten completely out of hand?

“i...” you start, then trail off, scrambling for a plausible lie. your eyes dart around the coffee shop, landing on anything but satoru’s face. “i thought it would be... useful?”

“useful,” he repeats, and his tone suggests he’s not buying it for a second. when you finally meet his gaze, you can see the way his eyebrows have lifted slightly, the way his mouth is fighting a smile. “for what?”

“for... life?” you try, and even you can hear how unconvincing that sounds. your voice goes up at the end, turning the statement into a question, and you can see the exact moment satoru realizes you’re lying.

his grin spreads slowly across his face, like sunrise breaking over a horizon, and you can see the way his eyes light up with delighted understanding. it’s the expression of someone who’s just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle, and you’re the puzzle.

“you took advanced calculus because of me, didn’t you?”

“that’s ridiculous,” you say, but your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal, which somewhat undermines your credibility. you can feel heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“oh my god,” he says, and his delight is so obvious it’s almost offensive. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you actually took a class you hate just to stare at me. that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

“it’s not—i didn’t—” you’re sputtering now, face burning with embarrassment, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air like you’re trying to grab the words back. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“am i wrong though?” he leans forward even more, resting his chin on his hand, and his smile is absolutely wicked. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “come on, admit it. you think i’m pretty.”

“i think you’re insufferable.”

“and pretty.” his voice drops to something almost sing-song, teasing, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

“and arrogant.”

“and devastatingly attractive.” he’s practically purring now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. his fingers drum against the table in that familiar pattern, and you can see the way his whole body is angled toward you, like you’re the center of his universe.

“and completely full of yourself.”

“but pretty though, right?” his voice has gone soft, almost vulnerable, and when you look at him you can see something genuine beneath the teasing. his smile is gentler now, less performative, and there’s something almost hopeful in the way he’s looking at you. “it’s okay, you can say it. i already know.”

you want to deny it, want to maintain some shred of dignity, but the way he’s looking at you makes your brain turn to mush. his eyes are soft and warm and impossibly blue-grey, like storm clouds with sunlight behind them, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“you’re... aesthetically pleasing,” you admit finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper.

“aesthetically pleasing,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like expensive wine. his smile widens, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “wow, try not to swoon too hard.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, and you can see the way his whole face lights up when he sees it.

“make me,” he says, and there’s something challenging in his voice that makes your heart race. his eyes dart to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly.

the tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, how easy it would be to just lean forward and close the distance between you. the coffee shop has gone quiet around you—just the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant murmur of the barista’s radio.

“we should really go,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean slightly closer, drawn by some invisible force that seems to exist in the space between you.

“yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. his eyes are searching your face, and you can see the way his breathing has gone uneven. “we should.”

finally, finally, he pulls back with visible effort, his hands shaking slightly as he starts gathering his things. you do the same, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers against yours as you both reach for the same pen.

the walk back to campus is quiet, but it’s the kind of charged silence that makes your skin feel electric. satoru walks close enough that your shoulders brush with every step, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. every few steps, he glances at you sideways, and you can see the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“thanks for today,” you say when you reach the point where you usually part ways, your voice soft in the gathering dusk. “for helping me study, i mean.”

“anytime,” he says, and his voice is softer now, more sincere. his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and you can see the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “i had fun.”

“even though i’m a terrible student?”

“especially because you’re a terrible student,” he says, and his grin is bright enough to light up the growing darkness. “gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”

your heart does that acrobatic thing again, and you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he hung the stars. the streetlights are starting to flicker on, casting everything in a warm golden glow, and you can see the way the light catches in his hair, turns his eyes into something almost ethereal.

“same time next week?”

“absolutely,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his pace slightly hurried like he’s trying to escape before he does something impulsive. you watch him go, noting the way his hair moves in the evening breeze, the way other students still move out of his way even though he’s not trying to command attention.

(you’re so gone. completely, utterly, catastrophically gone for this insufferable, brilliant boy who makes calculus sound like poetry and looks at you like you’re the most interesting equation he’s ever tried to solve.)

you’re halfway back to your dorm, still floating on a cloud of caffeine and satoru-induced euphoria, when you realize you forgot your phone at the coffee shop. cursing under your breath, you turn around and hurry back, hoping the café is still open.

the door is unlocked, and you can see your phone sitting on the table where you’d been studying, the screen dark against the wood. you grab it quickly, not wanting to keep the staff any longer than necessary, but as you turn to leave, you nearly collide with someone coming out of the bathroom.

“oh, sorry, i—” you start, then stop dead in your tracks.

because it’s satoru. of course it’s satoru. but this isn’t the satoru you’ve been staring at for two months, the one who sits hunched over his textbooks in oversized sweaters and cardigans that hide every line of his body. this is satoru with his sweater off, standing there in just a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his frame in ways that make your brain completely shut down.

the sweater is draped over his arm, and you can see a small coffee stain on the sleeve that must have happened when you weren’t looking. but that’s not what your brain is focusing on. your brain is entirely occupied with the fact that satoru gojo has been hiding an absolutely devastating physique under all those carefully chosen baggy clothes.

he’s not bulky. he’s not some muscle-bound gym rat with biceps the size of your head. but he’s solid. broad shoulders that you never would have guessed at under all those loose sweaters, arms that look like they could pick you up without breaking a sweat, a chest that’s definitely more defined than it has any right to be.

you can see the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the subtle definition of his abs through the thin fabric. he’s what people call a sleeper build—looking deceptively slight in clothes but surprisingly strong underneath. and it’s your worst nightmare and your most shameful fantasy rolled into one.

“you forgot your—” he starts to say, then stops when he sees your expression. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and you can see the way his head tilts in confusion. “are you okay?”

you’re not okay. you’re the opposite of okay. you’re spiraling, free-falling into a panic because your body is betraying you in the worst possible way. your carefully constructed preferences are crumbling like a house of cards, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“fine,” you squeak, but your voice comes out strangled and about three octaves higher than normal. you take a step back, then another, until you’re pressed against the wall with nowhere to go.

satoru follows, not aggressively, but with that same calculated precision he applies to everything else. you can see the concern in his eyes, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners. he stops just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something else—something that’s just him.

“you sure?” he asks, and his voice is soft, concerned, but there’s something else in his eyes. something that suggests he’s very aware of the effect he’s having on you. you can see the way his gaze darts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, the way his breathing has gone slightly uneven.

“fine,” you repeat, but you’re not fine. you’re the opposite of fine. you’re having a complete existential crisis because your stupid body is responding to the sight of his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to his chest, the subtle line of muscle that disappears beneath his collar.

“you don’t look fine,” he says, and now his hand is reaching up to touch your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin and the hint of muscle definition that makes your mouth go dry. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

his palm is warm against your forehead, and you can feel the slight roughness of calluses on his fingertips. you’re close enough to see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, close enough to count the barely visible freckles scattered across his nose.

“i have to go,” you say, but you don’t move. you can’t move. you’re trapped between the wall and satoru’s unexpected solidity, and your brain is completely offline.

“hey,” he says softly, and his other hand comes up to frame your face. his touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he applies too much pressure. “talk to me. what’s wrong?”

you want to tell him it’s nothing, want to laugh it off and pretend you’re not having a complete mental breakdown over the fact that he has shoulders. but you’re looking up at him—when did he get so tall?—and his eyes are so concerned and so impossibly beautiful, like storm clouds with lightning behind them.

“you’re—” you start, then stop, because how do you explain that you’re having an existential crisis over someone’s biceps?

“i’m what?” he asks, and his voice is gentle, patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to figure out how to form sentences. his thumbs brush across your cheekbones, and you can feel the slight calluses on his skin.

“you’re stronger than you look,” you finally manage, and it comes out like an accusation.

satoru blinks, clearly not expecting that particular confession. his eyebrows lift slightly, and you can see the way his mouth parts in surprise. “i... yes? i work out sometimes. is that... bad?”

“yes,” you say immediately, then realize how that sounds and scramble to backtrack. “i mean, no. i mean—” you’re spiraling again, because he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and his hands are still on your face, and you can see the way his muscles move under his shirt when he breathes.

“you don’t like that i work out?” he asks, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.

“it’s not that,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear the thought of hurting his feelings, even in your current state of panic. “it’s just... i don’t usually... i mean, i’ve never been attracted to...”

you trail off, realizing what you’re about to admit, but satoru’s eyes light up with understanding. his mouth curves into a slow smile, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly.

“you’ve never been attracted to guys with muscle,” he says, and it’s not a question. his voice has gone soft, almost wondering, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

you nod miserably, feeling your face burn with embarrassment.

“but you’re attracted to me,” he continues, and there’s something almost smug in his voice now, the way his smile widens, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“unfortunately,” you mutter, but you can’t look away from him, can’t stop cataloging every detail of his face.

“unfortunately,” he repeats, and his smile is absolutely wicked now. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “so what you’re saying is that i’m irresistible enough to overcome your very reasonable preferences.”

“i’m saying you’re a problem,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. your hands have somehow found their way to his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material.

“a problem you want to solve?” he asks, and he’s leaning closer now, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. you can see the way his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze.

“a problem i want to avoid,” you lie, but your hands are pulling him closer even as you say it, and you can see the way his smile turns fond at the contradiction.

“liar,” he says, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and completely devastating.

the kiss is everything you’ve been imagining for months and nothing like you expected all at once. his lips are soft, gentle, but there’s something sure and confident in the way he moves against you. you can taste coffee and something indefinably sweet, can feel the way his hands tighten slightly on your face like he’s afraid you might disappear.

when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. you can see the way his eyes have gone dark, the way his hair is slightly mussed from where your fingers found their way into it.

“still think i’m a problem?” he asks, and his voice is rough, affected, like the kiss hit him just as hard as it hit you.

“the biggest problem,” you say, but you’re smiling now, because maybe some problems are worth having. especially when they come with shoulders like that and eyes like storm clouds and the kind of smile that makes you forget why you ever thought muscles were a bad thing.

“good,” he says, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, with more confidence. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the strength in his arms, the way his body is solid and warm against yours.

it should terrify you. it should make you want to run. instead, it makes you want to map every line of muscle with your fingertips, want to figure out exactly how strong he is, want to lose yourself in this impossible contradiction of a boy who looks like he’d break if you handled him too roughly but feels like he could hold you together if you fell apart.

“you’re trouble,” you murmur against his lips, and you can feel the way he smiles at the words.

“the best kind,” he agrees, and his voice is pure sin, rough and low and absolutely devastating.

you’re so screwed. but as satoru kisses you again, his arms solid and sure around you, you decide that maybe being screwed isn’t such a bad thing after all.

especially when it comes with the promise of more friday afternoon study sessions and the chance to figure out exactly what other surprises satoru gojo has been hiding under those oversized sweaters.

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.

and if his hidden muscles are just another thing to add to your growing list of reasons why you’re completely gone for him, well, that’s a problem you’ll deal with later.

right now, you’re too busy kissing the most insufferable, brilliant, surprisingly strong boy you’ve ever met to care about anything else.

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