⋆˚࿔ eve 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)

"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.

that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?

you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.

he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.

that destroyed him completely.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 101

the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.

not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.

he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.

he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.

his heart stops.

then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.

he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.

you never look up. you never see him.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 102

tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.

the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.

the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.

then he hears your voice.

"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."

his entire body locks up.

you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.

the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.

you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—

he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.

he doesn't get coffee.

goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.

sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.

later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.

he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.

he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 103

the library becomes dangerous territory.

he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.

he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.

the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.

you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.

his phone buzzes.

his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.

when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.

he stays until they kick him out at 2am.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.

the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.

"you're doing it again."

satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"

"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."

"I'm fine, suguru."

"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."

suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.

"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."

satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."

"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"

"it's not about the presentation."

"then what?"

how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?

wait. no. not love. he's not—

"nothing. forget it."

suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."

"I know."

"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."

it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.

and reality showed him otherwise.

reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.

"I'll figure it out," satoru says.

"when?"

"eventually." he huffs

suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."

satoru doesn't sleep.

he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.

types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 104

he starts taking different routes to class.

the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.

he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.

mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.

but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.

he sees you anyway.

he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.

he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.

then he sees you.

three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.

he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.

his brain short-circuits.

you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.

someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.

he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.

you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.

your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.

panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.

the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.

he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.

that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.

he's so fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 105

he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.

the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.

he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.

he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—

and then he sees you.

you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.

you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.

one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.

you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.

it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.

you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.

he doesn't fit anywhere.

he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.

your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.

your eyes are going to land on him.

he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.

there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.

he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.

the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.

through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.

and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."

"no one died."

"then why do you look like you're grieving?"

satoru doesn't have an answer.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 106

he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.

the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.

there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.

and then he sees you.

you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.

your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.

you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.

you're maybe twenty feet away now. fifteen. getting closer.

you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.

or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—

his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.

fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.

there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.

the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.

he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.

he's going to be late. he's never late.

he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.

he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.

he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.

and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.

--

every time, his body has the same response.

heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.

fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.

he always, always chooses flight.

he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.

and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.

running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.

running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

twenty-four weeks. six months.

he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.

he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.

and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?

the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.

past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.

the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.

it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.

the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.

the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.

satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.

he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.

and then you walk in.

he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.

you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.

you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.

physics for non-majors.

even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.

you're struggling.

he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.

but you're struggling with physics.

and he knows physics.

and you look like you're about to cry.

and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—

he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.

his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.

but you need help.

and he can help.

and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.

and just like that, everything changes.

just like that, he gets his second chance.

just like that, he's more fucked than ever.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.

the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.

it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.

the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.

you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.

the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.

you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.

"you're using the wrong equation."

you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.

white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.

he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.

"what?"

"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."

his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.

you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.

"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."

"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"

you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.

and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.

"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.

he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.

"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."

the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."

he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.

he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.

but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.

"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."

"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."

he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.

his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.

"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."

you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.

"I... think so?"

"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."

he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.

his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.

he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.

"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"

no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.

until something clicks.

"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."

the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"

"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.

he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"

"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"

"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."

something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."

"I can't just take up your time for free."

"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."

there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.

it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.

"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."

"most nights? do you sleep?"

a half-smile. "not really."

you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.

"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"

he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."

he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.

you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.

but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session one

you show up the next night with two coffees.

"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"

"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."

it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.

you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"

"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."

a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.

"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"

"satoru. gojo satoru."

something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"

you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.

he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.

the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.

It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.

"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."

his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.

"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."

"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"stage fright?"

"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.

you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.

lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session four

it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.

when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."

his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.

you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.

you come anyway.

the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).

"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.

"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"

the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.

you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.

after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.

you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."

"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

you blink. "you know Heidegger?"

"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."

"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."

"i'm not most physics majors."

it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.

"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"

he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.

"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."

you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."

"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.

"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."

"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.

you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."

"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."

you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.

when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.

(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session eight

you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.

you both reach for it.

his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.

"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."

the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.

"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."

"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"

you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.

"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."

"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.

he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"

"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"

"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."

the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.

"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.

your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.

"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.

he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.

"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"

something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.

"at 11pm."

"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.

"every night?"

"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."

(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.

he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)

you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.

"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."

his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.

"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."

you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t

he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.

when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.

the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.

"hey satoru?" you call out.

"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.

"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."

you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.

"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."

"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."

there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"

"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.

inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.

then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.

huh, you think.

you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.

you don't mention it on tuesday.

but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.

like he's been waiting for you.

(he has.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session ten

it's thursday and you're not doing physics.

"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"

"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"

"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."

there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.

you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"

"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."

something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.

"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."

you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.

he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.

"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"

"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.

"what?"

"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."

you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."

"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"

you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."

his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."

"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."

"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.

"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.

the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.

"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."

"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."

"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."

you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.

"okay," you say. "from the top?"

"from the top."

you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.

"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."

the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."

"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."

the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."

"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"

"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."

"chapter seven?"

"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."

he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."

"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"

"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."

you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.

"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"

"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."

"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"

"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."

you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.

he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."

"right. yeah. practice problems."

but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.

the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.

when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.

at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.

you don't know.

(you're starting to want to.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session twelve

it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.

this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.

"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.

"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"

you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."

(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)

"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."

"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"

"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"

his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."

there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.

you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.

"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.

"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."

"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."

"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"

"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."

you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."

"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—

you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.

then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."

"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.

his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.

the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"

"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.

you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.

and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.

it's searing.

"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.

"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."

"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.

"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."

"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."

he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.

"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"

"yes," you lie.

"what did I just say?"

"...something about equilibrium?"

he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."

"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."

"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.

he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."

"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.

"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."

"tell me anyway."

he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."

your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."

"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"

"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.

he's staring at you now. "really?"

"really."

"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."

"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."

the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.

then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.

"we should—" he starts.

"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.

but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.

you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.

his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.

you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.

"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."

"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."

"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."

"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.

you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.

eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.

"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"

"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."

"you don't have to—"

"I want to."

the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.

at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.

"so," he says.

"so," you echo.

"same time thursday?"

"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."

"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."

you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."

"thursday," he confirms.

neither of you moves.

"I should—" you gesture at the door.

"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."

"goodnight, satoru."

you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.

"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."

"you too."

you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.

you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.

this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.

you can't wait until thursday.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session fourteen

it's thursday and satoru isn't here.

you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.

you wait.

you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

11:15. nothing.

the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.

11:30. you text him. you coming?

you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.

your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.

11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.

"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."

his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

beep.

"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.

you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.

by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—

or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—

no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.

but what if he would?

you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.

you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—

you're already walking.

the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.

warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.

warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.

the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.

you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.

fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.

you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.

you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.

what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—

you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

nothing.

the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.

you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"

more silence.

you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.

unlocked...

your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?

"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"

the room is empty.

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).

barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.

his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.

you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—

but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?

you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.

the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.

your eyes catch on the title at the top.

Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions

Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science

Nakamura, T., Department of Physics

Submitted to: Physical Review Letters

your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.

element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.

that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.

you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:

...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...

...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...

...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...

there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.

"oh my god," you breathe.

you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."

and then—

a folder labeled "papers to read."

you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—

your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.

you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.

this is a really interesting point about authenticity

hadn't thought about it this way before

I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?

you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.

an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.

an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.

a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.

and then—

a document titled simply "notes."

you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.

you open it.

it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.

—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)

—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own

—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic

—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)

—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics

—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)

—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard

—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things

your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.

—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.

then more, scattered observations:

—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.

—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later

—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum

—I think I'm in trouble

the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.

—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.

—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—

—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.

—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.

—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.

—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—

it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.

you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.

"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"

the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.

he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.

there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.

satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.

his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.

"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."

professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."

the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.

he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.

he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.

"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."

"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."

it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.

"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."

"yes." barely a whisper.

"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."

"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.

"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"

"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"

his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.

"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"

he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.

"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."

he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.

"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."

the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.

"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."

if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"

he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.

"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"

he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.

"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"

he stops. puts his hands over his face.

"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"

his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.

"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"

he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.

"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"

his voice cracks.

"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"

you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.

he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.

his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.

you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."

"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"

"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"

you laugh softly.

"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."

you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."

"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"

"why would I be mad?"

"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."

"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."

you meet his eyes.

"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."

he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"

"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."

"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.

"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"

you search for the word.

"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."

his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."

"then why did you not act on it?"

he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.

you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.

"tell me about it," you say.

"about what?" his voice is rough.

"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."

"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"

"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."

"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."

"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.

"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"

you pull back to look at him. "keep going."

his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"

you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.

"and then?" you prompt against his lips.

"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"

his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.

"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"

you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.

"which what?" you murmur against his skin.

"I—I don't—what was I saying?"

you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."

"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."

his voice is getting progressively less steady.

"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"

you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.

"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"

he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.

"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."

"you're trying to make me lose my mind."

"can't I do both?"

he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.

"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.

he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."

"you timed how long we held hands."

"I have a very accurate internal clock."

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.

"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."

"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."

"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.

"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"

"I don't know how to be normal."

"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."

he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.

"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."

"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.

"I'll wait."

his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.

"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.

"satoru."

"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"

"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."

he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.

"twenty minutes," he promises. "thirty tops. I'll—don't leave. please don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.

'I'm in love with her.'

element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.

you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

date session one

it's thursday and everything is different.

you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"

okay. it's not the same as always.

your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.

you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.

everything has changed.

the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.

satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.

but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.

"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.

"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."

"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"

he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.

this is excruciating.

"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.

"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.

"are we going to be weird about this?"

"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"

"me neither."

"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."

"extremely weird."

"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."

he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.

you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.

you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.

you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.

"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.

"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"

"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."

"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."

"maybe I just like having you explain things."

the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.

his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"

"yeah."

the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."

the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.

you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.

he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.

"is this okay?" you ask quietly.

"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."

you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.

"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.

"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."

"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"

he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.

"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.

"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"

you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.

"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"doing what?"

"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."

"I can move—" you start to pull back.

"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"

"satoru."

"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.

"you can kiss me if you want to."

"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.

"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.

"what about the physics homework—"

you cup his face and kiss him.

he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.

when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.

"hi," you whisper.

his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."

"better?"

"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"

you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.

"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."

"should we?"

"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.

"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."

"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"

you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.

"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it."

"I really do."

you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.

"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."

it works better than works.

you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.

"you're not listening," he says fondly.

"I am listening."

"you're staring at my mouth."

"I can do both."

"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."

"says who?"

"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"

you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.

the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.

you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.

"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.

"are you complaining?"

"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."

"good teacher."

"biased student."

you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.

"hey," you say.

"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.

"I have a question," you say.

"about physics?"

"about you."

"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."

"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"

he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.

"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."

his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.

"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"

he pauses, swallows hard.

"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"

his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.

"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"

his voice cracks.

"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."

"a problem?"

"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."

"your coffee is genuinely terrible."

"I know. I hate sweet coffee."

he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.

"what?"

"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"

"yeah."

"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"

"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"

he shrugs helplessly.

"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"

he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.

"—if it meant you kept coming back."

you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.

"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.

"I'm aware."

"three months of terrible coffee."

"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.

"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."

you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.

you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.

you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.

there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.

"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."

"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."

"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."

he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.

you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.

"oh my god," you say.

"that was—"

"mortifying."

"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."

"absolutely worth it."

"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"

"satoru, I was literally in your lap."

"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."

"you didn't object."

"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.

you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.

when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.

the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.

"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.

"so."

"I'll walk you back."

"it's not on your way."

"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."

you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.

the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.

it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.

"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.

"always."

"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."

you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."

you squeeze his hand.

"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."

"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"

"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."

the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."

your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.

he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.

"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"

he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.

"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."

"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."

he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.

his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.

when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.

at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.

"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"

"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"

his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"

"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.

"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.

"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."

"it's a date."

"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"

"or earlier. if you want."

"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."

"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.

"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."

"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.

"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.

"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.

"you have to let go of my hand first."

"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.

you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.

you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.

he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.

then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.

finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.

he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.

you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.

he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.

finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.

when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.

“Heyyy!” Hizashi calls from down the hall. “Are you ready for- Ah. Clearly…not?”

“Ready for what?” Aizawa furrows his eyebrows.

“We have the exam refreshers for some general education students at nine. English and Science for the second years.”

Everything hits you like a speeding truck. 

“Fuck!” You stand from your chair. “I haven’t even showered after evening patrol yesterday.”

That was the last thing you wanted to say in the presence of your co-workers—you can feel the stares of the other faculty members from the kitchen—but the frustration coursing through your body is starting to get overwhelming.

“No wonder you look worse than me.” Aizawa snorts into his cup of coffee. “It’s fine. It happens. Just go and wash up. Hizashi can make some excuse about a last-minute emergency for you.”

“Yeeeeeeep!” Hizashi gives you a thumbs-up. “No worries. I can wait for you. I’ll inform the class representatives.” 

“Thank you, Zashi. I’ll be more mindful next time.” You glance at your mess of notes and outlines on the table. “Oh my god, I literally have to clean this up.” When you tap the trackpad of your laptop, the screen remains black. “And of course, it’s dead.”

“Shoo, I’ll take care of it. Go.” Aizawa waves you off in the opposite direction. Despite his indifferent tone, you know that you’ll come back to a neater arrangement of papers and a slightly charged device. 

So, you run to your dorm room with fewer things on your mind, but you know that this is just the beginning.

You spend the rest of the day answering questions and going over topics repeatedly, given the number of students who attended the refreshers.

With every hour that had passed, your energy gradually drained away. Shifting between various topics is a serious mental gymnastic hell of its own. It didn’t help that you didn’t feel like socializing at all after your rushed morning, but what could you do?

Eventually, you found yourself apologizing frequently when you couldn’t explain something as clearly, or when you had trouble understanding what a student was confused about. At least seven different students (you lost count) had asked if you were okay, and by then, you just wanted to disappear from the world for a while.

By the time all the refresher sessions have concluded, you spend an extra thirty minutes leaning your head against the teacher’s table. Hizashi had come in to fetch you, but you told him to go ahead, too exhausted to start the long walk back. 

Honestly, you didn’t even want to go back, because it meant there was more work on your desk waiting for you. But, again, you don’t have a choice. There’s another school day tomorrow, so you slowly trudge back to Heights Alliances.

You’ve probably spent an hour and a half sitting on a bench outside the teachers’ dorm before the main doors open and close behind you.

“Hey, nerd,” Aizawa takes a seat next to you. “Why’re you out here?”

“Dunno,” you mutter with a frown. “Don’t wanna be in my room.”

“Mm.” He crosses his legs, making himself comfortable. 

Honestly, you don’t even know why he’s here. It’s cold out, and you know he’d rather be warm, snuggled up in his cozy yellow sleeping bag. 

(And honestly? You’ve recently started to understand why he lugs that thing with him wherever he goes. If you could sleep anywhere and everywhere, you would. If only you didn’t care so much about your appearance or whatever. Maybe you should stop caring as much? But also, no—you need to give the faculty and Principal Nezu a very good first impression if you want to keep teaching at UA.)

“Did something happen during the refresher?” 

“No. Nothing happened. I’m just…tired.” You run a hand down your face. “It’s gonna be a fucking Monday again and I have to get my homeroom class together as usual, then teach the first-year and third-year biology classes. I mean, I love biology, but sometimes I want to rip my hair out when I have to teach the kids genetics, then switch to cellular respiration in the afternoon.”

“I’ve honestly forgotten all of that sciencey stuff except for a bit of the genetics. No offense.”

“None taken. I die a little inside every time I pass by a classroom Ectoplasm’s teaching in.”

“My problem children tell me enough about that.” Aizawa huffs. “Unfortunately, I can’t help them with calculus.”

“To each their own,” you sigh.

“Yeah.”

The next few minutes pass in silence. You’re not really sure what you want to say—it’s not uncomfortable, considering how many spaces you’ve shared with Aizawa when Hizashi isn’t around, but there’s also something heavy as it hangs in the air.

“I know I’m not the best at following my own advice and being open or whatever,” Aizawa starts, “but are you okay?”

“I…” The words die in your throat. “I don’t know. I mean, are any of us actually okay?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“Wh- Fuck, is this what you do with your students?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Aizawa sighs, but you don’t feel the usual irritation in it. “I’m sure you’d know, as a homeroom teacher.”

“I do. I do.” You laugh, a little too bitterly. “I’m just not used to having it done on me.”

“I see. Anyway, are you okay?” He emphasizes the question, reminding you that he will not leave you alone until you answer.

“I mean, you saw everything this morning. I think you know the answer.”

Aizawa faces you, raising his eyebrows. “The answer is…?”

“Oh, for-” You look up towards the sky and inhale deeply.  “Fine. No. I’m not okay.”

“Good.” Aizawa sits back against the bench’s backrest. “We’re past the denial stage.”

“Mm. What’s next, anger?” You quip.

“You’re not so bad at this after all. So, what the heck’s bothering you?”

“What’s bothering me?” Flashbacks of the past few hours—heck, even weeks and months—play in your mind. “I just…how do you keep up with it all?”

“Why are you answering my question with a question?” He squints. “And what is giving you the impression that I’m keeping up with anything?”

“You just answered my question with a question.”

“Ah, fuck,” Aizawa, for once, laughs a little. “You got me. But, seriously, I don’t have it all together. You know how I am. I’m honestly glad that my students respect me well enough to listen-”

“You threaten to expel them every year, don’t you?”

“True. But teaching and handling lively groups of aspiring heroes is one of the hardest jobs to have. They’re always such a bright-eyed, headstrong, way too self-sacrificial bunch.”

“Mm. 1A, your beloved problem children.”

“Exactly why I call them that. I’ve been summoned to countless meetings and visits to Recovery Girl’s office. That and teaching, grading, coming up with all these simulated missions, losing sleep that I can’t be bothered to keep a consistent pattern anymore, my quirk that just had to make me prone to dry eye…the list goes on. I’m just getting by. Most of us are, if you ask them.”

“Yeah, but how do you- I mean, don’t you ever just wish…”

“Hm?” Aizawa tilts his head.

“It’s just, you know those days when you have to show up and perform and be your best self, but you actually feel like utter shit, but it’s not like you have a choice?”

“I mean, that’s sometimes an entire week for me, so, yes. Go on.”

“It’s the aspect of hero work that I found most draining when I was studying at UA. People will always expect you to be at your best, and I get that. There’s always some threat lurking around the corner that could easily tip the balance of society. Well, not that I think it’s balanced or fair, but it could be so much worse.

“But, back to what I was saying, it’s the reason why I prefer underground hero work. Not a lot of cameras, interviews, and attention compared to the average pro hero.”

“Exactly. It’s great to have a space for heroes like us,” he says.

Heroes like us…

“Yeah. It’s great to be able to do my job without all the extra pleasantries and media engagements. Behind-the-scenes work is a godsend, which is why I…”

You shift in your seat, preparing yourself to admit it out loud.

“Sometimes, I’ve wondered if I can survive teaching in the long run. I want to be at my best for these kids, but I’m always reminded that I have limits. And yeah, I am a human being, but I have responsibilities to uphold. It just takes a lot of energy, keeping up the teacher persona, you know?”

“Teacher persona…”

“Something a bit more engaging and approachable than my usual personality. I’m still working on it, but, yeah, basically how we present ourselves as teachers and heroes.”

“Hmm. Then, I suppose I do have a teacher persona too,” Aizawa ponders. “But over the years, especially recently, I’ve let parts of myself shine through, whether I intended to or not. My students have had so many close calls that being strict or less hands-on with them isn’t always a good idea. I genuinely,” he pauses, “care for the kids. I teach because I don’t want them getting into things they can never come back from. I want them to think and be careful, because spirit alone isn’t going to help you survive as a hero.”

You can’t help but grin at his sentiments. “That’s fair. And actually kind of sweet.”

“Do not share a word of this to them.”

“I won’t.”

“With the way you’re smiling like that, I don’t trust you.”

“No, I won’t! I’m pretty sure they already know how much you care about them anyway.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, but you swear his face is a little bit flushed. “So, yes, I have a teacher or work persona, but it’s not that far off from who I am. I’m not trying to pretend to be someone I’m not; it’s just a different side of me. And, if I can’t keep it up at times? The world won’t end. You will have those days, and it’s fine. Principal Nezu will only have your head if you’re careless or harming your students, which I doubt will ever happen.”

“The world won’t end, huh?” You sigh. “I guess it won’t.”

“Why’d you get into teaching anyway?”

“Teaching?” You point to yourself. “Oh. Well, I wanted to see if there were students who were like me. Inspire them and reassure them that you don’t always need to be this ‘huge presence’ to be a hero. That there are always ways for them to help. I used to be kind of sad about how I wasn’t as upbeat as my classmates. Thought there was something wrong with me, until I met a mentor who matched my personality. I’d like to be that kind of person for them. And well, there’s the bonus of getting to teach my favorite high school subject in a way that matters to them.”

“I see. Do you think you’re making a difference now?”

“I…I think so? There’s a kid in my homeroom class who reminds me of my past self. He started becoming more confident lately after I talked to him.”

You take a moment to think about your student. There was something he said last week that- 

“Oh, oh my god, even better! I gave him internship options based on our underground network, and he’s been enjoying it so far! He mentioned that he felt more at home compared to his experience in his first year.”

“Exactly. So, you haven’t failed at your job. You’re fine.”

“I…oh.”

“Try your best to hang on to the good moments in every day. There’s a reason you want to do this, even if it’s incredibly difficult. And it’s your first year of teaching, of course you’re in the adjustment period. Even All Might carries around a pocket manual for teaching tips.”

“He what?”

“Don’t tell him I saw,” Aizawa shakes his head. “But, seriously, if things are tough, just ask the other teachers for advice. None of them bite…except Hound Dog, maybe.”

The latter comment makes you burst into laughter. “Were you always this funny?”

He shrugs, barely able to conceal his grin. “Dunno. Could be Hizashi’s influence.”

“Nuh-uh! It’s a different humor. You’ve been trying to make me laugh all this time, haven’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” you roll your eyes. “But, thank you, Aizawa.”

“You’re welcome. It can help to end the day with a smile.” He stands up from the bench. “Also…call me Shouta.”

“Of course, of course,” he ruffles your hair, taking a seat on your bed next to you. “Anyway. I know you’re preparing and everything, but how are you feeling?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure,” you avert your eyes. “I mean, I’m nervous and afraid, but also kind of hopeful? I’ll have better supervisors and working environments, at least. They accepted my request to be reassigned elsewhere, instead of the public hospital again.”

“Really?” Chikara perks up. “That’s great. You don’t deserve to have your supposed 'mentors' ruining your learning experience.”

You nod. “Exactly. They’re literally one of the most understaffed sections in the rehabilitation department. I don’t know how they benefit from scaring interns away and shattering their confidence. But whatever, at least I won’t see them again. Hopefully.”

“Yep. It’s a fresh start for you.”

“Mm.”

Instantly, you wish you had replied a bit more enthusiastically. Chikara knows you far too well—he notices the microscopic hint of bitterness hidden in your words.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Chikara pulls you close to him. “I know you’re trying to get back on your feet, and I’m proud of you. But, it doesn’t mean taking everything on by yourself again.”

“I know. I know that.” You sigh in frustration. “It’s just really hard to let myself rely on you so willingly. I feel like I keep taking more than I give.”

“Nah. If anything, I’ve probably taken so much more from you…especially in high school, with my commitment and captaincy issues.”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but we’re about to graduate and work soon. You’d think I’d have most stuff figured out, especially when so many of our peers are managing.”

“Love, we all have different starting points. You had to improve so many things in such a short amount of time compared to them.” Chikara pauses for a moment, rubbing his thumb on your hand.

“Maybe you didn’t cross the finish line together, but you’ve grown so much. The important thing isn’t how fast you get there, but the fact that you made it.”

“Chikaraaaa…” You whine into his shoulder, feeling a familiar sting behind your eyes.

“Yeah? What?”

“I don’t know.”

It takes you a while to consider what you want to tell him. There are so many words, yet your mind goes blank. 

“It’s alright. Just spill. We agreed that it helps to organize your thoughts out loud, right?”

“Yeah.” You exhale, and you feel him rubbing your back this time. “I know you’re right about taking things at my pace, but I think it just hurt to see everyone sharing their graduation photos yesterday. Like, a year ago, I thought I’d be posting mine along with everyone else’s…and yours.”

Chikara freezes for a moment.

“I- wait.” You sit up, almost bumping your head into his chin. “Chikara, let me make it clear. You posting your graduation picture did not hurt me directly. It’s more about everyone doing it, in general. How I feel right now is not your fault. I will kill you if you think otherwise.”

“What the hell?” He chuckles at your threat, delivered with a light punch to his side. “Yes. Okay.”

“But, I’m also really glad you posted your picture because you looked so hot in it.”

Your boyfriend just blinks at you, before bursting into giggles. “What?!”

“I’m not joking! I constantly thank the heavens you’re dating me.”

“Of course, I’d date you! I liked you since you moved in next door,” he wipes a few tears from his eyes. “No regrets at all.”

You give him a swift kiss on the cheek before leaning into his embrace again. 

“But really, Chikara. Encouraging me to seek professional help was the greatest thing you could have done for me. I could have fallen out of love with everything and gone on some self-destructive path. 

“You stayed. Listened. Held me. Caught me before I could fall any further. Validated me and treated me with dignity, even when I wasn’t making good choices for myself. Even when I felt like I…didn’t deserve you.”

“You have always deserved me,” he replies immediately. “You deserved a break. You deserved a second chance. You deserved enough time to appreciate everything instead of rushing."

Your heart squeezes in warning. “Chikara, you’re going to make me cry for real.”

“Then, this is payback for the last time you made me cry with your affectionate words-”

“Shut uuuuup.” You thump a fist against his chest.

"I love the fact that you are willing to wake up each morning and try again, even when it means having to face what scares you. I’ll walk with you to the finish line, no matter how long it takes.”

The tears finally fall, and Ennoshita is quick to kiss them (and your sadness) away.

but you barely got through half the sentence before he’d elbowed you in the gut like a reflex, leaving you doubled over. (you get him back by dumping the contents of his bottle, unfortunately plain water, over his head.)

you notice it on your very first date, too.

you’re sitting opposite each other in the quiet booth of one of those cosy, rustic cafes — hanging lights and potted plants and brick walls and the like — doe-eyed and wobbly-kneed teenagers, head spinning with each other’s presence and the wafting scent of bakery goods, shooting startled glances towards the door every now and then in fear of someone from school walking in.

conversation flows like water over a rocky riverbed — that is to say, it’s flowing, but bumpy; jilted. you’ve been to cafes together dozens of times. you’ve hung out at each other’s houses, walked to school together, put each other into headlocks. you’ve never been on a date together. obviously.

it should be easy, and if you squinted you could pretend things were the same as they’d always been, but that’s the thing: it was different. and, god forbid, but you had to say it — it was awkward.

when the waiter came to take your order she had a glint in her eye you really weren’t a fan of, as if she had the audacity to think she knew exactly what was going on here. 

“drinks?” she’d added smarmily.

“nothing for me, thanks.”

suga cleared his throat. “um, can i have the… hot chocolate?”

and just like that, the tension was broken. maybe it was the way you guffawed so raucously that the waiter practically fled the table, or how koushi'd viciously thrown one of those single-use wooden spoons at your face (he missed, by a lot) and unconvincingly threatened to stand you up. the momentum of your bickering carried you right to the shores of ordinary conversation, and from then on you were floating on cloud nine. to your everlasting delight, after all that, the hot chocolate turned out to be sickeningly, inedibly sweet.

so when sugawara koushi comes home from work with lines under his eyes and a weight on his shoulders — when his voice is a touch gravelly, words slow — when he kisses you briefly and spends double the time in the shower — the alarm bells in your head kick into overdrive.

and you know exactly what to do.

milk. cocoa powder. you heat it up on the stove, whisk it till its fluffy, whisk it some more. melt in a whole row of dark chocolate, add a touch of cinnamon, pour it into his favourite mug. float the marshmallows in the rich liquid, drown it in a ton of sprinkles, and blow a kiss over it for good luck because god help you but this better be the best hot chocolate you’ve made in your whole entire life.

he’s fresh out of the shower by the time you’re done, bundled up on the bed in his comfort hoodie with The Fluffy Blanket and that’s how you know things are really bad. there's probably a grade schooler out there that needs a good talking to. possibly a slap but that's neither here nor there.

you knock on the doorframe with your free hand as you enter, carefully balancing his mug in the other.

“delivery, kou,” you say softly as you near the edge of the bed. a bit of lilting cheer to your tone, but no coercion for him to return the same; no pressure for an explanation. a sort of, i can put it on the bedside table and leave if you need me to.

koushi opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. with a cacophony of rustling fabrics he sits up on the mattress and takes the mug from you, cradling it in his hands. stares at it for a second, then three, then ten, like he’s never heard of the concept of hot chocolate before. takes a tentative sip.

bursts into tears.

well, maybe you’re exaggerating, but only a little. his eyes well up. his face flushes. he gives the most pathetic little sniffle you’ve ever heard.

“i haven’t had this in so long,” he sniffs, a sentiment which seems to bring a fresh round of emotion and yeah, now he’s crying.

poor baby.

you pry the mug from his hands and rest it on the bedside table before climbing up onto the bed and promptly suffocating him under your full weight — his idea of a hug. face buried in his neck, you can feel the shakiness of his breaths underneath you. when he’s calmed down a little, his arms battle several layers of blankets to come up around you, completely squeezing the air out of your lungs (lucky you’re used to it).

“you’re literally,” he says, “the best. thank you.”

“i love you too,” you say with a fond sigh, clambering off him to sit cross-legged by his knee. “now finish the damn thing.”

he rolls his eyes — a little red, a little swollen — as he half-sits up, reaching for the mug. “yeah, yeah.” 

the drink practically disappears into him. there one minute and gone the next. absolutely vaccuumed up, like he’s a black hole. it’s a great feat of mankind, a display of tenacity and skill, leaving you in awe, and also more than a little concerned that it’s burned his tongue.

“how does it taste?” if he’s even managed to taste it with how fast it went down.

he’s silent for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then — “hmm…”

you’re not a fan of the scheming look on his face, which you’re only able to process for a fleeting moment before he kisses you.

yeah, he thought he was real smooth with that one. at least at the end of it, you can say for certain you make a damn good hot chocolate. 

you hope you get to keep making them for many, many years more.

i was sposed to publish this 2 wks ago but i didnt cus i didnt like it.

i still dont like it but i hate looking at it languishing away in my drafts even more so here we are ... putting this on queue ... begone. feeling like a #real writer

check out my upcoming suga x reader series left right & setter its gonna b goated whenever i actually write the rest of it

These downtimes are now reserved for calming yourself. Genuine mental prep. Deep breaths and silent prayers. A short nap, if the sleepless night dragged on for far too long.

Sometimes, when you stare into space, your eyes instinctively fall on Iida. Not much has changed in his early morning routine. He still sits at his desk, reading through textbooks and writing in one of his Campus fillers. Then, when more than half of the class arrives, he starts chatting everyone up. Ten minutes before the bell, he’ll stand at the class podium to announce something or get the class in order.

“Everyone, please return to your assigned seats! Kirishima, keep your feet off the table!”

“Has everyone completed their English homework?”

“Let us do a quick rundown of the classes and activities we are expected to have today!"

Even when the class finds it annoying at times, Iida’s initiative and earnest passion for leadership bring a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty. You’re reminded that there is still some sense of normalcy—structure, control, and community. In the middle of his spiels, you often find yourself thinking: How amazing that his physique resembles that.

Iida is rather square, both figuratively and literally. He is built like a stable foundation, meant to carry whatever weight is put on his shoulders. His sharpness stands out in the way he cuts through the air or breezes through classwork. 

It might lead one to think that he’s calm and collected. Maybe even cold. It was your first impression of him, if you had to be honest, but then he opened his mouth to greet you for the first time. 

That’s when you realized he was a little rough around the edges…and you liked it.

Iida speaks with utmost formality, yet an endearing awkwardness always bleeds through. He acts like everyone’s older brother, when he is undeniably a younger sibling at heart. 

And despite how broad and muscular he is, you believe he is the humanization of your childhood teddy bear—a thought you dare not verbalize to anyone in 1A (except Uraraka and Midoriya, maybe).

But, on one gloomy morning, you find out exactly why you think so.

You weren’t a fan of gray skies or rain. They made you want to curl up in bed all day, but it’s not like you had the luxury of doing so, not with today’s heroics assessment. It was frustrating enough that you were nervous—you couldn’t get rid of the gut feeling that your training wasn’t enough. 

The weather just had to match your mood.

Sighing, you start your half-hour walk to UA. Even with a large umbrella, some droplets still manage to soak your uniform. No matter how many puddles you avoid, you feel your socks growing wet. Ugh.

Once you arrive at the 1A classroom, you drag your chair out and plop down in your seat. The impact, accompanied by the thud of your bag, startles Iida.

You nearly think that this warrants a small lecture on taking care of school property, but then his eyes widen and he gasps. “Oh, you’re here! Good morning, dear classmate.”

“Good morning, Iida! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright. You can just be more careful next time.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Though you are usually careful, anyway.”

You nod at him in acknowledgement. Taking off your jacket, you decide that you are ready to spend the next hour with your head on the desk. Maybe you can nap the anxiety away.

Well, that’s what you thought. For the first time, Iida doesn’t mind his own business.

You hear him abruptly stand from his chair. Initially, you assume he’s leaving to use the bathroom or something, but suddenly his footsteps grow louder and stop right next to your table. Instantly, you lift your head. “Iida?”

He blinks at you for a few seconds, fidgeting a little before speaking. “May I ask you something? If you are not busy, of course.”

What’s this about?

“Oh? Go ahead, no worries.”

“Thank you for your reassurance.” He gives you a small grin. “I-I just, well. It has come to my attention that you have been acting a little differently.”

You take a moment to think over his observation, though your lack of reaction makes him panic.

“Not because of what happened just now!” He blurts out, waving his hands frantically. “It is not my intention to be nosy, of course, but I cannot shake the feeling that perhaps…you are not alright?”

Your breath hitches.

“I may be wrong!” Iida adds. “That is just my brother’s opinion, after all. I do not mean to assume or intrude.”

A sudden surge of heat rises to your face. He asked for his brother’s opinion?

“I suppose you are still performing rather well in class.” He taps his chin. “Perhaps you’ve just become more tired in the morning? And…”

As Iida rambles further, you think of how to respond. He’s right. The mornings are different. The overall atmosphere has shifted into something more serious. You’re pretty sure it has spread to the rest of the class as well, though they’re probably better at hiding it.

You bite down on your lip, waiting for him to pause before you ask him a question.

“Iida? What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“I- Hm? Oh. Well…” He gazes down at your table. “During the first few days of class, you always ate your breakfast at this time. But after a while, you moved to smaller snacks before stopping altogether. I initially assumed that you started eating breakfast at home. However, your energy levels in the morning seemed to contradict that.”

“Ah…”

“Furthermore, I often hear you sighing, breathing loudly, and your head is always on the table. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that, yet something about it is rather odd. I also noticed this started after the villains attacked our class at the USJ, so I presumed that might have something to do with your behavior.”

Has he been paying this much attention to you?

“Do forgive me if I have overstepped. I know these are mere hunches based on incomplete evidence. It is possible that I might have been reading too much into everything.”

“Iida, it’s alright.” You shake your head, unsure of what to say next. Even though the extra attention makes you feel a little giddy, deep down, you know it’s part of his overall concern for the class. You can’t help but feel a little guilty at the thought of adding more onto his shoulders.

“Alright? Are you certain?” He tilts his head. “My brother says I have a tendency to overthink. I feel rather restless when I leave too many questions unanswered. That is why I decided to ask how you have been feeling, so I know what the truth is. I cannot ensure the well-being of my fellow classmates if I do not know how to assist them.”

When he puts it like that…

You give him a gentle smile before averting your gaze. “Sorry to make you worry so much, Iida. Um, well, your hunches aren’t…far off.”

“Oh?” He perks up, a little surprised. What initially starts as relief or satisfaction from your confirmation quickly morphs into concern. “Wait. So does that mean…”

“Things have been pretty sucky,” you snort, “for lack of a better word.”

“Sucky…” He repeats, like the word is foreign on his tongue. “Horrible? Unbearable? Scary? Disappointing?”

You inhale with a hiss. “Yep.”

“Oh.” The gears turn loudly in Iida’s head as he comes to the full realization. “I am terribly sorry that is the case.”

“It’s not your fault in any way, Iida. It’s just the circumstances we have now. The stakes are high for everyone.”

“Thank you. I suppose you are right.” He hums in agreement, but he starts fidgeting again. “However, is there something I can do to help you? Anything that you might require?”

“Help me…”

Anything? What exactly could Iida do for you?

“If you need a person to talk to, I can listen.” He starts running through options. “Or would you like me to talk to Aizawa-sensei for you? Oh, or would you like to eat breakfast together in the morning? Um…”

Although you appreciate Iida’s earnest desire to come up with solutions, everything still feels overwhelming. You don’t feel like tearing your brain cells apart, not when your heart is struggling to make sense of itself. 

Maybe all you need right now is for someone to validate how you are feeling—emotional first aid in the form of comfort.

“Iida?”

“Yes?”

“May I have a hug?”

For a few seconds, Iida opens his mouth, but no words come out. You briefly wonder if you’ve broken him, but he eventually stammers, “A-A hug?”

You nod. “I hope it’s not a weird request.”

“No! It is not weird at all. It is an acceptable request, just not one I was expecting.” Iida scratches the back of his neck as he steps back a little bit.

“Thanks.” You rise from your seat. “I still need some time to think about the exact kind of help I need. For today, I’m really nervous about today’s practical test, so…” 

“That is understandable. My brother always embraced me when I was nervous.” His voice wavers ever so slightly as you close the very short distance between you. “Uh, alright. H-How do you wish to-”

Your head feels fuzzy as you look at his arms, wide open and inviting. Your head only comes up to his chest, so you turn your face to one side, trying your hardest to avoid combusting. When you finally wrap your arms around his torso, he does the same. Instantly, his warmth envelops you from front to back.

And, oh.

Oh man.

In his hold, you realize that Iida Tenya is sturdy, yet soft. Strong, yet gentle. He is a force to be reckoned with, but he is safe.

And it’s not long before you hear the soft thumps of his heartbeat—the feeling is just as wonderful as the romance books claim. It’s a very real reminder that you have someone by your side as the storm rages on; the steady rhythm is enough to drown out the thunderous doubt and pessimism.

For once, your mind is quiet. It’s almost like you’re back in your bedroom, five years old, holding your stuffed bear tight to your chest without a worry in the world.

When you recall the comparison between your cherished childhood companion and your class representative, you nearly giggle. They really are alike, especially in the way that they never pull away first.

You never bother to count how many minutes pass, how many times Iida’s heart beats, or how many curious classmates have arrived and stared. All you know is that he waits patiently until you can finally stand on your own feet again.

“Thank you,” you whisper as the two of you separate.

“Of course. Any time.”

When you look outside the window, the sun still hasn’t come out to shine. It’s not ideal weather, but at least the rain has stopped.

Carrying your onigiris and a volleyball, you both make your way through a “secret path” that Sugawara so happened to discover.

“You’re crazy!” You whisper-shout. “Nobody’s allowed to use this part of the building. How did you find-”

“That’s why it’s a secret, now shush!”

You feel like you’re in a spy movie, searching every corner and listening for footsteps.

“Okay, that’s the back door that leads to the garden,” he points out, and you quickly follow his lead.

When you make it outside, you look around. The garden is green and spacious. There aren’t as many flowers as you expected, but it still looks serene.

“See! No one’s gonna interrupt us here,” he spins around in a circle with his hands in the air, before taking a seat on the grass.

He’s right. It just feels like the two of you exist.

The two of you immediately devour your onigiris, and in no time, you’re passing the volleyball to each other. It’s only been a few weeks since he invited you to play the sport with him, but you surprisingly find yourself enjoying it.

Today’s round proceeds like usual, and you’ve both managed a steady back-and-forth rhythm.

But then, he does something different. He spikes the ball.

“Oh no, sorry!”

He spikes the ball too hard.

Afraid of getting hit, you dodge it…which means it goes straight for one of the windows, which cracks on impact. The two of you can only stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Sugawara-chan…”

“Hey! Who’s there?”

The deep voice causes both of you to freeze.

You whisper frantically to Sugawara. “We’ll get in trouble for this! What do we do?”

“Follow me, I know another way.”

“Another way?” You glare at him as he pulls your hand. “Just what have you been up to?!”

“Trust me, let’s go!”

It’s not like you have much of a choice. You run through a bunch of other trees and bushes, nearly tripping over some roots and branches in your haste. Within a few seconds, you both stop at a large net.

“It’s a dead end!” You gasp. “What are we-”

Just then, Sugawara kneels to the ground, pushing a bush to the side. 

To your surprise, there’s a broken part in the net, creating an entrance small enough for kids like you to pass through.

You nearly question all your life decisions, but you hear the same voice calling out, and you’d rather not find out who it is.

With zero hesitation, you kneel to the ground and crawl through the opening. As soon as you make it to the other side, you pull Sugawara through. 

Then, you run for your lives.

Once you return to your classrooms, sans a volleyball, your teacher can only stare in shock at the state of your uniforms.

Sugawara makes up some excuse that involves saving a bird’s nest with eggs that were about to fall out, and the teacher somehow believes it. After all, the two best-behaved students couldn’t have been out doing something preposterous.

You roll your eyes when he gives you a discreet thumbs-up.

“But wasn’t it fun?” He whispers as the class begins to settle down for the next period.

“Whatever,” you sigh. But contrary to your words, you can’t deny that a part of you liked the thrill. It’s no wonder you “begrudgingly” agree to Sugawara’s shenanigans once the next opportunity rolls around.

Huh. Some kind of class angel he was.

Where did she go?

There is no four-year-old girl next to you. You gasp, turning around to scan the area, but you see no one who resembles her among the crowd.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “No way. She was just right there.” 

“What do you- is she lost?”

In your panic, you fail to reply to Keishin. You yell your daughter’s name, hoping that she’ll appear or respond to your call.

Yet, nothing, except the concerned looks of other fair attendees, who also start looking around them.

A chill runs down your spine.

This is not good. 

You feel the urge to run and scream, yet a paralyzing fear strikes you. 

Calm down. Calm down.

You have to find her.

“Hey. Hey. Can you look at me?”

Among the whispers of the crowd, the music blaring through speakers, and the clanking and hissing from the nearby food booths, you’re startled by the clarity of Keishin’s voice.

“Look at me. We’re gonna find your girl. I’ll help you.” His hands find their way to your shoulders, and the gesture moves you to tears.

This was exactly what he used to do years ago—when you had a bad score or needed some sort of pep talk, he never failed to keep you grounded.

And what you truly missed? The overwhelming sincerity and determination in his eyes. It always filled you with some form of hope.

Keishin was sometimes quick to shrug others off, not wanting to be bothered. For you, though, he would always drop everything to help. 

Like now.

“Okay,” you whisper, wiping your face. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Takinoue, can you take over for a while?” Keishin turns to his friend, who sends you both a thumbs-up. You feel a little guilty, considering that he was one of the few who tried to stay in contact with you, but the small, reassuring smile he gives eases some of the weight on your chest. 

After letting the information desk know about the situation, you both spend the next hour and a half going to each booth, asking vendors and fair-goers if they’ve seen a small child pass by. 

Some vendors are apologetic, not having paid much attention to the details of each customer. Other fair-goers give conflicting directions on where your daughter might have gone (and a part of you doubts that the kids they saw probably weren’t her).

The longer you spend searching, the more you feel your insides are being clawed at. Even Keishin has grown sweaty and tired, looking just as frustrated as you.

“Do you want to sit for a few minutes?” He asks cautiously, aware of your emotional state.

“I don’t know,” you huff. “Maybe. My feet are killing me. Let’s…fine.” You walk ahead of him, taking a seat on a nearby bench under a big tree.

He follows silently before sitting next to you. For a few minutes, it’s silent, but you can tell he wants to say something. You almost ask him to spit it out, but you also don’t trust your ability to avoid a public breakdown.

But your love for your daughter will always outweigh any sort of embarrassment—tears slip from your eyes once more, but this time, you can’t hold back the sobs.

“Shit. Um…” He rummages through his pockets for something—a tissue or a handkerchief, perhaps.

“I’m scared,” you wail. “Keishin, I…I can’t lose Keiko. I can’t lose any more people. I already lost you. I lost my friends. I lost everything.”

You notice the way he freezes. “What are you talking about? Lost everything? I-”

“I’m sorry for leaving you!” The words that have been waiting to burst out finally escape. “I regret it so much. I regret listening to my mother. I spent years pretending that I was fine with the decision I made, but I wasn’t. Keiko was the one good thing I had there in Tokyo.”

Keishin stays silent, processing everything you’ve just told him. Hell, if you were in his position, you’d be bewildered too.

“My husband was cold, but he was rich. Set for life. Mother loved him.” You sighed bitterly. “I thought, fine, he might not love me, but I’d get by. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But then I saw how little he cared about raising Keiko. He was never home, and then I found out he was seeing other people. I couldn’t do it anymore—Keiko deserved better.”

You don’t know what kind of expression Keishin is wearing on his face, but you’re too ashamed to look.

“I just gathered evidence of my husband’s cheating and filed for a divorce. Asshole wasn’t even apologetic. Mother was furious, but at me. ‘Maybe I wasn’t a good wife for him’ and a bunch of other crap. I pretty much told her to disown me because I didn’t wanna listen to her anymore. Keiko deserves a better, happier life.”

A hand gently settles on your wrist.

“So, I left and moved back here with my grandmother a month ago. Maybe I can start again somewhere that feels more like home. Let Keiko get the full experience that I couldn’t. I can’t fail her.” 

“I don’t think you’ll fail her,” Keishin responds kindly. “The fact that you’re willing to rise above and become a better mother than yours ever was? Defying people you’re closely involved with? Leaving everything behind and starting anew? Not everyone can just do that. That’s tough.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” You sigh. “I wish I didn’t let her dictate my life so much. I wish I had fought harder for us to stay together in high school. I’m so sorry, Keishin. You deserved better than me.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Keishin wraps his arms around you. “You know, I used to think I didn’t deserve you. No matter how many times you said that you liked me for who I am, sometimes, I felt like the things your mother used to say were right. I wasn’t good at school, nor is my family very well-off. And well, I still kinda look like a delinquent, don’t I?”

That draws a snort out of you.

“It’s true!” He chuckles. “But, it was the reason why I didn’t argue when you had to break up with me. I thought that perhaps your mom was right—you’d be better off going to college and getting a job in Tokyo. Besides, your mom would have done a number on us if we didn’t separate. I was scared for my family and…for you.”

A knife twists in your heart. “She was such a bitch, wasn’t she? I can’t believe she nearly threatened your family. I’m sorry. I wish things could’ve gone differently.”

“It’s all in the past,” Keishin replies, caressing your hair. “And we were in high school, so I never blamed you. We didn’t have all the independence we wanted—even I got stuck running my family’s store all these years.”

“Keishin, you’re too kind. Honestly, I was surprised you didn’t send me off as soon as I appeared at your stall.”

“Well, what good would denying customers do for our store?” He teases. “Though my mom would kill me if she saw what happened. Can’t do something as simple as get two bottles of water for a beautiful lady.”

“Oh, stop.” You giggle. For a moment, you recall how nice Keishin’s embraces were. How could you not return this one? You hug him back a little tighter. “I missed you. Thank you for helping me despite everything.”

“Like I said, I’m not angry,” he says before pausing. “Well, unless it’s your mom or your stupid ex-husband. If they get their hands on you or Keiko again, I’ll fight on your side. I’m sure most of our other friends here would, too.” 

“Thank you. I’ll do better. For everyone’s sake.”

“I trust you will.” You can hear the smile in Keishin’s voice. “Anyway, do you need a few more minutes before we continue searching-”

“Mama!”

Instantly, you both pull away and turn your heads in the direction of your daughter’s voice.

Your heart clenches at the soft pitter-patter of her footsteps as she runs up to you. “Keiko!” You open your arms to welcome her.

“Mama!” You rub her back as she cries into your shoulder. “Mama.”

“Hi, baby. I was so worried. Where did you go?” You try your best to stay calm and avoid upsetting her further.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I saw my classmate, but it wasn’t her. Then I got lost and can’t find you, Mama.”

“I see.” You give her a quick kiss on the forehead—there is no need to chastise her for an honest mistake. “Next time, tell Mama where you want to go. This is a very big place, so it’s easy to get lost.”

“I’m sorry, Mama! I will!” She promises, before asking tentatively, “Are you mad?”

“No, Mama isn’t mad.” You give her your biggest smile; it’s not hard to when her big eyes are looking up at you. “You didn’t mean it. I was scared like you, but I’m happy now because you’re here."

“Okay,” she sniffles. “I’m happy too.”

“Sensei, was she with you this whole time?” You hear Ukai question a kind-looking man standing in front of you. Judging by the honorific, he was probably a Karasuno teacher.

“Yes.” He affirms, adjusting his glasses. “Hi, I'm Takeda-sensei. You are Keiko’s mother, then?” 

“Hello! Yes, I am. Thank you for being with her. I apologize for the inconvenience.” You stand to bow to him, which he reciprocates immediately.

“Not a problem!” He rubs the back of his neck. “We were actually on our way to the information desk, but she noticed you and before I knew it, she took off.”

“I see. Thank you so much for your help, Sensei.” 

He gives you a sweet grin before addressing Keishin. “So this is where you were, Ukai-kun! I noticed you weren’t at the stall. I was about to ask you if you’ve met a mother who was looking for someone.”

“Well, yes.” He chuckles. 

Suddenly, Keiko gives him a good, long look. “Mama? Is that your friend?” She tilts her head. 

“Ah. This is Keishin-san. He helped me look for you.”

“Keishin-san?” For a while, she furrows her eyebrows. Then, she gasps and beams at you. “Mama! Is this the special person you named me after?”

“You…what?” He blinks in confusion. You blush as soon as you realize what has just come out of your daughter’s mouth.

“Uh- I, well. I-it’s,” you stammer, heart pounding in your chest.

“Keishin-san! Keishin-san! You’re the person Mama loves!”

That’s it. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

“Thank you for making her happy!” She suddenly throws herself at Keishin and gives him a big hug.

Hesitantly, he returns her embrace before glancing at you. “Is that…true?”

“Yeah. Keiko, for lucky child.” You look at your daughter endearingly—the way her cheek squishes against Keishin’s chest is adorable. “I wanted to give her a name close to yours, while also wishing for fortune in her future.”

“That’s…sweet.” He comments. When Keiko looks up at him with stars in her eyes, he smiles in return. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“Yeah!” She squeals. “I’m super lucky because of my mama!”

“Oh, you.” You pat her head gently. “Well, you must be hungry and thirsty. Why don’t we go to Keishin-san’s store?”

“Okay!” She claps, seemingly happy to be around him.

“Well, I’ll get going for now." Takeda-sensei excuses himself. "I’ll let the information desk know that everything has been resolved. See you around!”

“Bye-bye, Sensei!” Keiko waves to him.

As the three of you walk back to Keishin’s stall, you tell Keiko to hold your hand. With her other free hand, she insistently tugs at Keishin’s. Despite getting flustered, he doesn’t protest. Her happy hops are worth it.

“Keishin-san? What does your name mean?”

“My name? If I remember correctly, it means connecting heart.”

“Connecting…heart?” Keiko is deep in thought as she tries to figure out what that means. How cute.

“Connecting is like putting things together,” you explain, thinking of an example to help her. “Ah! Remember the glue we use at home?”

“Yeah! We made art! My hands got super sticky,” she shares with Keishin, and you laugh at the memory of all the tiny cutouts sticking to her hands and arms.

“That’s right. We used the glue to connect the little papers to the big one. Or, if you look at our hands,” you pause and point for emphasis, “they’re connected!”

“Oh!” Keiko’s eyes widen, almost like she’s made the biggest revelation. “Put together?”

“That’s right!” You give her hand a little squeeze.

“Keishin-san putting together hearts!”

“Ah…” He goes speechless, considering how loudly your daughter had shouted.

You giggle as other nearby attendees coo at the sight of her. “Keiko, not too loud, dear-”

“Keishin-san, can you put together Mama’s heart?”

What?

Both of you stop in your tracks, while Keiko bounces excitedly and pleads. "Please?"

You panic and mouth a quick apology to Keishin, who waves it off.

He guides the three of you to a less crowded area, before he squats down next to her. “What do you mean, Keiko?”

“My bad daddy broke her heart.” She pouts at Keishin and you. “He made Mama sad. But you make Mama happy. Please put together her heart.”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “I did not put her up to this,” you whisper to Keishin. “I swear. I didn’t even think she’d remember your name that clearly.”

He glances at you for quite some time, gears turning in his head. He takes a deep breath before asking, "Would you let me put your heart back together?"

And the sincerity in his voice makes you realize that this isn't just a mere question—it's an invitation to try again.

"Are you sure, Keishin?" You mutter. Despite everything he's told you earlier, you're afraid to believe this is real. "Even after all of it?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I want to make you happy, especially now that nothing's standing in our way." He takes your hand in his. "Would you let me?"

You find yourself about to bawl for the hundredth time that day, but at least it's out of sheer joy and gratitude this time.

Biting down on your lip, you nod. "Yes. Please."

Unable to hold yourself back, you gather them in your arms for a group hug.

"Okay, Keiko. I'll put your mama's heart back together."

Your daughter cheers. "Thank you, Keishin-san!"

A warmth seems to fill the cracks of your heart, making you feel whole.

After years of regret and hurt (and the past three hours of terror), you never could have imagined this kind of outcome. But now, you're filled with some hope that things will get better.

It's not long before Keishin reintroduces you to his family, who welcomes you warmly, the same way they did the first time. They are over the moon when you offer to use your business and advertising expertise for Sakanoshita's growth.

And to your surprise, you find out that Keishin's been coaching Karasuno's male volleyball team for almost a year now. You're highly amused by his attempts to keep up his tough exterior with the kids, especially when it quickly melts away in your presence.

Over the next few weeks, you catch up with your friends, who are more than thrilled to see you, and…the mini version of you. They waste no time branding themselves as Keiko's best aunt or uncle.

As for your daughter, she quickly makes new friends around the neighborhood. By the time she goes back to school, you're thrilled whenever her classmates invite her over for play dates.

Now that everything has started falling into place, you thank your younger self for letting that burst of courage win.

You made the tough decision to leave and start over, despite the fear of losing everything.

But in the end, it turns out that not all is lost.

You knew what you signed up for as a manager. Handling this wacky but loveable bunch of boys wasn’t going to be easy, and it’s days like this that remind you of that.

Sometimes, you want to blame them. Would it kill them to pay more attention or lower their voices? To be more considerate or observant? 

At the same time, you blame yourself for it. Perhaps you lacked the necessary patience. Kuroo knows how to deal with them. Sure, he gets annoyed every now and then, but he never lets himself get too riled up or snappy.

Or was today just a bad coincidence?

You kind of wish you had another manager on your side, just like Karasuno did. Would it have made things a little easier? Maybe you could try searching for one before the end of the school year—Nekoma making nationals could convince more people. 

Well, whatever the case, you’re left to sit with your ugly feelings now. You finally reach the second floor balcony, and a part of you wants to yell or throw something down onto the sidewalk. 

But, you can’t. Too many people. More questions.

You sigh.

Then suddenly, there’s a knock on the sliding door, followed by a soft greeting. You don’t even need to turn around to know who the meek voice belongs to.

“Kenma?” You acknowledge. “What brings you here?”

“Um…do you mind if I eat here? They’re being too loud.”

“Until now?” You frown. Kenma flinches slightly at the sharpness in your tone. As some sort of an apology, you scoot over and pat the clear space next to you.

“Yeah. Uh, here, by the way.” Kenma pushes a bento box in your direction. “The others said you haven’t eaten…it would be a shame, you spent a lot of time on it.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You accept it and immediately put it in your lap. In your anger, you’ve nearly forgotten how hungry you were.

For a few minutes, the two of you eat in silence, watching people and vehicles pass by. You’re surprised by how comfortable it is—you don’t feel compelled to start any sort of small talk.

Kenma just eats at his pace, checking his phone every once in a while. You let him be; after all, he came here to escape the noise too.

When you finish your meal, you sigh and close your eyes, leaning against the wall behind you.

“Are you okay?”

“Dunno.” You shrug. “Tired, I guess.”

“That’s…understandable. Thank you for the dinner, and um, everything else today.”

In the corner of your eye, you notice that Kenma ate everything in the bento. Usually, he leaves some leftovers behind. 

“You’re welcome.”

He hesitates for a few moments after that. “Are you…mad?”

“Mad?”

“Uh, at the team. And, well, maybe me too?”

You raise your eyebrows at the second inquiry. “I don’t have any reason to be mad at you. But, uh, did the others say anything?” 

“They said you walked out suddenly,” Kenma responds softly. “When I got there, they were figuring out who was to blame. It was too overwhelming, so I left. And, you also seemed to be on edge since this morning, so I was just…wondering.”

You purse your lips. “Mm, do you ever just wake up and know it’s gonna be a horrendous day?” 

He nods.

“Yeah. It was horrendous for me. Stuff went wrong during morning preparations, plus everything and everyone just felt too loud. Then, dinner made me feel like exploding because there was too much going on. So, I left. I can say some pretty mean things when I’m really angry, which I’m not proud of.” 

You pause and sigh, staring at the small stars in the night sky. “I don’t resent the team or anything, I’m just upset and frustrated. It felt like the universe was plotting against me today.”

“Oh. Well, I hope things get better for you.”

“Thank you.” You give him a small grin. “And, thanks for listening to me.”

“Uh, of course…” Kenma looks away for a moment. “Do you want to be alone for now? Or…”

At first, being left alone sounded like heaven, but you find yourself wanting to be in Kenma’s company for the next half hour or so. 

Even though the setter hasn’t given his personal opinion on the situation, you have a gut feeling that he knows exactly what you mean and how you feel. If anything, he’s more likely to be found sitting in a dark corner of who-knows-where compared to you.

And so, you make the better choice.

“You can stay. I don’t mind.”

“Oh. Alright.” Despite his attempts to act nonchalant, it’s easy to detect his surprise at your decision.  

The two of you stare ahead at the various buildings and roads, unsure of where to take the conversation now. But, the silence is-

“Can I tell you something?” 

What?

“Ah- uh, sure.” 

“I wanted to um…” He stops for a moment. “Uh…” 

Suddenly, you’re curious about what Kenma has to say. When it comes to his initiative, it’s either he has something to say, or he’d rather not open his mouth at all. For him to hesitate like this is rather unusual. 

“What is it?” You ask in a kinder tone, hoping that it encourages him to continue. 

“I, uh, wanted to thank you.”

“Oh. Thank me for…?”

“Everything. You’ve been working very hard to help the team the whole year…and perhaps we haven’t that grateful to you. It’s hard to imagine how things would happen without you, so, thank you for sticking by us…for accepting us as we are, even if it drives you mad sometimes.”

You’re rendered speechless for a moment. “That’s…”

And it’s incredible, how quickly the flames in your chest die down—not completely, but you’re no longer angry. It’s nice to feel appreciated, even if it’s just from one person. 

“That’s sweet. Thank you, Kenma.”

For the first time that day, you grin, and it is by no means forced. In fact, you don’t even realize it, until the stretch of your cheeks feels almost unnatural.

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as you appear in the doorway, the Nekoma members fill the silence of the dining room with their sincere apologies.

Lev and Inuoka, ever energetic, immediately rise from their seats and kneel on the floor in front of you. “Senpai! We’re sorry, we’re sorry!”

Shibayama appears embarrassed to copy his fellow first-years, but he still follows suit, apologizing at a softer volume. Tora, on the other hand, is already yelling and tripping over his feet as he moves to kneel. 

Goodness. This is…

“Everyone,” you start. “You guys don’t have to-”

But your attempt to speak is futile, as the overlapping voices drown yours out.

When you lock eyes with the third-years and Fukunaga, they bow to you—in unison, which sort of freaks you out. 

You’re speechless at this point, including your coaches, who just watch from the end of the table in amusement. 

“Please don’t hate us! We’re sorry! We’re so thankful for you!” Tora looks up at you, clasping his hands together.

“Guys. Guys, wait. Settle down.” You wave your hands, which thankfully gets their attention. “I don’t hate you guys.”

“Really? You looked so mad.” Inuoka pouts.

“I mean, I was mad.” You look away, feeling your heart twist a little. “But, it was just a really bad day.”

“Are you sure it was just that?” Kuroo inquires, and his tone sounds like he’s trying to get you to admit something, but, you weren’t really sure what to say.

Thankfully, the libero saves you from the struggle. Literally.

“Kenma gave us a good scolding,” Yaku chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. 

“He- what?” You gasp, nearly forgetting about who was standing behind you. “Good scolding?” When you turn to Kenma for an explanation, he immediately looks away.

“Kenma-san said that we were being too demanding. That we weren’t paying attention to you.” Lev explains sheepishly. 

“And that we weren’t saying thank you for all the hard work you’ve been doing. Especially today.” Shibayama adds. 

It all makes more sense now, why Kenma approached you at the balcony, brought you dinner, asked about how you felt, and expressed his thoughts.

For a second, you actually forgot you were angry in the first place. Instead of an intense heat, warmth blooms in your chest.

“I see.” You can’t fight the smile on your face. “Your apologies are accepted and appreciated. Thank you, everyone.”

“We’ll do our best to be better, Senpai! You can yell at us if you want!”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, um…yell?” 

Kai laughs softly before he clarifies. “What he means to say is, if you have a concern, don’t hesitate to be upfront with us.”

“Of course.” You giggle. “Will do.”

As everyone returns to their seats to finish their dinner, you hear a near-silent sound of amusement from Coach Nekomata. You glance at him, and he nods at you with his trademark catlike smile. 

“You know, I just thought about something,” Kuroo says, pausing to put his stack of plates down. 

“Oh, what is it?” 

“Something cool about the chant. Okay, so, we are the blood…”

“Not this again.” Kenma sighs quietly next to you as he continues wiping the table.

“...keep the oxygen flowing so the brain can work to its full potential.”

“What about it?” Kai tilts his head.

“That’s the team chant, but I think something’s missing.”

“Missing?” Everyone suddenly stops to listen to their captain, intrigued.

“The blood is us, and the brain is our beloved Kenma-”

“Kuroo, please.”

“But another important part we need is the heart. It keeps the blood pumping and circulating throughout the body.”

“The heart?” someone echoes. “But who is…”

The question trails off once Fukunaga points at you.

Oh.

“Exactly!” Kuroo exclaims. “They are the reason we can all function and do our jobs well. Does our brain agree?”

“Wh-” Kenma splutters at the sudden callout. He narrows his eyes at his childhood friend, but when he looks at you, his gaze softens. “Yeah. I agree,” he mutters, and you swear you see the smallest hint of a smile on his lips.

The first- and second-years are busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over Kuroo’s revelation, and at this point, all the attention you were getting was starting to fluster you.

“Oh, you guys,” you sigh, covering your face with a hand. “Thank you.”

Kuroo beams at you. “Heh.”

“Yeesh. Don’t tell me you’re gonna keep me up rewriting chant lines.” Yaku groans as he clears the leftover trash on the table. 

“Ha?! Excuse me, you have no respect for chant-writing!” Kuroo turns his attention to the shorter male, as everyone returns to their cleanup tasks. “Our chant is a work of art!”

Fukunaga snickers to himself before adding, “And being Nekoma’s manager is a work of heart.”

You let out a gasp when you realize that you’re about to fall. Panicking, you reach out to grab at one of the racks.

A few snacks you’ve just arranged fall to the ground, but that’s the least of your worries. 

You are highly aware of two strong arms wrapping around your waist to catch you.

It all happens in the span of a few seconds, but you swear that you will never forget the feeling of his warmth pressed to your skin.

The world stops for a moment, and you wonder how you managed to experience something right out of a drama.

“Nice receive, Tadashi!”

A new voice appears as the both of you breathe heavily.

“Shimada-san!” The boy acknowledges your uncle, who appears behind the both of you.

“What happened?” Your uncle responds, a little confused. “I heard a crash.”

“Uh, it was the ladder and snacks. I fell. Nearly,” you explain, still a little stunned by it all.

“What, you got distracted?” he teases, and you think you know what he’s implying.

“I- no!”

Your uncle smiles. “Sure. Anyway, you can let go of my niece, Tadashi. I think she’ll live.” 

“Ah, sorry about that!” He steps away to give you space, and you’re slightly disappointed by the separation. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

You shake your head. “It’s alright. You caught me in the nick of time, so thanks.”

“Well, he’s been working hard on his reaction speed. That probably helped.” Your uncle puts a hand on your savior’s shoulder. “Anyway, this is Yamaguchi Tadashi. He’s the new captain of Karasuno’s volleyball club.”

Captain?

“It’s the same team I used to play in before in high school. I’ve been mentoring him for the past two years. He’s grown well.”

“Thank you, Shimada-san,” Tadashi says, bowing his head quickly as your uncle continues talking.

“He started as a pinch server like me. Now, his serves are his best weapons. In fact, he…”

You nod, not entirely sure what your uncle is even talking about. But if he holds this boy in high regard, then perhaps he’s worthy of the praise.

“That’s great, uh-” You realize you don’t know how to address him. “What would you like me to call you? Just in case we run into each other again.”

“Um, Tadashi’s fine.”

“Huh, interesting,” your uncle comments. “Tsukishima calls you Yamaguchi.”

“Old habits die hard,” Tadashi grins, before throwing the question back to you. “And what should I call you? It would be pretty confusing to call you both Shimada-san.”

You tell him to use your first name, and your heart flutters when he repeats it. It’s cute how cautious he is with the use of honorifics. 

There’s a soft snort from your uncle, and you wonder if you’re being too obvious. “Well, it’s great that you’re acquainted now. Unfortunately, I do need Tadashi in the back. You’ll manage, right?”

“Yep. You two go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Just let me know if anything else happens.” Your uncle adjusts his glasses before leaving the aisle. Tadashi gives you a meek wave before following suit.

You sigh, looking at the mess of chip bags on the floor. Time to sort them. Again.

After about an hour, your uncle and his mentee return. You spent that time going back and forth between sorting the snacks and manning the cash register. 

Hopefully, you’ll get paid enough for this (though the mess was technically your fault).

“Gosh, what did you guys do?” You comment on their sweaty faces.

“Refining some tricks I taught him.” Your uncle responds while attempting to catch his breath. “He’s surprising me with new stuff too.”

“That’s cool.” You nod at Tadashi. “Gotta keep ‘em on their feet.”

“I don’t know if that’s meant to be a dig at me, but whatever.” Your uncle rolls his eyes. “I’ll just change my clothes. Feel free to go ahead if you wish, Tadashi.” 

“Ah, alright. Thank you again, Shimada-san!”

Your uncle disappears into the staff room, leaving you and Tadashi alone. 

The freckled boy stares at you for a moment. “Um…I’ll just grab some Pocari sweat.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” You reply, almost a second too late.

Internally, you wrack your mind for conversation starters, but they all disappear as soon as he returns.

You brace yourself for a bit of awkward silence, but suddenly, you have nothing to worry about. 

“How come I’ve never seen you around yet?” Tadashi asks. 

“Oh, I just started working here this week,” you respond, punching in the numbers on the cash register. “I grew up in Iwate, but moved here a month ago with my family. We’re planning to expand the Shimada business.”

“Ah, so you’re not from Miyagi.” Tadashi says slowly in realization. 

“Yeah, only my dad was. After marrying my mom, he moved to Iwate.”

“I see…” Tadashi takes a deep breath. “So, are you in high school?”

“Nope, just graduated! I’m starting college this year at Sendai. Gonna major in business, so I suppose working here helps with job experience.”

“Sendai University? That’s where my friend wants to go. Cool.”

“You going there too?” You tilt your head. 

“Hm, I’m still thinking about it. I’m honestly more nervous about being the captain at the moment.”

“That’s fair. I never experienced being a leader myself, but all the ones I knew tried their hardest to be reliable.”

“Reliable,” Tadashi repeats. “Yeah, the last two captains we had were definitely reliable.”

He gazes somewhere at the rack of candies behind you, a little lost in thought. You don’t know what takes over you, but you decide to pry. 

“Do you…not think you’re reliable?” 

“Huh?” Tadashi makes eye contact with you as he snaps back into reality. “Oh. Me? I don’t really know. I mean, I like to think I’ve gotten the hang of things, but at the same time, I worry. I know they say that I don’t need to be exactly like our previous captains, but of course, comparison is a hard thing to ignore.”

You hum in response. That is a valid fear, having to shoulder a lot.

“Uh, that got too personal. Sorry.” He grimaces. “But I’m working on it. Your uncle’s helped me a lot too.”

“It’s okay.” You wave it off. “And I’m glad you’ve got great people to support you. I overhear him talking fondly about you and your team, you know? I may not understand the volleyball terms he uses or know the people on Karasuno, but it’s always something positive.”

You recall bits and pieces of conversations with your uncle from the past few months, making you smile. “Now that I think about it, he always mentioned how excited he is for his mentee to be captain. I only put it together earlier that he was referring to you.”

“Oh.” Tadashi flushes. “That’s nice to know. Thank you.”

You suddenly remember that you’re in the middle of a transaction when you look down at the counter. Suddenly, you get an idea.

“Um, I’d like to give you something.” You reach down for a snack in one of the boxes next to your feet. “This is my favorite. For when I need comfort or feel super nervous.” You offer him the round plastic container.

It’s a snack you often ate during your study breaks in high school. While the manufacturer was rather popular for manufacturing potato chips, they had an interesting venture into crunchy fries.

“Oh, that’s…” He inspects the product carefully. “You know, I actually like fries. Normally the soggy ones, but this one’s interesting.”

“In that case, it gets even better,” you comment, pointing at the instructions on the packaging. “If you like the softer stuff, you could actually add a little bit of hot water and it can turn into…mashed potatoes? Or just slightly soggy fries as you wish.”

Agh. Was that convincing enough?

“Uh, regardless of what you choose to do with it, it’s worth trying. Out of all the crunchy fries snacks I’ve tried, I like the texture of this one.”

After a few more seconds, Tadashi shrugs. “Well, why not?” He reaches into his bag for his wallet. “How much?”

“On me,” you blurt out.

At that, he whips his head up. “Huh?”

“It’s on me.”

“Wh-” He sputters. “Wait, why?”

“Uh, for everything earlier.”

He stares at you for a moment, forcing you to elaborate further.

“Me falling off the ladder and you having to catch me.”

That draws a soft chuckle from him. “Right. But Shimada-san might kill me.”

“Oji-san won’t know.”

“You have a CCTV camera.” He points to the ceiling corner.

“Ehhh.” You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s my money.”

“Seriously? You really don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” you insist.

He opens his mouth to protest, but a sigh comes out instead. “You’ll still insist on paying no matter what I say or do, right?”

You nod in response.

“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

“Well, the thing is, I support service workers’ wrongs.”

Tadashi immediately snorts. “Fine. Fine. Just because you said that.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” you grin, bagging the goods and handing them over. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He bows his head a little as he takes the bag. “It was really nice to meet you. I’ll come by again soon!”

“It was nice to meet you, too.” You lock eyes with him for a moment before averting your gaze.

He hesitantly steps back from the counter. “Well, see you!” 

“See you around!” You wave at him and watch as he leaves the store.

That’s when you realize that your cheeks hurt from smiling. 

Your uncle would never let you live this down-

“Did you give him something for free?”

Speak of the devil.

“What? No!” 

“I love the guy, but please don’t make him think he’ll get free stuff each time he comes here.”

“I’m paying for it.” You huff, placing some of your allowance into the cash register. “Just this once.”

Your uncle just snorts. “Okay. As long as there’s money coming, I don’t care if your flirting is our key marketing strategy.”

“Mhm. Whatever helps the business,” you roll your eyes and lean on the counter.

“Speaking of, do you think it’s a good idea to rebrand as Shimada’s Inconvenience Store?”

“Oji-san?!”