Gojo's mouth instantly pulls into that sideways, fond smile, reserved specifically for you.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who almost failed the last lab quiz,” he remarks, one brow raised over the rim of his lenses.

“Well,” you say, sliding into the seat he’s saved for you. “I’m expecting you to score a date today.”

Gojo sighs. “Do you really think that'll work?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, already digging for your notebook. “Someone’s finally going to break their celibacy streak.”

“Could you not call it that?”

“Could you not stall?” you fire back, holding out your hand. “Phone, please. Don’t fight me on this.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of his pocket as though the phone might bite him. But before he can hand it over, the professor sweeps into the room, and everyone groans in unison.

You flop dramatically forward on your desk. “Rude.”

Gojo just smirks faintly, tucking the phone back into his hoodie pocket. When he sits back, though, you notice that he angles himself a little closer to you. His elbow brushes yours, just barely. And you don’t move away.

The lecture begins.

You hear almost none of it. Every mention of valence electrons turns to static while you absently doodle stars and crooked hearts in the margins of your notes.

But your eyes keep darting sideways. To the way he taps his pen against his thigh. To the way he mouths the professor’s words just a beat behind, syncing with a rhythm only he seems to hear.

You think you’re being subtle, catching little glimpses of him without being caught.

Until Gojo's eyes flick up and find yours.

His gaze snags yours and holds it just long enough for the back of your neck to warm before he looks back down at his notes, the faintest tinge of pink dusting the tops of his ears.

And just a few moments later, his hand moves. Slowly, lazily, like they have nowhere better to be, his fingers drift from their place on his own notebook and hover near yours, before resting lightly over your hand on the desk.

The warmth of it sinks into your skin, his thumb brushing idly against your knuckles. Neither of you move. His fingers curl just slightly, pressing yours gently into the wood in the quietest squeeze.

“Would you sit still?” he murmurs, voice soft enough that the scratch of pens almost drowns it out. “You’re distracting.”

Your head tilts into the contact for half a second too long before he pulls away, his hand retreating like nothing happened.

When the bell rings, you shoot up like a spark, practically snatching Gojo's phone right out of his hand.

“You have a match,” you announce, triumphant as the screen lights up.

Gojo blinks, surprised. “A match?”

“She’s pretty." You spin the phone toward him with a grin. "Like, drinks oat milk and does pilates pretty.”

He leans closer to see, brows drawing together slightly. “Seriously?”

“Has a liking for Astronomy, long walks, Iced Americanos,” you recite as you scroll.

“Huh,” he mutters.

“That’s it? Just Huh?” you tease, giving him a look.

“She seems.... fine,” he says flatly.

“Well, you can thank me later,” you say, already thumbing through the app to compose a message.

He doesn’t stop you. Just sits there quietly while the classroom empties around you.

The hum of chatter outside the classroom drifts in as the door bangs shut behind the last student. The room is quiet now but for the faint the slow tick of the wall clock.

By the time you’re halfway through typing some charming opener on his behalf, you notice he hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t even looked at the screen.

You glance at him, frowning slightly—and catch the way his fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric like he’s trying to wring the nerves out of it.

That’s when you realize something’s wrong. You lower the phone to the desk, watching him carefully.

“She’s super cute,” you say, voice light, testing the waters. “Right?”

He nods once, almost mechanically. “Yeah. Cute.”

It’s flat and empty. Like he’s reading it off the back of a cereal box.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s the least convincing cute I’ve ever heard.”

Gojo exhales through his nose. His knee bounces once, then stops.

“Satoru,” you say, a little softer. “It’s just a date. You’ll be fine.”

But he doesn’t even glance at you. His thumb picks anxiously at the corner of his notebook.

“That’s not the point,” he mutters.

You frown, sitting back. “Then what is?”

He finally tips his head back, as if the ceiling might have the answer, jaw tight.

“Come on,” you say again, pressing further. “Spit it out.”

“Forget it." He says, leaning back in his chair. "I just... you wouldn't understand.”

That one lands sharper than he probably intended.

You huff, the faint sting in your chest catching you off guard. “Oh. So now I’m too dumb to understand?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shoot back, sitting up straighter. “Right after I practically handed you a date on a silver platter, you tell me to mind my own business?”

He shifts in his seat, leaning forward like he’s about to say something, but then stops. His hands clench in his lap.

“Yeah, well…” he finally mumbles, eyes hard on the desk. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You ever think maybe I don’t want you running my life all the time?”

For a second you just stare, because the words feel so damn foreign out of his mouth.

You laugh, the sound bitter and clipped. “That’s actually impressive. You managed to make me feel like an idiot and regret helping you all at once.”

Gojo freezes, like he only just registered the words that came out of his mouth. His head snaps toward you, face flushing pale. “Wait — no. That’s not what I—”

But you’re already standing, grabbing your bag.

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, slinging it over your shoulder. “I won’t get in your way anymore.”

“Wait—” he tries again, standing halfway, guilt twisting across his face.

You approach the door and maybe it’s petty, or maybe it’s just necessary, but you don’t call him Satoru.

“Good luck on your date, Gojo.”

The way you say his name—Gojo, not Satoru—feels like a door closing in his face.

You leave without looking back.

The canteen feels colder without you sitting across from him, your laughter still faint in the back of his mind. He sits there long after you’ve left, staring at his phone like maybe if he stares at it hard enough, it'll light up with a text from you.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, voice cracking faintly. “That’s… not what I meant.”

His hand hovers over your name in his contacts more than once. But he doesn’t click on it.

The truth is, he doesn’t care about some oat milk drinking, pilates going stranger.

He never did.

When you smiled at him in that classroom, when your elbow brushed his, when your hand stayed under his and you didn't move it away—he thought, maybe. Maybe you knew.

But you don’t.

And he’s too much of a coward to tell you.

—⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ —

Gojo paces in his room for what feels like hours. The message is typed, then deleted, then typed again.

I'm sorry.

You weren’t a bother.

I didn’t mean it.

Come back. Please.

Each one dies before it can get delivered to you, his thumb hovering, yet wavering just as quickly.

So he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

He shows up at your door. No warning, and certainly no text.

Just him standing under the jaundiced glow of your porch light, hair sticking up at odd angles like he’d run nervous fingers through it. His sneakers scuff nervously at the welcome mat, eyes wide and glassy like a deer in headlights.

You freeze for half a beat, hand clutching the edge of the door frame.

And he just stares—soft, awkward and hopelessly him.

You sigh and step aside without a word, and he slips inside with the ease of someone who's been here a thousand times before.

Gojo doesn’t beat around the bush or offer a forced excuse. He just sinks onto the edge of your couch, shoulders hunched, hands buried in the sleeves of his hoodie. Looking every bit like a stray cat that finally realized it might’ve bitten the only hand that fed it.

You sit at the far end, curled in the corner of the sofa, legs tucked up, face turned away from him.

He draws in a breath. “Please don’t do this to me.”

You still don’t look at him. “Do what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing helplessly between the two of you. “This thing where you won’t even look at me—”

He breaks off. Your fingers tighten where they curl against the armrest.

“I can’t—” he tries again, throat bobbing. “I can’t stand it when you won’t look at me.”

You finally look up at that. Because how could you not when he sounds like that?

His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped slightly at the ends like he rubbed at them too hard, like maybe he was afraid he’d cry on the walk over.

“Fine,” you say, arms crossing defensively. “I’m looking.”

Gojo exhales a breath of relief, before speaking up again. “I messed up,”

You scoff. “No kidding.”

“I really messed up,” he amends, like that’ll earn him points.

You don’t reply.

He shifts slightly, digging into the front pocket of his hoodie, fishing for something, and out comes a brown paper bag folded neatly at the top.

You blink, dumbfounded. “…Is that—”

Gojo nods sheepishly. “Yeah. That pastry you like. The, uh…” He trails off, wrinkling his nose. “The bougie one with the French name that sounds like a sneeze.”

“…Financier?”

“That. I walked thirty minutes for it. The barista said they were out but then I did the face.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What face?”

He scrunches his face dramatically—pursed lips, eyes huge and wet like a cartoon. “Please ma’am. My best friend’s mad at me and this is the only thing that might make her like me again.”

Despite yourself, a little laugh bubbles out. His head snaps up instantly, as though he’s been starved for that sound and can’t bear to miss a second.

And you swear, in that moment, he actually glows. His expression softens into a grin so dumb, so earnest, it almost makes your chest hurt.

“So,” he says, voice hopeful. “We’re okay now?”

You take the bag slowly. Your fingers brush his when you do, and he stills, barely breathing.

You eye him for a long beat, and then say, “You’re lucky I’m food-motivated.”

You make quick work of the bag, the sweet, rich fragrance of the pastry escaping in soft, delicious curls of warmth.

You nibble at the corner, a soft sound of approval slipping out as the dessert nearly melts against your tongue. It’s still warm, soft in the center, with that faint hint of almond that makes your eyes flutter close for a second.

When you open them back though, Gojo’s staring straight at you.

Not subtly.

You blink, pastry halfway to your mouth. “You’re gonna burn a hole through my face at this rate.”

His eyes widen slightly as he clears his throat. “Wasn’t staring.”

“You literally haven’t blinked in forty-five seconds.”

“I’m contemplating,” he says, voice mock-serious.

“Contemplating what? The angle of my jaw while I eat?”

“No,” Gojo huffs, ears going pink. “Yes. I mean—no. Shut up.”

You laugh and take another slow bite just to mess with him. “You better go on that date tomorrow, Satoru. If you bail, I’m never reactivating your account.”

He sighs, dragging his hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good. And you better be ready.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” you reply cryptically.

He frowns. “Everything?”

You shrug, brushing the crumbs from your fingers. “You don't know when things could escalate. What if she gives you a goodnight kiss?”

Gojo goes stock-still. The color drains from his cheeks before rushing right back in twice as dark. “A wh-what?”

You pause, eyeing him. “You have kissed someone before… right?”

His shoulders stiffen, gaze darting anywhere but at you—the table, the ceiling, his own lap. “Uh. Define kissed.”

You drop the remnants of your sweet bread with a thunk. “Oh my god.”

He winces, sinking into the couch like he wants to become one with the cushions.

“Satoru.”

"I know."

"You're twenty-freaking-one."

“I’ve been busy!”

You arch a brow, leaning forward. “Doing what, exactly? Taking a vow of chastity?”

“With school and avoiding failure!” He throws his hands up, knocking over a napkin. “And maybe also… fear of being bad at it.”

You stifle a laugh, watching him squirm. “So you’re actually nervous about kissing? That’s kind of cute.”

He huffs, crossing his arms but avoiding your eyes. His knees bounce under the table. “Excuse me for not wanting to humiliate myself the first time.”

“Well, lucky for you…” you drawl, eyes glinting as you bat your lashes with exaggerated sweetness.

Gojo freezes, suspicion written all over his face. “…Lucky for me?”

“You’ve got me,” you hum, inching closer and closer until he’s practically backed into the couch cushions. “And I am an excellent teacher.”

“...No.”

“Yes.”

“No way in hell.”

“Do you wanna embarrass yourself on the first date?” you counter, calm as ever.

“I’ll figure it out!”

“By all means,” you say, rolling your eyes and leaning back. “Fumble your own bag. Who needs a love life anyway?”

“I’m not kissing you.” he declares, but the way he’s fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie and pointedly not meeting your line of sight says otherwise.

“It’s purely academic.” You reach over, brushing a crumb off his hoodie. “And you have nice lips, Satoru.”

He jerks back like you slapped him. “That’s—that’s irrelevant—”

“It’s entirely relevant,” you say, leaning back on your hands. “You’ve got the tools, just no training.”

He purses his lips, going quiet for a stretched moment before speaking up.

“…You’re serious?” he says, voice so small it almost disappears.

You smile. “Why wouldn’t I be? Friends help each other out.”

Gojo hesitates.

Because he knows. Knows that you’re teasing. Knows you’ve always flirted in that particular way only you can manage—close enough to confuse him, yet never close enough to catch.

But this feels different. His gaze drops to your mouth, and then back up.

“…Okay,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

You blink. “Really?”

“…For uh— research,” he adds weakly, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

You snort. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

But your hands find his cheeks anyway, tilting his face toward you, closing the gap.

You press your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss—barely more than a brush—and his breath stutters against your cheek. His hands are fisted against his knees, knuckles white, and you can’t help but be amused at how hard he’s working not to reach for more.

“Relax,” you whisper against his lips, smiling when his shoulders loosen just a little.

He’s so rigid it’s adorable, like someone rewound his spine into a spring.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, nudging your nose against his. “Do I intimidate you, Satoru?”

“I’m fine,” he breathes, but you know it's a lie.

You kiss him again, this time with more intent. Gojo responds slower, like he’s still trying to figure out which part of him is supposed to move first.

You take the lead, hand curling into his hoodie, coaxing him closer until his palm lands on your hip. He makes a sound then—a desperate little groan muffled into your mouth—and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You shift closer, swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him without warning. The couch dips and groans beneath you both as your knees bracket his thighs. He gasps faintly when your fingers slide into his hair and pull, his hands clenching instinctively at your hips.

The kiss quickly turns messier—his lips already a little swollen, breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. His hands slide up your thighs, unsure but desperate, fingers flexing like he’s afraid he’s imagining it all. You bite at his lower lip, and his hips jolt up before he can stop himself.

By the time you finally pull back, hauling yourself off of him, both of you are flushed and breathing hard. Gojo looks absolutely wrecked—glasses crooked, lips red and kiss-bitten, eyes dazed.

He swallows hard, then clears his throat, like that might somehow clear the heat from his face.

“…So,” he says finally, voice hoarse but trying for casual, “that was… educational.”

You snort, leaning back just enough to look at him. “You’re not the worst student I’ve ever had.”

That earns you a weak little laugh.

But his fingers are fidgeting in his lap now, tugging at the edge of his hoodie like it might save him, or at least give his hands something to do besides reaching back for the warmth of your body against his.

His eyes dart down to your mouth again, linger just a second too long, then flick back up to yours.

“…We’re still friends, right?”

You tilt your head lazily, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb. “Obviously.”

Tags: @tonuhye @vynn30 @bakugouswaif @silkgardenias @gielwinchester9 @coffeeluvr96 @applepi405 @victorianxox-blog @minasuniverse @r9muka @n4me @goonforgeto @allysainz @jcissors

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Now he's the boy who always saves you a seat in lecture, even if you’re late. Who lets you steal fries off his plate.

What starts as a one-time study session becomes a rhythm. A quiet understanding. You find yourself at his desk more often than not, legs curled into the chair or sprawled out haphazardly, papers everywhere, caffeine staining the inside of your throat.

Gojo always sits across from you. Always.

He’s there through the good days and the ones where the formulas blur into white noise. When your pen stalls mid-sentence and your head falls into your hands in frustration, he’s already nudging a fresh sheet of paper your way patiently, a quiet anchor.

Sometimes, when you’re too deep in concentration to notice, his gaze lingers. He watches the way your foot bounces under the table, how your brow furrows just before you get the answer right. He notices the ink smudge on your wrist, the way your knees brush against his under the table and stay there just a little too long yet he doesn't dare move away.

And sometimes, when you look up too suddenly, you catch him watching.

Gojo's eyes go as wide as saucers. He turns back to his notebook swiftly, chin sinking into his palm as if that can hide the flush crawling up his neck.

On the nights it gets too late, when the page turns start slowing and your head begins to droop, you fall asleep right there—arms folded over your notes, cheek pressed to the desk.

You never wake up there.

Instead, it’s always the same: the warmth of a mattress under your back, the softness of his blanket tucked up to your chin. The scent of his laundry detergent clinging to the fabric. Dim light bleeding through closed curtains.

And just across the room is Gojo. Curled into himself on the small couch, half-covered by a jacket he clearly pulled over in a rush, snoring softly.

You never mention it. He doesn't either.

But the space between you keeps closing, inch by inch.

He’s the smartest person you know, and somehow still the one who burns popcorn in the microwave and forgets to charge his phone for days. He’s awkward, anxious, and talks too fast when he’s excited, like his brain’s ten steps ahead of his mouth.

But he’s always there.

Which is why, tonight, when you show up at his door with a crate of cheap beer and the exhausted gleam of midterms in your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions.

He just lets you in.

You drop down onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, like gravity itself has declared war on your soul. Limbs sprawled, phone already in hand, your head sinking into the pillow with the kind of defeated energy only student debt can conjure.

“Midterms nearly had me on life support. I feel so liberated right now.”

Gojo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, frowning down at the crate like it might bite him.

He nudges it with his foot. “I don’t really drink.”

You blink up at him, already half-melted into the sheets, and your lips twist into a pout—equal parts bratty and pleading. “Why not?”

His answer comes too fast. Like he’s been preparing for this exact moment since freshman orientation.

“It slows down neural processing, reduces inhibitory control and impacts memory consolidation. I’d like to remember tonight, thank you very much.”

You stare at him.

“Satoru.”

He glances up, swallowing hard like he knows what’s coming but still can’t brace for impact. “Yeah?”

Your pout intensifies. Eyes wide, lower lip pushed out just so in theatrical glory. “Pleeease?”

He stares. You bat your lashes innocently.

He squints. You bat your lashes harder.

There's a beat of silence before Gojo caves with a sigh so profound it sounds like it’s been aging in an oak barrel. He grabs a can, muttering under his breath abouy how unfair this is.

“Your Jedi mind tricks are unethical.”

The can hisses as it cracks open. You grin, satisfied by the outcome of your emotional manipulation.

You take a long sip from your own beer, the fizz tickling your throat, then flop fully onto your back.

The bed creaks beneath you—his bed, technically, though it’s felt like shared territory for a while now. It still smells like his laundry detergent, something citrusy and expensive, undercut with the faint scent of old textbooks.

Gojo hovers on the edge of the mattress, like sitting too close to you might electrocute him. He takes small, cautious sips, barely tasting it.

His eyes, however, are not so disciplined.

They keep flicking over—quick glances at your legs, the bare skin of your thighs, the way your shorts have ridden up as you stretch across the sheets like you own the place. The glow of your phone reflects off your cheekbones, painting you in soft blue light, and something in his chest does a little somersault.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to physically bite down on the thoughts rushing through his head. Thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with astrophysics or memory consolidation.

Then you giggle.

His gaze snaps up in pure panic. Shit. Did you notice him gawking? Was he being obvious?

You laugh again, thumb tapping the screen, totally engrossed in whatever has you so amused. Followed by another smile. Another quiet snort.

It’s like background music he doesn’t recognize but suddenly hates.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, tone casual and a little too stiff.

You don’t even look up from your screen, “Tinder.”

Gojo's entire spine straightens.

“Tinder?”

“Mmhmm.” You keep swiping, flipping between profiles with a lazy flick of your thumb. “Why is everyone’s idea of sexy just... standing shirtless in a badly lit bathroom?”

“Oh,” he says flatly, staring at the condensation sliding down his can. "I see."

Just that.

Silence follows, heavy and stretched.

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. The can’s cold against his palm, but it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment as your finger pauses on a profile for too long. Too thoughtfully.

You peek up, noticing the weird stillness.

“Hey,” you say, tilting your head. “You okay?”

"What? Uh—" he jolts upright, straightening like someone just called on him in class. “No, I’m good. Very good, actually.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. His knuckles are white where they grip the can, and his eyes haven’t quite made it back to yours.

You hum non-committally, not buying it for a second.

Gojo takes another swig rapidly, wincing at the taste. He wipes the rim with his thumb like he needs something to focus on. Something that’s not you and the casual way you’re flipping through potential hookups like it’s just another Tuesday on his bed. While he's right there.

Just then, an idea sparks in your head.

You roll onto your side, elbow digging into the mattress as you grin. “Do you have Tinder?”

His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.

“I—uh—Tinder?” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “No. Why would I—No. Definitely not.”

You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “That was a lot of hesitation for a no.”

“I just—” he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting the question. I don’t really do dating apps. Or dating. Or… people.”

You shrug. “You do me.”

The words hang in the air for half a second too long.

Gojo's mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again, like maybe he can reboot himself if he blinks hard enough.

Your own brain finally catches up with your mouth.

“I mean, not do me—like—not like that—I meant friends. You’re friends with me.” You groan, dragging a pillow over your face like you can smother the sentence out of existence. “God. Forget I said anything.”

You sigh as you peek up slightly from behind his pillow.

He’s not wheezing or doubled over. He’s just sitting there, glasses slightly askew, trying very hard not to laugh. His hand’s covering his mouth, but his ears are going pink.

The way he’s looking at you now—quiet, a little dazzled, still fighting back a full smile—makes something in your chest kick up just slightly.

But even as you hide your embarrassment, he’s sitting there, cheeks flushed, mind spiraling, because—

Yeah. He does you.

In his head. Way too often, and in too many ways.

When you're lying here like this. When your voice dips low and teasing. When you glance at him with something that feels almost too soft to be platonic.

You shove the embarrassment aside and raise your can in front of your face like a shield.

He finally calms down, barely, chuckles trailing off as he shifts his position on the mattress.

“Well,” you say, pushing up on your elbows with new purpose, “guess what?”

Gojo eyes you wearily. “That tone never means any good.”

“You’re about to get one.”

“One what?”

You reach for his phone on the nightstand with zero hesitation. “A Tinder account.”

His entire soul exits the premises. “Wait—what? No. No, no, I don’t need that—”

“You heard me,” your fingers are already flying on the screen. “It’s time.”

He scrambles forward like you just picked up nuclear launch codes. “Hey—hold on, I’m not—You’re not actually serious—”

The screen unlocks instantly.

Of course it does. Your fingerprint’s saved. Has been for months. The kind of trust that feels so loud and yet, here you are, setting up some Tinder date for him.

“Okay, what’s your type?” you ask, downloading the app.

“I—what—how would I know?”

“Well, who do you swipe on in your head? Goths? Muscle mommies? Librarians with a secret dirty side?”

He sputters, face slowly turning the same shade as the beer can in his hand. “Can we not do this?”

“Too late,” you say, half-distracted as you scroll. “First name, Satoru. Age… I’ll let you lie. Height?”

“Six-three.”

You arch a brow, impressed. “Really?”

He scowls. “You want me to open my medical records?”

You chuckle and keep typing. “Alright, big guy. Next: 'What are you looking for on Tinder?' ”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Salvation.”

“Not an option.”

“World peace?”

You glance up. “Seriously?”

He drags a hand down his face, voice muffled. “I dunno… companionship?”

“That's enough. I’m writing 'open to something meaningful, but down for freaky time.’”

“You're very weird.”

“Now, pictures.” Your knees bump under the sheets as you shift closer, elbows brushing while you adjust the brightness on his phone.

“God.”

“Relax. I’m not using that cursed one of you french-kissing a fish.”

“There’s a photo of me french-kissing a fish?”

“You sent it to me, you maniac.”

He groans and falls back against the mattress, arm slung dramatically over his eyes.

“This is a nightmare.”

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t take his phone back.

Because maybe, deep down—beneath the jokes and the beer and the painfully exposed truth—a small part of him hopes it’ll work. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe some stranger with a nice smile will finally make the incessant thoughts of you in his mind go away.

You’re scrolling through his photo gallery with ruthless determination, knees brushing his thigh as you flip past thumbnail after thumbnail like you’re judging entries for a very geeky photography contest.

“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Let’s find you something non-humiliating—oh, this one’s just… clouds? Wait, is that lichen? Are you seriously out here photographing moss?”

Gojo doesn’t answer.

He’s stiff behind you, frozen like he’s watching someone disarm a nuclear bomb. Because he knows what’s coming. Knows exactly what the next folder might hold.

“Oh. Is this me?”

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over a grid of candid shots.

Your face in full detail, frozen mid-laugh in one, asleep at his desk in another. One photo captures you ranting at a textbook, hands in the air like you’re about to square up with it. Some are zoomed in. Some are taken from across the room.

His ears go red. Bright, angry cherry red.

Before the full meaning settles in, he lunges towards you.

“Okay—alright—that’s enough, give me that—!” His hand flails toward the phone in your grip, panic rising.

You jerk it back with a gasp, half-laughing, half-screeching. “Satoru!”

“We are not doing this,” he says in a rush, voice cracking like an over-wound violin. “Hand it over. Please, I beg you—”

You clutch the phone to your chest dramatically, feigning scandal. “So, you just casually have an entire album of me on your phone?”

His hands fly to his face,as he practically crumples in on himself like a collapsing star.

“I didn’t—it’s not an album, it’s just—okay, it’s a folder, but it’s not weird!” he sputters from behind his fingers. “It’s just—memories and.... nostalgia.”

You let out a soft laugh and toss the phone toward the bed, letting it bounce harmlessly onto the sheets. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just take a picture for your profile.”

He peeks through his fingers, squinting at you like a kitten after getting caught in the trash. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? Satoru, I should charge you royalties.”

That gets a choked laugh out of him.

And still, you’re smiling. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for your best friend to have a secret camera roll of your face. Like this is fine.

Like you’re still choosing to sit next to him, shoulder brushing his arm like none of this has made anything weird.

“Come on,” you say, shifting closer. “Let’s make you look irresistible.”

He exhales. Yeah, sure.

Like that was ever the problem.

Gojo's already given up on dignity. His hair sticks out at odd angles, his hoodie is bunched up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and his face wears the expression of a man preparing for social execution.

You sit back and squint at him critically, arms crossed, head tilted. “You look too much like a dork.”

He lifts his head an inch. “Wow. That’s incredibly helpful and uplifting.”

“Aw, it’s fine. You’re cute.”

You continue breezily, already plotting. “But we need right-swipe cute. You wanna look like you might mansplain physics and then make someone cum in under ten minutes.”

He just stares. “…What the heck does that even mean?”

“It means you need range, Satoru!” You leap off the bed, hands flailing like an overzealous theater director. “You need to look like someone’s weird little crush.”

You yank his closet open. The door creaks, hangers scraping against each other as you rifle through it.

“Do you even own anything that doesn’t scream extra credit ?”

He calls weakly from the bed, “I have a black turtleneck somewhere. I wore it once, for my thesis presentation.”

You sigh. “Tragic. We’ll work with what we’ve got.”

Moments later, you emerge triumphant with a handful of options—an unreasonably crisp button-down, a soft black tee that looks criminally flattering, and something silky you definitely don’t remember him owning.

“Try these,” you announce, dumping them onto the bed like a fashion connoisseur.

He eyes the pile like it’s radioactive. “You want me to change… into thirst trap attire?”

“Correct.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine," You huff, hands on your hips. "I guess I’ll just have to make you.”

His eyes widen. “Wait, what does that—”

You pounce with tipsy audacity before he can finish. He yelps as you tackle him backwards onto the mattress, the bed groaning under the sudden weight. His beer can tips off the edge with a dull thunk, but neither of you notice.

You land on top of him with a soft thud, hands braced against his chest, your knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips. His hands fly instinctively to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s trying to steady both of you, or maybe just himself.

And suddenly, everything goes quiet.

You can hear the faint hum of the light overhead. The slow, shaky inhale he takes. The way his thumbs press in ever so slightly.

Gojo's gaze flickers from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

You exhale, the sound catching slightly.

He swallows, hard. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t—just—are you okay?”

Your lips twitch. “You’re the one under attack, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“I—well, yeah,” he breathes, voice thinner now. “You’re on top of me. Kinda hard not to worry.”

You tilt your head. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” His throat bobs, fingers flexing against your hips. “Not even a little.”

You lean in, only slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”

He gives a short, stunned laugh. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”

You smile softly. “Guess you're lucky you’ve got me, then.”

Click.

Gojo flinches as the shutter goes off. Light bounces off his glasses, eyes blown wide.

“That angle was godly. You’re welcome.”

His jaw drops. “You cannot—there is no way—you’re not posting that, are you?”

“Absolutely,” you say, holding up the phone proudly. “The world deserves to see this.”

He slaps both hands over his face, muffling a noise that might be despair, might be laughter, might be a scream into the void. “I trusted you.”

You smirk and climb off him, far too pleased with yourself. “You’ll thank me when you’re drowning in matches.”

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