mai

Sitting on the marble of the campus fountain, it’s clear you made the wrong choice of complaining to your no-shit-taking bestie one too many times about the recent asshole who’s broken your heart. You should have brushed it under the rug, like a healthy person. 

Whatever it is that you wanted on a random Tuesday — a shoulder to bitch on, validation, a pat on the back — it sure wasn’t a rude awakening.

“They weren’t that bad, don’t be ridiculous,” you say, scoffing.

“Are you serious?” Her sudden rise in volume catches the attention of passing students, who either glare at her impoliteness or ogle her spilling cleavage. If she notices, she doesn’t say.

You, on the other hand, don’t even flinch; you’ve long been desensitised. Or deafened. Hard to tell.

“Babes, you’ve been cheated on, belittled, psychologically fucked with, neglected, and gaslit like a motherfucking stove. How many times have you come crying to me? How many times have I had to dye your hair or bankrupt myself so you could reinvent yourself?” 

“Only a couple times…” you grumble under your breath, pouting a little.

With a sigh, she adds, “I love you, like so freaking much. And I’m not blaming you — those guys were genuine assholes, and no one deserves the shit they put you through. But, let’s not pretend you have the best taste in men. Let’s not pretend you didn’t get pretty fucking crazy with them too, and liked it. The others know it too.”

“Jeanette and Eleanor don’t know shit,” you spit out. Those skanks have been talking shit about you behind your back, commenting on your relationships, when they themselves don’t have healthy ones? The fucking nerve. 

They’re half the reason why you’ve had bad experiences with guys!

Sighing, she adds, “Look, all I’m saying is, why don’t you try something new? Maybe go for the opposite of what you usually like. Go for a… a nice guy! Yeah, go for the complete opposite of you.”

“Wow,” you say, unoffended by the insult but registering it regardless. “And what would you have me go for? A nerd? As if.”

Specks of invisible dirt brushed off her skirt, she smiles, in the creepy way you hate. “Ah, you’re right. Forget it.” Brittany stands up, and you have to crane up to glare at her. “Even if you set your mind on it, no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”

“What makes you think that a nerd will treat me right? You actually think a virgin could fuck me half as good as jock who literally trains to maximise their stamina? Do nerds even know what a clit is?”

She shrugs, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and eyeing her reflection in her handheld mirror. “Who knows? No guy’s perfect — I guess I’m just curious to see if you’re simply super unlucky, or if you have some kind of quality that makes you turn decent men into psychos.”

Rising to your full height, you meet her amused stare with a determined one. “You’re on, bitch.”

And so begins your search for a nerd to prove her wrong. 

You part ways — one girl totally smug and overjoyed at having baited the other, and one stomping her Prada heels like she could make the ground hurt.

There’s no time to waste; the sooner you can find a man that fits the criteria, the sooner you can make her eat her words. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s men. They just suck.

Nerds included.

Naturally, you march inside the number one place to find a smartypants: the library. 

You haven’t been inside here since, well, ever. It’s a wonder you even found the place at all. Granted, you did have to ask three people on the way for directions, but you’ve arrived regardless.

The air in here smells like paper, dust, and a distinct nerdy odour. The ceiling feels too high, the lights too soft, everything hushed and reverent. There’s a stifling silence that everyone’s basking in, and you’ve just clomped in wearing shoes that were absolutely not designed for their sacred ground. 

Whispers begin making waves around the hall. Eyes follow you as your heels click tip tap tip tap. You’re used to having people stop and stare — you’re gorgeous, so of course people will gawk. Men, women, husbands, wives, teens, old men, parents, teachers, pastors. It comes with the territory of having a tight miniskirt that’s barely the size of a belt and a shirt that shows the outline of your nipples if someone stares long enough, and people do. 

But it’s different this time. Most of the stares are still out of attraction and desire, you can tell, just lined with a fat drop of moral judgment. 

Whatever.

You pause inside, hands on hips, eyes narrowing as you begin your search. 

Okay. Criteria: you are here on a mission. This is not recreational. You are not here to ‘broaden your horizons.’ You’re here to find a nerd. A good one. A safe one. One you can parade in front of your best friends like a laminated receipt that says, see, I can pick decent men. 

Your brain flips open the checklist automatically. 

Too loud? No. 

Too greasy-looking? Absolutely not. 

Weird smell? Immediate disqualification. 

The guy with glasses typing away on his laptop is kind of cute, but he has a long ponytail. No, thank you. There’s another with broad shoulders you can cry on, but he’s basically your height and who actually wants a short king. 

“Are there no hot nerds?” you mutter under your breath. Must you sacrifice physical attraction for intelligence? Is this your version of Sophie’s Choice?

Someone asleep over a textbook gets a maybe until you get closer and hear the faintest snore. Off the list.

You wander deeper, past the obvious study zones and into the back, where the shelves grow narrower and the lighting dims. And then you hear it. 

Dice. 

The soft clatter of them, unmistakable, followed by muted but intense arguing. You round the end of a shelf and there it is: a table tucked away, littered with notebooks, graph paper, little figurines, snacks that definitely violate several library rules, and a screen propped up with a digital map glowing faintly.

At the centre of it all sits a guy with pristine white hair. Is that natural?

Wearing thick-framed glasses, he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, one hand idly spinning a die whilst the other gestures animatedly as he talks. He’s wearing that look of total focus mixed with complete unseriousness, arguing using terms you don’t recognise with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted himself. 

His friends are clustered around him, equally absorbed, throwing numbers and terminology back and forth. This is life or death for them, instead of a fantasy campaign involving dragons and emotional backstories.

You stop dead.

This is…interesting.

You peer at him from behind the shelf, checklist already reshuffling itself. Clearly a nerd with a geeky hobby to pair with it. Social circle that doesn’t involve club promoters or mysterious men who ‘can’t text right now.’ He laughs, loud and bright, and a few heads from nearby tables snap up again, scandalised. A librarian looks over sharply. The guy lowers his voice by exactly half a notch and keeps going anyway.

He’s super cute. Like, hot — if you’re into men who probably cry after sex because he thinks he just insulted feminism. 

From a couple metres away, you don’t smell an immediate bubble of B.O, which is a good sign. There’s no body pillow of a thirteen year old ‘waifu’ full of suspicious stains sitting in the empty next chair to him. Stretching your neck out closer, you look for toes poking out of leather sandals.

None.

Just a beat up Converse.

You smile to yourself.

Found you.

With the clock nearing 2pm, they start packing up, getting ready for their next classes. You rush out of the library, careful not to be seen by your target, and hastily lay your trap. First, by snatching some random book off a shelf.

Standing by the doors, you wait impatiently for that white hair to exit. When he does, laughing with his nerd friend, you make your move.

“Oh— I’m so sorry.”

Your forehead bumps into a hard chest, much harder and filled out than you expected. The book clatters to the floor. You stumble back a couple steps, he grabs you by your elbow. 

Sparkling blue eyes meet yours. You stop breathing for a second.

He says something. You don’t hear it. Blinking, you say, “Huh?”

“Are you okay?” he asks again, brows furrowed in concern.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

The stranger smiles widely. You flinch with its brightness. Politely, he says, “Good. Sorry I didn’t see you there. I can be a bit careless when I walk. Here, lemme grab that for you.”

He picks up your book, stepping to the side to let people walk past. He glances at it and makes a face of surprise. “Adult Diapers and Their History, huh? Was it any good?”

Fuck. 

You really should have looked at the book and judged it by its cover first. Plastering a glossy smile, you lean close and purr, “I’d love to tell you all about it over a cup of coffee. Are you free anytime today?”

Sucking in a breath, he runs a hand through his hair. “Ooof, no, sorry. I’ll be sure to check it out after you though. See ya!”

And then he’s leaving, doing a half-jog to catch up to his friends who wait at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you. They ask him a question. He looks back at you, and shrugs. 

Jaw hanging, you stand there, holding a book no one would ever want to be caught reading, and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Did you just get rejected?

You stay there for a full three seconds, smile still frozen on your face, before it slowly cracks. 

Fine. Whatever. 

One encounter means nothing.

 You’re playing the long game now.

Over the next few days, you become a regular.

You ‘accidentally’ wander back into the library at the exact times his D&D group tends to meet, hovering near enough to be seen but far enough to look coincidental. You pretend to browse shelves you clearly don’t recognise, pulling books at random and flipping them upside down, occasionally knocking something over just to create noise. Each time, you catch flashes of him laughing, leaning back in his chair, gesturing wildly. Once, your eyes meet across the aisle. Your heart jumps.

He squints at you.

Then he looks away.

The next time, you make it much more obvious. You pass right by his table, smile sweet, slow, practiced. “Heyyy…”

He glances up. “Sorry,” he says automatically, scooting his chair in. “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

You blink. “It’s me. From the stairs. The book?”

His brows knit together. You can practically see the wheel spinning behind his eyes. Then, “Ohhh,” he says, stretching the word out. “Right. Diapers.”

Your smile twitches.

“Anyway,” he adds cheerfully, already turning back to his friends, “good luck with… whatever you’re looking for.”

Strike two.

By day four, you’re irritated enough to escalate.

That’s how you end up in the physics department, a place you definitely do not belong in, holding a student ID between two manicured fingers like it might bite you. You’d stolen it from the floor when he’d accidentally swiped his arm out in anger at his friend’s retaliation to something or the other and knocked it off the table. You snatched that shit up faster than birth control. 

Satoru Gojo. Physics Dept. Third Year. 

“Nice to meet you, Satoru,” you said.

Inside, the department feels even stranger than the library. Less quiet and more intense. There are whirring machines, exposed wiring, half-built robots sitting on tables with exposed wires. Whiteboards covered in incomprehensible equations are everywhere. It’s horrifying. Where are the pictures? The motivational posters all over the walls? The frat guys handing out condoms?

You drift past projects that blink, beep, and move on their own, marveling like you’ve wandered into a sci-fi movie. 

Nerd heaven. 

Absolute jackpot.

Still, not a single nerd hottie around. You’ve been hoping you’d find another. At least then you could stop humiliating yourself with Satoru Gojo. No such luck though. 

You spot him near the back, sleeves rolled up, talking to someone while gesturing at a mechanical arm. You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into Nice Girl Mode. Steps soft. Smile gentle. Non-threatening. The epitome of grace and kindness, the kind of girl that would be approachable to him.

Hell, you’ve even dressed down in jeans and a pink cardigan. 

Approaching, you cordially cut into his conversation. “Hey, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Satoru jolts when he hears your voice, like you’re a robot he didn’t turn on. His eyes fall not to your great tits or amazing smile but to the ID you hold in your hand. “Hey! That’s mine.”

“Yep!” you chirp, handing it over to him. “I was looking for you. Wanted to return it to its rightful owner personally. How would you get around without it, right?” 

“I didn’t even notice I dropped it.” He pauses. Looks at you. Really looks this time. “Wait, do I…know you?”

Your eye twitches. “The library? We’ve bumped into each other a few times…” When that doesn’t seem to spark anything, you grit out, “Diapers?”

Satoru laughs suddenly, scratching the back of his neck. “Ohhhh, heyyy. Thanks for coming all this way. That’s super cool of you.”

You nod, gracious, forgiving, absolutely seething. “Of course, what are friends over? Actually, I was thinking, maybe we could get coffee while I’m here?”

Glancing over your shoulder at the robot arm, which immediately drops a bolt and sparks, he says, “Ah. Rain check? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Then he zooms past you without another glance.

Strike three.

After that, it becomes a pattern. You run into him in hallways, outside lecture theatres, near vending machines. Each time, you light up, sweet as sugar, voice gentle, eyes doe-like. Each time, he hesitates just a beat too long before recognition dawns, and sometimes it doesn’t dawn at all.

“Hey,” he says once, smiling apologetically. “Remind me where we met again?”

Something inside you snaps.

You start counting his rejections like capital crimes. Library. Stairs. Physics lab. Courtyard. Café. Always polite. Always friendly. Always fucking unavailable. And every time he forgets you, it feels personal, like he’s rejecting not just you but the concept of you. 

His eyes never run down your body, you never feel it linger on your ass when you walk away, he doesn’t ask for your number, or even your fucking name. It’s always, hey, hey, hey, and never fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

By the end of the week, your Nice Girl smile is starting to hurt.

You watch him laugh with his friends, easy and unbothered, and think, with mounting irritation, that you are going to get this man if it kills you. Not because you want him specifically anymore. But because you have to. You don’t even remember why.

Perched on the edge of the water fountain in the courtyard — the very same one you were sitting on a week ago — legs crossed, phone face-down beside you, you replay Brittany’s voice in your head like a curse you can’t shake: “no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”

Yeah?

Well, maybe this Satoru Gojo doesn’t have a working brain, maybe he’s just visually impaired and looks like a nerd. Maybe he’s failing Physics and he’s the laughing stock of his entire nerd department. 

The water laps and sparkles in front of you, sunlight catching on the surface, and you stare at it as if answers might rise up from the stone basin if you glare hard enough. What did the Disney princesses you used to be obsessed with do? Throw money and make a wish? Do you have a coin to throw in? Does the fountain take Apple Pay?

“Why is he so fucking annoying?” you groan aloud, and sneering at cunts who look at you. 

So far, the strategy of being sweet, approachable, and vaguely mysterious has achieved absolutely nothing. He forgets you every single time, like you’re a ‘MILF 5 miles from you’ pop-up his brain automatically closes without reading. You run through the past week in your head with growing irritation, every almost-moment, every polite smile that went nowhere, every rejection wrapped so gently it barely counted as one. 

Clearly, escalation is required.

Being nice is overrated anyway.

Your gaze flicks down your outfit as you start mentally workshopping new plans, jaw tightening as ideas pile up — maybe tighter skirts, higher heels, more lipgloss. Maybe an engineered accident where you both fall and somehow gravity does the flirting for you, your body positioned just right so he has no choice but to notice your tits.

The fact that you’re thinking this hard at all makes you scowl; men are usually easy. Half a smile, a little attention, and they fold. Why is this one immune?

Sighing, you resort to calling your friend. She picks up after a couple rings. 

Breathless, Brittany asks, “What the hell do you want— nope. That’s rude. Sorry, I’m with my boyfriend right now. Hey, bae, you good?”

“You’re having sex, aren’t you?” 

Which boyfriend’s this one now? The barista at her favourite coffee shop? The pizza delivery boy? Her neighbour’s son? 

You can hear her sheepish smile through the screen. “Yeah, whoops. You’d understand if I cut this call short though, right?”

Lucky her. 

“Wait, wait,” you hurriedly say. “I need your help. With the nerd boyfriend search, I think I’ve found a good one. Do you know anything about a Satoru Gojo?”

A moment of silence passes. Then immediate laughter. No, chortling. With a couple snorts dotted along. Rolling your eyes, you check your nails, seeing they’ve grown out quite a bit. Finally, she comes back to the phone, amusement still lingering in her voice. “Babe, you’re so fucking funny, I can’t even.”

“Do you or do you not know him?” Your heels tap on the floor impatiently. What was so fucking funny?

“Wait. You’re serious.” She takes your momentary silence as the answer. “Oh, um, I know of him. Mostly rumours.” Shuffling on the other side suggests she’s swapped ears. “I think you’re better off setting your sights on someone else. Someone more…accessible.”

Offended, you say, “Excuse me?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that the rumours say he’s like the hottest ticket in the nerd department. All the girls have the hots for him. But he doesn’t entertain any of them. No one really knows why. I thought it was ‘cause he’s gay, but my cousin, who’s super gay, tried to hit on him last month and got rejected hard.”

“Maybe your cousin isn’t his type.” 

“That’s what I thought too! But then I heard something else super interesting: word on the streets is, he’s got…erectile dysfunction, and that’s why he isn’t with anyone.”

Fed up, you groan. “That’s obviously bullshit — he’s our age. Guys our age don’t get erectile dysfunction. The problem is getting them to stop being hard.”

She snorts. “Look, I’m just sharing what I’ve heard. It’s up to you to decide what to do with the information.” Suddenly her voice becomes more serious, more determined. “Just…just be careful, okay? Our little experiment is mostly a joke. Don’t put yourself in a position you don’t want to be in just to prove a point, alright? I know you, and I know you always have to be right.”

“I do not!”

“Uhuh.” Her voice becomes distant from the speaker, likely talking to her boyfriend. She returns, sighing. “Gotta go, babe. His balls aren’t gonna empty themselves. Talk to you later. Love ya!”

Frowning, you say, “Bye.”

Erectile dysfunction. Gay. Doesn’t entertain women. Those possibilities make you feel a lot better about yourself; the chances that the problem is him and not you have increased. But you’re not satisfied. You can’t give up just because of some rumours. You’ll need to find out for yourself if he really is gay, perpetually flaccid, or women-hating. Then, and only then, will you call it quits. Guess you’re going to have to forge another fake ‘meet-cute’ tomorrow.

“Hey,” a voice says right as you pocket your phone away, too confident and too close for comfort. “You look bored.”

A shadow falls across you, cutting through your thoughts. You don’t even bother looking up at first, eyes still on the water. “I’m busy,” you reply flatly. 

When a second guy joins him, grinning like this is some kind of group activity, you finally lift your gaze and assess them properly. Too smug. Too loud. Cologne doing most of the work. Immediate no.

“C’mon,” one of them says, undeterred, “we’re just talking.”

“Talk to someone else,” you say, crisp and unimpressed, already done with this interaction.

“Damn, you’ve got an attitude.”

“Yeah,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing, “and standards. Shocking, I know.” 

“Oh, come on, baby. Don’t be a bitch. Let’s get to know each other.” 

Ugh, you hate the faux confidence, the sleazy way he forces himself to drawl. It’s obvious he’s seen it in a couple Chad movies and thought he could replicate it to maximise pussy grabbing. Disgusting. And pathetic.

They step closer and you inch further away, ass nearly dipping itself into the water. 

“She’s not interested.”

The voice is light, almost lazy, but there’s a firmness under it that makes both guys pause. You look up and there he is again. Satoru. He steps fully between you and them, shoulders broad, stance casual but solid, planting himself to completely cover you from their gaze. 

When one of the guys scoffs and puffs up, Gojo doesn’t move an inch. He just rolls his shoulders slightly. The fabric of his shirt pulls in a way that makes your brain stutter.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s not just built. He’s built built. The kind of strength that doesn’t come from mirrors and flexing but from actual use, from carrying heavy things and not making a show of it. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down. 

Your irritation evaporates into something warm and dizzy as you stare, entirely distracted by the sudden, undeniable fact that he could absolutely pick someone up if he wanted to. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down. 

You barely register the way the guys’ expressions change, bravado leaking out as recognition sets in.

“Wait,” one of them mutters, squinting. “That’s…Gojo.” The other swears under his breath. They straighten instantly, tone shifting from cocky to cautious, muttering apologies that aren’t really meant for you. They back off quickly, suddenly very busy with not being here anymore.

When they disappear completely from sight, entering a building, Gojo turns to you, concern softening his expression again, like he hasn’t just made two guys rethink their life choices. “Hey. Are you okay?”

There it is. That pause. That tiny hitch in his gaze as he searches your face, clearly trying to place you. Your jaw tightens as recognition crawls in late, slow as ever. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Oh,” Satoru adds, a second later. “It’s…you. From earlier this week.”

You stare at him, chest rising, the spark of attraction fizzling dangerously into rage. “Wow,” you say flatly. “You almost remembered me. Gold star.”

He winces, sheepish but still courteous, still distant in that infuriating way. “Sorry. I’m not great with—”

“Faces, names, women throwing themselves at you, yeah, I know,” you cut in, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your teeth. You inhale, regroup, and try again, sweet as sugar. “Look. You helped me out. Let me thank you. Dinner. My treat.”

Satoru blinks, clearly surprised, then shakes his head with a small apologetic smile. “That’s nice of you, but I’m good. Really.”

Something in you cracks so hard it’s almost audible.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, stepping closer before he can retreat again. You don’t give him time to answer. You grab his wrist, fingers curling around warm skin and muscle, and drag him toward the nearest building, heels clicking sharply against the pavement. He sputters in surprise, but he follows, too polite to yank away, too confused to stop you before you shove open a door marked JANITOR and pull him inside.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You spin on him, chest heaving, eyes bright with frustration and something close to mania. “What is your problem?” you demand. “Do you just enjoy rejecting me? Or do you genuinely not see what’s right in front of you?”

Satoru stares at you for a second, clearly taken aback, then exhales slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to mess with you,” he says gently. “I just… don’t want to lead you on.”

“Lead…me…on…”

You can’t process what you just heard. He thinks he’s leading you on? He thinks he’s better than you, that he’s out of your league, and you’re punching hard? The nerve. The delusion. The stupid fucking asshole. 

Poking his chest with a manicured finger, you glare at him. “Listen here, buddy. I’m hot. Like unbelievably so. I’ve had literal politicians chase after me. I’m modern day Hellen of Tron—”

“It’s Troy, pretty sure,” he interjects, backing up with every jab of your sharp nail. “Tron’s the video game world. Super retro, but highly recommend, by the way.”

“—and you’re lucky to even be anywhere near me. So hurry the fuck up and whip your dick out; I know your loser ass is a fucking virgin.”

Satoru pushes his glasses higher up his nose bridge. He stammers, as if he’s trying to push away the urge to laugh, “This is sexual harassment, but forgive me this time and I won’t say a word.”

Screeching, you say, “Ugh, shut up! Just shut up! Date me already. I can’t keep chasing you and humbling myself. It’s bad for the soul and for my skin — I’m getting premature wrinkles because of you.”

Back up against the wall in the tight space, he has no choice but to take your lashings. His eyes flicker to the door, then down at you. His hands keep to his side. “Sorry about the wrinkles. Not so sorry about the not dating part. I really think you’re great, um, whoever you are. I just think I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Because you can’t get it up?”

His jaw slacks. 

A look passes his dazzling blue eyes. He looks away, stumbling for a response, and finding none. Pink tinges the tips of his ears. 

Your jaw drops too. “Oh, my god! It’s true! You can’t get it up!”

Satoru’s eyes, which look even bigger through his glasses, look at the door again, panicking. His hands scramble to shush you, but you shove them away, laughing hysterically. 

“This is perfect! I thought I was the problem, like you don’t think I’m pretty enough — obviously that’s not the case because I’m a walking wet dream, duh.” You pace back and forth, ecstatic. “Turns out, you’ve got a limp dick and you’re super insecure about it. Amazing!”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair at the same time he adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Doesn’t change anything. We still can’t date.”

You shake your head, jumping over to him with a wide smile. Satoru eyes your grin with caution. “No, it changes everything. I won’t tell anyone, I won’t judge. I have plenty of sex toys so we can incorporate that into our future sex life, don’t worry. I’ll help you quit your porn addiction and throw out your hentai mangas or whatever you use.”

His brows furrow. “Porn addiction? Hentai? What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t that why you’re like this? I heard it’s pretty common in our generation, especially shut-ins and nerds like you. The extreme porn’s rewired your brain and makes it so that you can’t cum without seeing tentacle tits.”

Satoru bangs his head against the wall, staring up at the light. “No, that’s not me. Like, at all. I’ve been like this since I was a child, before I knew porn existed, by the way. My parents took me to the doctors and everything. I just can’t get it up. Simple.” He suddenly straightens up with a twitch to his lips. “Tentacle tits? That I’d like to see.”

“Perv.”

“Guilty,” he says with a bigger smile.

This is the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him, or anyone in a closet. Most interactions with guys in janitors’ closets have involved much less talking and much less clothes, so it’s a little weird for you. 

After a moment’s thought, you confess, “I’m surprised you have any kind of interest in sex at all.”

“Hey now, just because I can’t get it up doesn’t mean I don’t want to make it get up.”

Humming, you try something. You wrap your arms around his neck, taking him aback with your tits against his chest. You have to get on your tiptoes to reach his neck, and when you make it, you leave an open-mouthed kiss, huskily whispering, “Is this doing anything for you?”

Satoru chuckles, patting your back. “Appreciate the effort, but I promise you nothing you do can fix me.” 

That’s never failed you before. It’s how you got a Birkin, and a yacht trip around the Maldives for a summer.

He separates from you and makes his way around your body, heading for the door. “Look, sorry again about this whole thing. I’m sure I won’t forget you now, Diapers. Thanks for understanding, and I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You grab his wrist. 

“I don’t fucking think so.”

Whipped around, he’s forced to face you. 

Your face hardens again, humour gone. “Why don’t you want to date me? What’s the problem? And don’t say it’s your penis, because I already said I don’t mind.”

He groans, polite mask cracking. Satoru looks close to tearing his hair out with his impatience. “Are you still on this? Can’t you just take no for an answer?”

“No, obviously not!” you fire back, hands waving around like a crazy person. “I’ve never been rejected by anyone before, and I won’t let some nerd change that.”

“There!” He thrusts a hand out, gesturing to your entire body. “That’s why. Because you think you’re better than me, better than my friends, and, like, literally everyone I know.”

Unable to help yourself, you stomp your foot. “I do not!” You probably do. No, you definitely do, but you have enough tact to know not to tell him that right now. 

Satoru makes a noise of disbelief. “You do, I can tell. It’s probably why my brain keeps wiping you out; you think you’re doing me a favour by giving me some kind of attention. I know I’m not an athlete or a rockstar, but it’s not like I’m a loser, despite what you think. I like things you don’t like, that’s it. Sorry I don’t want to date a vapid, shallow bimbo.”

SMACK!

A strange look overwhelms his eyes, a darkness that you don’t notice. A mark forms on his perfect skin. His head reeled, not from the strength of your slap, but from the shock of it. 

He blinks, processing the feel of your palm colliding with his face.

A tongue pokes his cheek, testing the sting. A small smile grows on his lips, a pleasant surprise you don’t decipher in time, because you’re too busy fuming. 

“How fucking dare you! Yeah, I think I’m better than the people in that library, the people who haven’t showered in days for ‘environmental reasons’, people who exclusively watch anime because it’s ‘superior’ to any other forms of media and who idolises Japan because they think they’re going to be immediately worshipped over them by virtue of being foreigners—”

“Be quiet for second.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet! I’m not done,” you all but screech at him. “I’m totally better than the people who founded 4chan and stay in their parents’ basement, or people who have blue checkmarks on Twitter—”

“No, I’m serious. Shush.”

You shriek even louder, “You shush!”

Satoru rolls his eyes before slapping a hand over your mouth. He nods with your muffled words, waiting for the fight in your body to die out. It does, but the wrath in your eyes doesn't. 

His hand better be clean. If your skin breaks out tomorrow, you’re going to freak out and stomp on his glasses whilst he’s wearing them.

“All done?” He sends you a pointed look. You huff. Releasing you, he smiles. It’s so much more dazzling than the polite ones he’s been giving you; it’s genuine, as real as your diamond earrings. He could blind you with it. “What I was gonna say is, I think I’m hard.”

“Huh?”

He laughs, staring down at his pants. You follow his gaze. Oh.

A tent has formed under his zipper, stretching the material out like it’s never been stretched before, which is totally the case. Satoru pokes it, watching it bounce, before meeting your eyes with a, did you see that?

“I’m not insane, right? That’s totally a boner, right?”

You bend over to get a closer look, marvelling at the thing. You poke it too. He hisses. It’s 100% a boner, if you’ve ever seen one. Teasing, you say, “Well, it’s not Mount Evernest, that’s for sure.”

“Mount Everest,” he mutters, before wriggling his hips a little to watch it sway. “It feels so weird. Is it supposed to feel so swollen and heavy?”

Thinking for a second, you hum. “I’ve never had one myself, but I think so. That’s how it’s always felt on my end anyway.” Then you blink. “Wow, did I just fix you?”

You said it as a joke, mostly — in truth, you have no idea what you did to make it like that — but he doesn’t correct you, doesn’t dismiss your ego. Wow, maybe you really did fix him. You’re feeling pretty proud of yourself now. Somehow, you played a part in fixing what doctors couldn’t. Or at the very least, witnessed a miracle. 

It’s the new Christmas.

Satoru lifts his glasses up and down, trying to see if he’s seeing right. The thing bobs. He releases an impressed breath, like a damnnn. Absentmindedly, he asks, “What’s that about dinner?”

.

.

.

“So, tell me why you want to date me.”

You purse your shimmery lips, eyeing the interior of the retro diner he brought you to. It’s not so far from campus, a short walk away, which felt much longer in heels when the street turned cobble. The seats, like the booth you’re sitting on, are made up of red leather. The floors are black and white checkmarks. There’s even a jukebox playing a song you don’t recognise. 

Nails tapping on the table, you shrug. “Does it matter?”

Satoru tilts his head, a small smile on his lips appearing at your response. “I think it does — girls like you don’t suddenly appear in guys like me’s life.”

At least he’s self-aware, you dryly think.

He’s eating loaded fries and a well-stacked, greasy burger with a tall, sickly-sweet-looking strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a cherry. When he asked what you wanted, you couldn’t come up with an answer; the menu was packed, but not with anything you could eat. It was full of carbs, things that’ll make you bloat and break out like crazy. Not to mention the fact that you have a rule not to eat anything more than a salad on dates. 

Guys like girls who are demure and low maintenance, after all.

The leather creaks under you, making an embarrassing peeling sound when you cross your legs. This is so not where you wanted to be. First dates are meant for upscale restaurants, not places that probably defrosts their old meat in the microwave. 

“Well, this girl has, so count your blessings.”

Mouth full, he presses on. “No, no, you can’t just leave it at that. I’m asking seriously. You’ve been quite persistent. There must be a reason you want me specifically.”

You grin, batting your fake lashes at him. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Satoru?”

“I’m fishing for the truth,” he corrects you, waving a fry in your face, which washes away your grin. Frowning slightly at your empty side of the table, he adds, “Are you sure you don’t want food? It’s on me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’s already doing better than half the guys you date, you think wryly. Grimacing at the thought of popping the buttons of your skirt, you shake your head. “No, I’m good.” 

“Come on,” he drags the words out petulantly. “At least take some of my fries and dip it in the milkshake. It’s tradition at a diner.”

That brings another grimace to your face. “Ew, why would I do that? That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s the greatest thing ever, actually.” To prove his point, he submerges a fry into the pink liquid, swirling it around nice and good before consuming it all. He moans so loudly and so pornographically people turn to look at you, thinking you did it. 

You sigh, wanting to get back on track. “Isn’t it enough that I just want to date you? Do I have to make up a grand story about love at first sight?”

Satoru takes a big bite of his burger, leaving you to wait for him to swallow it down. Then he groans. “This is so good — you sure you don’t want any?” You shake your head. “Alright, your loss. Where were we?” He thinks for a second. “Oh, right. Okay, look, I’ll be completely upfront with you.”

You lean forward just as he does.

“Earlier, when you slapped me,” he begins, and you nod. “I liked it.” 

Not a hint of shame is on his face or in his voice, only excitement. It makes you draw back from how maniacal he seems. 

“I’ve never been slapped before. I don’t even really know why it gave me a boner. But it did, and it felt good. Made me feel things,” he says ‘things’ with jazz hands. “I mean clearly, since I popped a boner and all. You basically cured my condition.”

There aren’t very many people in the diner, thankfully — no one’s close enough to hear the vulgar things he says. Although, if someone did, you wouldn’t really care. God knows you’ve said and done worse things. “Okay,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.

He continues. “This is a huge deal for me! It means I’m not completely doomed, just particular about what I like. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“Yeah, you’re super welcome. I’ll happily slap you again if you like it that much.”

Satoru’s eyes sparkle. “That’s precisely what I was thinking. I think this is a sign.” Sensing you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, he explains, “I should see this through, should see if the boner incident was a one off or if being with you is the answer.”

This really wasn’t how you expected the conversation to go. Getting him to agree was supposed to come from him being unable to resist your perfect body and gorgeous face. Your target wasn’t supposed to have erectile dysfunction, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be treating the relationship like a science experiment. He’s supposed to be smitten with your feminine wiles, to bend over backwards wanting to please you, worship the ground you walk on because he knows he’ll never find anyone better.

He’s doing it all wrong.

But does it matter?

The challenge wasn’t to get married to a forgetful nerd; it was to bag a nice guy and prove you can have a happy and healthy relationship, that you’re not solely attracted to guys who’ll break your heart and smoke it. 

“So,” you begin, nails tapping once more, “you want me to slap you around and abuse you?” 

Satoru nods eagerly. “Obviously I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I’m sure an inexperienced guy like me isn’t your thing. And I can’t promise I’ll be very good at sex, or even be a good boyfriend. But in exchange for helping me ‘overcome my condition,’ I’ll try my very best. It’s kinda why I wanted to know why exactly you wanted to date me — if I know what you want to get out of this, I’ll be better placed to serve you, don’t you think?”

That makes enough sense. 

Sighing, you finally admit, “It’s a little bet my friend and I have: find a nerd to date. I’ve had a bad run with boyfriends, you see. It’s just shitty assholes after shitty assholes. I guess she had enough of me complaining because she basically told me the assholes don’t find me, I find them.”

He doesn’t seem to take any offence to finding out he was an unknowing and unwilling participant to a bet, almost as if he expected half as much. Shoving a bunch of fries into his mouth, he asks with his mouth full, “So you want to prove her wrong?”

“Yep,” you say, popping the p.

“Alright! That’s great — I mean, sorry about the bad people you’ve been with.” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, grimacing at his own tactlessness. He clarifies further, “It’s great that we’re on the same page.”

Uncertain, you frown. “We are?”

“Yep!” He pops the p too. “You want to be treated with respect and be cared for, and I want to be used and abused. We’re a match made in heaven.”

You can’t help but laugh. He smiles. 

“Okay, but we gotta set some ground rules.” You’re on board now, feeling energised by his enthusiasm and easy-to-talk-to personality. He doesn’t seem like someone who minces his words or hides behind passive aggression, which makes him better than most people you associate with. “Like, how long are we going to do this for?”

He thinks for a second as he takes another bite of his burger — god, his mouth is massive; one bite for him is like three for a normal person. After his brain gets to work and he’s cleared his mouth with a gulp of his milkshake, he suggests, “Time limit maybe? Our respective goals don’t require our whole life to accomplish. All you need is your friend to believe you, so once she sees how loveydovey we are, she’ll admit defeat, right?” 

You nod. 

“And I only want to see if I can sustain erections through intercourse, and if what I’ve been missing this entire time was the right kind of stimulus. That only requires us having coitus a couple times.”

The nerd’s starting to lose you. The sciency words are entering one ear and exiting through the other. But you get the gist. Satisfied, you sum up, “Okay, so should we say till the end of the school year? We can tell our friends we broke up during summer or something.”

“Sounds good to me. We’ll go all out, make the experience as real as possible. We’ll go on dates, get to know each other, have sex of course, but we’ll probably not want to introduce each other to our families — I think it’ll be counterproductive if we dig a hole too deep. And it goes without saying,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially and making his brows dance, “we really, really shouldn’t fall in love.”

That brings a scoff out of you. 

You were never going to introduce him to your family anyway. As far as you’re concerned, you only need to flex how obsessed a nerd is with you to your best friends. And love was never, ever on the table. 

It’s good to be clear though, you suppose. The last thing you need is a clingy stalker, who can’t bear to part with you, ruining your life and future relationships. You just hope you don’t break the poor guy’s heart too badly when it’s all over; you’ll end up being the ex he’ll cry to his friends about, and unlike the dirtbags, you’re not so cruel that you could sleep peacefully at night knowing you ruined someone’s life.

“Perfect,” you conclude. “Apart from that, we’ll be as real a couple as any college ones. Dates, sex, no falling in love, and max two months.” That’s a lot more than you’ve gotten from any of your previous boyfriends so this is already going great. 

Satoru grins, adjusting his glasses to hide the sudden mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think we should seal the deal with a fry dipped in milkshake, don’t you?”

“Oh no, no no no.” You shake your head frantically. “I’m not doing that.”

Burger obliterated, and fries almost depleted, the food stares at you mockingly. You love food like anyone else, but fries dipped in a strawberry milkshake sounds downright repulsive. It’s like putting ketchup on ice cream. It’s weird. You couldn’t do it.

He wipes his hands clean with some tissues, sighing deeply. “Guess you don’t want this bad enough. Sucks. Thought we had something. I’ll see you around then, Diapers. Good luck with proving you’re not mean-boyfriendsexual.

You grab him by the sleeve of his sweater before he can get up and leave. Gritting your teeth, you say, “Fine, I’ll do it. And by the way, I really don’t appreciate you pretending you don’t want this just as bad.”

His grin widens. “You got me.”

Snatching the smallest fry you can find, you dip just the tip into the milkshake. Satoru tuts, giving you a pointed look. You grumble under your breath. Dipping almost the entire thing, you take a tentative bite. 

The flavours hit your tongue. Saltiness and sweetness blending into one. 

“So,” he asks, watching your face intently, “how is it?”

You gulp, anger simmering below the surface. “Actually…really…fucking…good.”

Satoru laughs, throwing his head back. “I told you!”

 Then, he flags down a server and orders more of what he ordered more, for himself and for you, and this time, you don’t fight him on it. 

He sends you a wink that you fight not to smile at. “We’re already improving each other’s lives, Diapers. I think we’re on the right track.”

Your lips curl, resolve to remain stoic failing. “I think you mean, ‘we’re already improving each other’s lives, girlfriend.’”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. As of right here, right now, we’re girlfriend-boyfriend. Lovers. Sweethearts. Better start acting like it, right…” 

His smile reflects your own, sitting across from each other, like two accomplices to the perfect crime. 

“Babe?”