myra.

Coach Yaga says it dryly as he slaps a paper down onto the desk in front of him.

Satoru doesn't flinch. In fact, he laughs.

"You can't bench me, Coach," he says, leaning back in the chair. "It's finals season."

"I can, and I am." Yaga points to the top of the page Satoru still hasn't bothered looking at. "You have an overall 2.0 GPA."

Okay. So maybe he is good at everything except academics.

"What's the problem?" Satoru asks lazily, though he straightens a little in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not like you need math to qualify for the pros."

"The problem is you need it to graduate. Do you seriously think scouts only come to watch you play?"

"Well… yeah."

Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose. "They watch you play, then they check your standings. No one is going to recruit you with grades this bad."

Satoru scoffs immediately. "That's bullshit. I've had plenty of options." He gestures vaguely. "Look at all the scout business cards I've got."

"And how many called you back?"

That shuts him up for a half a second.

His jaw ticks. "Whatever. This is stupid. I'm your best player—the captain! Finals are in like six weeks."

"Looks like you have six weeks to get your grades up if you want to play." Yaga slides the report closer toward him. "There's information for the tutoring center attached. I suggest you use it."

Satoru stands abruptly, shoving a hand through his white hair. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters, snatching the paper off the desk.

He looks it over with disgust before turning on his heel and storming out of the office.

He makes it exactly three steps before someone throws an arm over his shoulders.

"Yo! Number 8!" Ren says loudly. "Did you get the lineup for Friday?"

"No."

"Ooookay…" he drags out. "Then why were you in there so long? Yaga chewing you out for bad form?"

"No."

The bulky goalie smells badly of BO with a poor attempt of covering it with body spray. And if he keeps talking for another five seconds, Satoru is genuinely considering punching him in the throat.

"Then what's this?"

Before Satoru can react, the paper's ripped right out of his hand.

"Yo—give me that shit back!"

"Ooooh, no fucking way." Ren beams down at the page. "Yaga was talking to you about grades?"

Satoru snatches it back with ease, exhaling the rage from his nose. "Yeah. But it's whatever."

"Those grades are shit. Did he bench your ass?"

Silence immediately bounces around the locker room.

Then Ren bursts out laughing so hard he nearly doubles over, drawing the attention of the few teammates still hanging around after practice.

Great. Perfect.

"You're benched?" one of the defensemen asks, staring at him.

"No way," another joins. "Right before finals season?"

Satoru closes his eyes for a brief second, summoning every ounce of patience he has left. When he speaks again, his voice is tight beneath the usual cocky edge.

"Yeah, well, you idiots better pray I fix my grades, otherwise you can kiss that sweet championship goodbye."

"You don't think we can win without you?" someone calls from the showers, towel slung around his neck.

"Hah. Absolutely not. You guys are shit without me."

Satoru nearly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Their team is good. Really good. There's a reason they've made it this far, and it wasn't just because of him, even if he likes acting like it was.

Luckily, the team knows him well enough not to take it personally.

A chorus of fuck you's, middle fingers, and dramatic threats about replacing him as captain follow him out of the locker room while he flips them off over his shoulder.

But by the time he gets back to his dorm, his irritation has settled into something heavier.

He drops onto his unmade bed, staring down at the paper in his hands. His grades.

His future.

School has never mattered much to him. Why would it? Hockey is the plan. Hockey has always been the plan. Sitting through lectures about subjects he barely understands feels pointless when he is destined to be in arenas packed with screaming fans anyway.

But underneath all the arrogance is something he rarely admits, even to himself.

He genuinely didn't get any of it.

Half the shit his professors ramble about all blur together after about ten minutes. He stopped trying a long time ago.

His fingers pinch the attached business card, pulling it free from the paperclip.

TUTORING CENTER

M-F | CALL FOR MORE DETAILS

Satoru flops backward onto the mattress he barely fits on, holding the card above his face. He stares at the number written across the back for a long moment.

And honestly? He actually considers calling. Right up until he scoffs and flings the card across the room instead.

He doesn't need a fucking tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He needs a fucking tutor.

When Satoru shows up to practice the following Monday, he leaves even more pissed after realizing Yaga had actually been serious about keeping him off the ice.

No games. No practice. No hockey, until his grades came up.

And despite how unbelievably stupid the whole thing is, he can't sweet-talk his way back into playing. He actually has to fix the problem.

So he starts going to class.

Turns out attendance is a giant part of his grade. Unfortunately, being so far behind means that his professors talking just sounds like another language. The last two mornings end the same way too—with his arms crossed on the desk, sunglasses barely hiding the fact he'd fallen asleep halfway through the lecture.

Back at the dorms, he opens the stupidly expensive laptop he bought solely because people said he "needed one for college," then starts dragging himself through missing assignments. The few he barely understands take hours.

Even with all that effort, his grades barely move.

The only real option left is acing midterms and finals while grinding through extra credit. And looking over the study guide makes one thing painfully clear.

He is absolutely fucked.

Maybe it is pride, but calling the tutoring center feels humiliating. Star athlete Gojo needing help understanding basic concepts? People would laugh. Word would spread. It'd be a disaster.

So instead, he ends up at the campus library.

People study here all the time. Easy. He'll just find some nerd willing to discreetly help him out and charm his way into a few lessons.

The library is quieter than he expects, nearly empty except for a few scattered students hunched over their laptops.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his bag, feeling out of place wandering between the shelves toward the back study booths.

And there you are.

Sitting alone with one headphone in, the other hanging loose against your sweater. Wire-framed glasses rest on your nose—which he thinks are kind of hot—while you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen, eyes scanning over a textbook filled with enough highlighted notes to make him nauseous.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, Satoru slides into the seat across from you.

Your eyes lift immediately, widening just a little with recognition when they meet his. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hi," you answer softly. "Can I help you?"

"Actually," Satoru drawls, leaning forward onto his elbows to casually invade your space. "I think you can."

You blink at him, visibly confused.

Of course you know who he is. Everybody does. Satoru Gojo makes his presence known whether people want him to or not. Why he is suddenly sitting across from someone like you, though, clearly isn't adding up.

"You're smart, right?" He nods towards the mountain of notes spread across the table. "I need to get my grades up. Think you could be a sweetheart and help me out?"

The nickname immediately makes your face warmer.

"I'm sorry," you say carefully. "I don't really tutor, but I can refer you to the tutoring center."

Satoru pushes his bottom lip out dramatically. "Already tried. They suck." Total lie. "C'mon, really? Not even for me? I'd… compensate well."

You hesitate, still trying to figure out why he is talking to you in the first place.

But extra money is tempting.

"How much? Would you pay hourly?"

A grin spreads across his face instantly, arrogant enough to light the whole room.

"Well, I was thinking maybe I could pay a different way."

"I only take cash or Apple Pay."

Satoru chuckles.

"What if we could have some fun instead?”

You stare at him.

"Fun?"

"You know." His smirk deepens. "You come back to my dorm, I show you a good time."

Your eyes widen, complete shock washing over your features before it's replaced with pure disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" you whisper-yell. "Absolutely not!"

Satoru leans back just as fast, momentarily forgetting all about his grades as offense flashes across his face.

"What do you mean, absolutely not?"

"I mean," you hiss, "I am not sleeping with you! Who even asks someone that?"

"Who do you think you are to reject it?" he shoots back automatically.

A sharp shush comes from somewhere deeper in the library. He lowers his voice, but not the attitude.

"Do you know how many people are waiting to fuck me?"

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, completely flabbergasted while starting to stuff your things into your bag now that your concentration is completely ruined.

"Well, I certainly am not."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not my type."

Satoru scoffs. "I'm everyone's type."

You don't even bother responding.

Still visibly horrified by the audacity of the entire interaction, you swing your bag over your shoulder and briskly walk out of the library.

Satoru stays there for another minute, slouched back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, irritation buzzing hot beneath his skin.

Nobody ever flat-out rejects him like you just did, and sure as hell nobody looks at him like what he said was actually offensive.

You are just being dramatic.

He throws his bag back over his shoulder with far more force than necessary before leaving the library.

Barely halfway to the dorms a familiar figure materializes at his side.

"You look irritated."

"I'm not."

"Mhm. I mean, you do always look like there's a hockey stick up your ass," Suguru snickers.

Satoru turns his head sharply, a muscle ticking in his jaw as narrowed eyes lock onto his best friend, whose smirk only widens in the dim glow of his phone screen.

After a second he shakes his head and focuses forward. "Some uptight nerd just ruined my night."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing!" Satoru scowls. "Why are you assuming I did something?"

Suguru chuckles, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket as they enter the dorm building. "Maybe because I've known you for years. Or lucky guess."

"I didn't do shit. It was her that made it all a big deal."

"Oookay…" Suguru pushes open the door to their shared room and toes off his shoes. "What exactly did you say?"

The blue eyed hockey star flops face first on his mattress, voice muffled by the pillow beneath him. "I offered to sleep with her in exchange for tutoring."

"And?"

"And…" he hesitates, suddenly feeling embarrassed to recount his rejection out loud. "She stormed out. Bein' dramatic and whatever."

There's a moment of silence before Suguru bursts out laughing.

Satoru rolls onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed, glaring daggers at his dark-haired friend as he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

"The fuck are you laughin' at?"

"Did you hear what you just said?" Suguru wheezes.

Satoru snatches the nearest pillow and launches it at his head. "Fuck off."

Gratefully, Suguru does eventually shut up, though the lingering grin on his face remains as he pulls his headphones over his ears and starts minding his own business.

Lying flat on his back, Satoru stares at the speckled ceiling above him and tries to brush the entire thing off.

Except he can't stop replaying it.

You're not my type.

His nose wrinkles.

What the hell did that even mean?

He is tall, attractive, popular, athletic—objectively speaking, there wasn't a universe where Satoru Gojo isn't someones type. Half the campus practically throws themselves at him on a daily basis. Hell, he's rejected more people this month alone than most people get approached in their entire lives.

And yet, you'd looked at him like he'd tracked mud onto your favorite shoes.

The more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he becomes.

Whatever.

He didn't need you.

Tomorrow he'll find another tutor, get his grades up, get off academic probation, and get back on the ice where he belongs. Then everything will go back to normal.

Except the following day is a complete disaster.

It isn't hard for him to find a tutor, but finding one he can actually tolerate is the issue.

The first girl he meets spends the entire hour flirting instead of teaching. Twirling her hair around her finger, batting her eyelashes, leaning over the table enough that her breasts nearly spill out—so every five minutes she is exaggeratedly adjusting her shirt while explaining the same equation for the third time.

Normally he doesn't mind the attention. Actually, he loves it.

But with midterms approaching and Coach breathing down his neck about his grades, the whole thing just rubs him the wrong way. He doesn't need someone giggling every time their knees brush under the table. He needs someone who can explain concepts before his GPA tanks hard enough to permanently bench him for the championship game.

So he tries again.

The second tutor of the day lasts all of ten minutes before recognizing him from the hockey team and deciding he isn't interested in "helping arrogant assholes coast through college."

Apparently his reputation is worse than he'd thought. Which is bullshit, honestly.

Satoru is already in a foul mood by the time he wanders toward the coffee shop off campus, desperate for a pick-me-up. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, he moves on autopilot, barely registering where he's going until something solid slams into his chest.

"Ah— shit—"

He looks down.

And there you are.

Again.

For a second, time genuinely seems to stop.

Your eyes widen in surprise, fingers tightening around the drink in your hand before recognition flashes across your face.

You are close. Close enough for him to notice the irritation bubbling in your expression and catch the faint scent of whatever perfume you wear. And really, what are the odds? He doesn't really believe in fate, but perhaps you are some form of academic savior.

Then your face hardens.

"Are you serious?" you snap. "Could you please watch where you're going?"

"Right, yeah." Satoru steps back immediately, hands lifting slightly in surrender. "Sorry. My bad."

"Yeah, your bad," you snap, sidestepping him before briskly walking past.

Satoru watches you go for half a second, hesitating, trying to decide if what he was about to do is a good idea.

"Hey—"

"No."

He sighs, jogging to catch up anyways. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I don't need to. The answer is no."

"C'monnn," he groans, dragging the word out shamelessly. "Look. The sex thing was—"

"Horrifying? Degrading? Borderline sexual harassment?"

He visibly winces. "I was gonna say misinterpreted…"

You stop walking so abruptly he nearly walks into you again.

"How," you ask slowly, turning toward him with narrowed eyes that are quite terrifying, "do you misinterpret offering me sex in exchange for tutoring?"

"…Yeah, alright," Satoru admits after a beat, for once looking a little ashamed.

But you do not care, continuing your swift walk away from him.

He moves fast, stepping in front of you before you can get far, blocking your path with an awkward sort of determination.

"Dude."

"Just hear me out for like—thirty seconds."

"No."

"I'm sorry.”

The words come out quieter this time, genuine enough to make you pause. Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, expression tight with obvious discomfort at having to say any of this in the first place.

"You're right. It was outta line."

"Tch," you scoff, but stay still. "You're telling me."

"Look, I…" He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly struggling with the vulnerability of the situation. "I really need help, okay? I'm benched right now and if I don't get my grades up soon, I'm going to lose everything."

You blink once as he continues.

"I don't get the material," he mutters bitterly, gaze flicking away for the first time since you'd met. "Like at all."

"And all of this is my problem how? Why don't you ask someone else?"

"I've tried!" he says instantly, sounding genuinely exasperated now. "Seriously, do you think I'd be standing here begging for another chance if I had found another option?"

It's quiet for a long moment, the two of you standing there beneath the afternoon sun, locked in a strange standoff right outside the coffee shop.

Satoru searches your expression carefully, waiting for any sign that you are considering it. And as much as you already loathe this guy, you know you have the upper hand.

"Cash only," you say finally. "Eighty bucks for two hours, Tuesdays and Thursdays only, and I want the money upfront."

The relief on Satoru's face is immediate, but you hold up a finger before he can speak.

"Absolutely no flirting. No touching. No missing sessions. If you do any of that or say one more weird thing to me, I'm done tutoring you. Got it?"

Satoru looks down at you, confidence slowly returning now that he can practically see himself getting back onto the ice.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Okay. Got it."

"Great. You got money?"

A breath of laughter escapes him at how serious you sound. "Yeah."

You hold your hand out expectantly, opening and closing your fingers against your palm.

Satoru reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a crisp hundred dollar bill before slapping it directly into your palm.

"Keep the change."

"Meet me here Tuesday at twelve," you say, tucking the bill into your bag. "Whatever subject you need… just don't make me regret this."

"Trust me, sweetheart, you'll—"

Your glare sharpens, and he stops himself with a cough.

"…not regret it," he corrects.

"Mm."

With one last suspicious look, you turn and walk away.

Satoru watches until you disappear down the sidewalk, and weirdly enough, his chest feels lighter.

He finally secured a tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Tuesday comes faster than expected.

And Satoru is ten minutes late.

He shoves through the coffee shop doors in a rush, drawing irritated glances from the students sitting near the entrance as cold air sweeps in behind him. His bag hangs loose over one shoulder, white hair a mess from sprinting all the way across campus the second he realized what time it was.

Relief washes over him when he finds you sitting at a little corner table near the windows, notebook open neatly in front of you beside an untouched drink. One leg is crossed over the other as you absentmindedly tap your pen against the page.

You waited, which surprises him.

He's walking a tightrope with you, he knows that much. Showing up late to your first tutoring session together surely earned him another lecture, and he feels oddly foolish as he approaches the table.

"Sorry for being late," he says, mildly sincere.

"Save it," you reply, though the words lack the sharp bite from your previous conversations. "Sit. Do you have a subject that you want to focus on today?"

Satoru obeys, dropping into the seat across from you with obvious relief that he escaped being scolded. He shrugs off his bag and pulls out a notebook that looks brand new.

"Yeah," he replies. "I was thinkin' stats."

You only nod before opening your own bag, and Satoru notices the thing looks heavy enough to kill someone. Folders, binders, loose papers, color-coded everything.

"Damn," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "Do you carry an entire office supply store around with you or what?"

You ignore his comment completely.

"How far behind are you?"

Satoru waves a hand dismissively. "Not that bad."

"Mhm." You click your pen. "Can I see your grades?"

"…Why?"

"Because if I'm tutoring you, I need to know where you're struggling."

Satoru felt his confidence shrivel and die, crossing his arms defensively. "Look, all you need to know is that I need help in basically every class."

You blink at him, entirely unimpressed and a bit annoyed. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

He exhales slowly before reluctantly pulling out his phone. After a painful amount of hesitation, he opens the student portal and slides the device across the table.

The moment you start scrolling, his stomach twists.

"…Satoru."

"What?"

"How are you even academically eligible to still attend this school?"

He snatches the phone back immediately, "Okay, don't be dramatic."

"You have a forty-three percent in statistics."

"That's basically fifty."

"That's still failing."

Satoru slumps back in his chair while you jot down something in your notebook.

"I just suck at tests," he defends.

"And homework."

"Homework's stupid."

"And attendance."

"Okay, well attendance being graded is dumb."

You stare at him for a long moment before exhaling slowly through your nose.

"Alright," you mutter, flipping open the folder. "Let's figure out what you actually know."

And for the first twenty minutes, it becomes miserably clear that the answer is close to nothing.

Half of the concepts you mention from the syllabus sound completely unfamiliar to him, and with every note you scribble down, Satoru becomes increasingly aware that he may have genuinely fucked himself over. Hockey. Graduation. His future. Sitting across from you in that tiny coffee shop, and all of it suddenly feels a lot less stable than he’s been pretending.

But as the time passes, and he admits he doesn't understand something, you don't look surprised or judgemental.

You just adjust.

When he gets lost reading through textbook definitions, you stop relying so heavily on the slides and start explaining concepts out loud instead, breaking them down in ways that somehow make way more sense than any lecture he has ever sat through—which isn't many.

Still.

It's weirdly natural for you despite claiming you "weren't really a tutor." Because you are really good at it.

"You should probably write this down."

"Oh, right," Satoru snaps from his daze, reaching into his bag.

Nothing.

He digs around harder, and still, nothing. No pen. No pencil. Not even a half dead mechanical one shoved in the bottom somewhere.

"You have got to be kidding me," you mutter.

Satoru looks up sheepishly. "How obvious is it that I didn't think this through?"

"Painfully." You sigh, reaching into your pencil pouch before holding one out towards him. "Don't lose it."

His fingers brush yours briefly as he takes it, that stupid cocky grin finding its way back onto his face.

"I'll treasure it forever."

"Just focus."

And… he does.

Not very gracefully or quietly. But somewhere between borrowed pens, a bruised ego, and your increasingly exasperated sighs, Satoru Gojo finds himself actually trying.

He sits in that coffee shop making study sheets about standard deviation and solving equations filled with words like probability and distribution. Every time he gets confused, he asks questions instead of brushing it off, determined to get something out of the hundred bucks he'd spent.

The two hours pass faster than he expects.

And by the end of the session, he feels… productive. Like he actually learned something for once, even if he got almost every practice problem wrong.

"Here." You slide a stapled packet across the table toward him. "I wrote out a practice sheet. Give me eighty and we can review it Thursday."

"Homework on the first day?" he smirks.

You close your eyes and rub at your temples.

"What!" he laughs, pulling out his wallet. "You said no weird comments, not no charming ones."

And he swears the corner of your mouth twitches upward for half a second before you look away.

Thursday he shows up on time.

Satoru completed the worksheet, brings his laptop, and even remembers a pen—though halfway through he still ends up using yours because he likes the way it writes better.

Of course you notice.

"That's mine," you point.

"Mhm."

"…so give it back."

"You can pry it from my cold dead hands."

You huff. "You are genuinely the most irritating person I've ever met."

Satoru grins lazily, clicking the pen obnoxiously while leaning back in his chair. "And yet, you came back to tutor me another day. Curious."

Your eyes narrow. "Don't push your luck. Finish question six."

Right.

He learns quickly that you are harsh with criticism in a way that normally would have pissed him off. You don't soften corrections or sugarcoat mistakes to protect his ego, but after the first few comments, Satoru starts realizing you are not trying to make him feel stupid.

You really want him to understand.

It's weird. Really weird.

No professor has ever bothered slowing down long enough to figure out why he gets lost halfway through explanations or give up after realizing he zones out every five minutes. But you adjust without making a big deal out of it.

And it works. It’s effective enough that he finds himself less awkward when he slides the latest assignment closer to you, tapping the paper with the end of the pen.

"Hey… uh, is this the correct formula?"

You tilt your head, leaning slightly closer to examine his work. A few strands of hair fall forward as your eyes scan over the equation.

"Yeah," you say after a second. "Just keep following through and you should get the correct answer."

Satoru nods, pulling the paper back towards himself. The tip of his tongue sticks out slightly in concentration as his—your pen scratches across the paper. His brows pinch together while he works through the rest of the problem, muttering numbers beneath his breath before circling the final answer.

Then he slides the worksheet back toward you for validation.

"Yup. Good job."

And damn does that tiny bit of praise hits him embarrassingly hard.

Satoru ducks his head back towards the paper, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face while he works through the remaining problems.

Ridiculous, honestly.

Two little words of encouragement shouldn't be rewarding enough to make his chest feel warm.

But things continue shifting in ways Satoru doesn't notice at first.

The sessions have settled into routine surprisingly fast. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop. You arrive with a bag overloaded with enough supplies to survive an academic apocalypse, and he shows up with slightly fewer missing assignments and just enough effort—and money—to keep you from giving up on him completely.

Today, you have spent a lot of time chastising him for fidgeting or cracking jokes instead of focusing.

"Can you sit still for like five seconds?"

"No."

"You've tapped your pen against the table thirty-seven times."

"You counted?"

"I wanted to know."

"Wow," Satoru smirks. "Obsessed with me. I was wondering how long it'd—"

Your notebook smacks loudly against the table, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

"Question eight."

Satoru makes a face at you before reluctantly turning back towards his laptop, adjusting his grip on the pen to continue the assignment.

You can complain all you want, but he knows for a fact you've laughed at his jokes before.

Once.

Kind of.

It was more like a scoff, really, but your mouth did twitch upwards while you shook your head at him, and ever since then he's started slipping dumb comments into conversations just to see if he can get that sound out of you again.

Sometimes he does.

Most of the time you just roll your eyes so hard he thinks they might permanently stick that way.

"You skipped a step."

Your voice drags Satoru out from his thoughts. He glances down at the latest problem he'd solved, confused because he is almost positive the answer is correct.

"What's the issue?"

"You missed a step," you point at the worksheet before explaining the concept again.

"Yeah, I did it. Just in my head."

"Your professor cannot grade your thoughts, Satoru."

"But I still got it right."

You stare at him blankly before snatching the worksheet out of his hands.

Satoru leans back smugly, folding his arms behind his head while you scan over his work, actively searching for something to criticize. Your eyes move across the page, brows pinching together with growing annoyance.

Low and behold—

He is correct.

You frown slightly.

"Huh," he grins. "Look at that. Natural talent."

With a huff, you shove the worksheet back across the table so hard the paper flutters towards his chest.

"Whatever. You still need to show all your work for full credit."

"You know what I think?" he asks, spinning your pen between his fingers now. "I'm academically gifted too. I just needed a little push."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You still have a D minus."

His smile drops instantly.

"Man," he groans dramatically, letting the pen clatter to the table. "Why do you always gotta humble me?"

"It comes with the tutoring session, free of charge." You quickly snatch your pen back from him before pointing towards his backpack. "Now get out your economics stuff. You seem to have the hang of stats."

Satoru wants to complain about losing the pen, but it feels like a breath of fresh air to move on from weeks of mathematical equations trying to kill him, so he lets it go without much of a fight.

Tucked away at your usual corner table, you begin explaining different ways he could salvage his grade in the class before the semester ends. Satoru is mostly paying attention, lazily playing with a highlighter while you talk—pulling the cap off with his teeth before snapping it back on over and over again beneath the table. His eyes drift between your face, your notes, and the little doodles crowding the corners of your notebook page.

He probably should be focusing more. And he is really going to tune into whatever you're saying that has you tapping your fingers against your coffee cup, but then the bell above the coffee shop door chimes.

And instead of ignoring it he glances up automatically—

Then immediately whips his head back down.

Fuck.

At least five members of the hockey team walk inside, loud and sweaty from practice. Their voices carry across the room, familiar enough to make Satoru physically tense.

He has been so focused on studying lately—so focused on these sessions and getting his grades up—that hockey hasn't crossed his mind once while sitting here with you.

And now it's hitting him all at once.

The first round of playoffs is approaching fast. If his grades continue to go up, there is actually a chance he can get back on the ice to play.

But persuading Coach is not important right now, because he completely forgot to mention he would really appreciate it if you didn't actually tell people you are his tutor.

"Okay," you say, tapping your pen against his notebook. "Explain what I just said back to me in your own words."

Satoru blinks and looks up slowly, a faint flush dusting across his cheeks and climbing towards the tips of his ears.

You sigh, but it isn’t as dramatic as it used to be. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he mutters quickly, subtly shifting his body farther away from the counter as his teammates move deeper into the cafe. "I got distracted."

Perceptive as ever, your gaze follows his before landing on the group.

"Hey," you start slowly. "Aren't those your—"

"Shh!" Satoru hisses, leaning across the table so fast his knee bumps yours underneath it. "Don't—" he lowers his voice further, eyes widening in genuine panic, "don't draw attention."

Your lips slowly curl upward as realization clicks into place.

"Ohhhh," you drag out quietly. "You don't want them knowing you have a tutor?"

"Tsk. No. I don't care if they know."

"You just panic shushed me."

"Because… they're annoying."

You press the end of the pen to your lips, grin widening by the second while Satoru very deliberately keeps his eyes on his notebook instead of the hockey team.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly. "You're embarrassed."

"I am not."

"You are totally embarrassed."

"Look," Satoru grumbles, running a hand down his face before flicking his hood on. "It's already bad enough that they know I'm benched because of my grades. A tutor on top of that? I'd literally never hear the end of it. And I'd prefer to keep my image intact."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes flicking briefly towards the group before landing back on him, tilting your head. "And what exactly is your image?"

"The hot, strong, and not completely stupid hockey captain," he answers. "Obviously."

"Riiight."

Satoru looks down at his notebook, distractedly scribbling bright yellow ink onto the corner until the page starts curling beneath the saturation.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," he admits after a second, voice more subdued than usual. "You're already helping me enough."

"But?"

"But…" he shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. "Nothing, I guess."

Because he has already decided that you will probably laugh at him for caring this much in the first place. Honestly, maybe he deserves it.

But instead, you shrug back, your teasing expression softening into something more understanding.

"If they come over, just say we're studying together." You gesture between his notes and your own work spread across the table. "I mean… that's technically what we're doing anyway, right?"

Satoru finally looks back up at you properly. Your expression stays completely casual, and something loosens in his chest.

"Right," he says faintly. "Right, yeah."

"But only because you're actually trying," you add promptly, pointing the pen at him now. "So don't make me regret it."

A grin tugs at his mouth again.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Thankfully, his teammates never notice him. The group stays crowded around the counter for a while before eventually piling back out of the shop just as loudly as they entered. The second the door shuts behind them, Satoru relaxes in his chair.

You snort. "That was pathetic."

And instead of being annoyed, he finds himself laughing with you.

By the time the two-hour session ends, the tension from earlier has dissolved into something softer. The two of you pack up your papers in a comfortable silence, shoulders occasionally brushing in the small space between chairs.

"Alright," you say, sliding your laptop into your bag. "See you Thursday?"

"Uh, yeah," Satoru slings his backpack over one shoulder. "Definitely."

"Cool."

Both of you end up walking out together, stepping into the warm midday glow side by side. It's pretty peaceful here away from the campus buzz, and Satoru doesn't feel particularly rushed to leave.

"Hey, earlier…" he starts lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks. For not, y'know… outing me."

"Oh. Yeah. It's whatever."

"No, really." His voice softens just slightly. "It means a lot."

Your smile is strangely smaller at that. Almost shy. "Yeah, no problem."

The silence that follows isn't awkward anymore, and Satoru glances sideways at you after a moment.

"Do you maybe want to meet at the library next time?"

You meet his gaze.

"It's quieter," he adds quickly, trying to be casual about the way he can't ignore the sun glinting in your eyes. "Probably easier to uh, focus. Closer to campus too."

The suggestion seems to brighten your expression.

"Let's do it."

"Cool," he clears his throat, looking away. "See you in two days."

"Two days it is."

And you walk off towards campus, disappearing into the distance. Satoru watches you go before turning in the opposite direction, realizing halfway down the sidewalk that you hadn't even asked for payment upfront this time.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Satoru Gojo was early.

It wasn't the first time he was early to something. Sometimes he showed up before practice to get extra laps in on the ice, or arrived at games ahead of everyone else just to skate alone while the arena was still quiet. He liked the feeling of being settled in before the noise started. Before people started expecting things from him.

He was early for things that mattered.

And apparently, your tutoring sessions were becoming one of those things. The realization annoyed him enough that he tried not to think about it too hard.

He watches the door for you, and when you finally walk into the library, scanning the rows of tables beneath the dim overhead lights, something strange tightens in his chest.

You aren't wearing your glasses today.

It shouldn't make that much of a difference, but without them your face looks softer somehow. Less hidden. He can see your eyes more clearly, and the second they land on him, his heartbeat picks up stupidly fast.

"You're here early," you say, lacking the teasing edge you normally bring with you. "Didn't think you'd beat me here."

Satoru stretches his arms lazily across the back of the bench seat like he hasn't been sitting there waiting for the last fifteen minutes.

"I was just nearby."

A hum is the only response before you settle in across from him.

"So… no glasses today?"

"Oh," you blink, tugging your sleeves over your hands when cold air drifts from the vent above. "Yeah. Contacts."

"Nice. You look cool."

Seriously?

Satoru barely recognizes his own voice and immediately decides he should probably stop talking before another painfully lame comment slips out.

The library feels different from the coffee shop. Smaller somehow. More private. There are no dishes clattering or loud conversations filling the silence between you both. Just the quiet typing somewhere deeper in the building, pages turning, and the soft scratch of your pen against paper.

Satoru finds it distracting.

Or maybe the distraction is just you.

He tries focusing while you explain concepts in that calm, patient voice of yours, but his attention drifts anyways. Towards little things he normally wouldn't notice.

Like the sticker wrapped around your drink peeling near the seam because you keep picking at it every time you concentrate too hard.

Or your rings spinning against your fingers whenever you pause to think.

Something about it makes him realize that despite spending hours with you every single week lately, he barely knows anything about you at all.

Satoru isn't used to that.

Most people hand him pieces of themselves without him even asking. Girls tell him their life stories just to keep his attention for a few extra minutes.

But you don't.

He doesn't know your major. Doesn't know what music leaks faintly from your headphones. Doesn't know what your dorm looks like, or what time you usually go to sleep, or if the faint shadows beneath your eyes are because you weren't getting enough of it.

He shouldn't care, except you seem completely fine keeping those things to yourself, and it bothers him more than it should. And makes him notice more instead of less.

The first conclusion he comes to is that you're actually kind of shy.

Not in an obvious way. You aren't nervous or awkward, but you lower your voice whenever someone walks pasts your table. You never hold eye contact with him for too long before looking back down at your notes. Even when your mouth gets sharp with him, Satoru notices you don't actually like attention very much at all.

Then suddenly he realizes what he's doing and looks back down at his study sheet, internally scolding himself for being weird and not focusing on the midterm tomorrow.

The session remains quiet.

Truthfully, he could've finished most of the material on his own tonight, which still feels insane to think about considering where he started.

But you don't seem eager to leave either.

You work through your own assignments across from him while faintly nodding along to whatever song was playing through your headphones, occasionally pushing hair behind your ear.

At some point, the library empties almost entirely. Neither of you notices how late it's gotten until Satoru leans back to stretch and catches sight of the windows.

"Woah," he mutters. "The sky looks sick."

You turn your head, eyes landing on the streaks of orange and pink spilling across the darkening campus skyline.

"Oh," your voice is soft. "Yeah, that's really pretty."

You both continue looking out the window, letting the moment linger for just a second longer.

"Didn't realize it was so late," you add.

And just like that, you start packing your things because that's just what the two of you always do when the sessions end.

Satoru finds himself packing up automatically too, shoving loose papers into his backpack before you can finish first and disappear on him.

"Thanks for the company today," he says, mostly to fill the silence. "I know I didn't really need that much help."

"No problem," your smile is gentle. "I'm glad you're actually improving."

"All because of you."

The words come out way sweeter than intended, and judging by the way you look at him, you notice it too.

Satoru looks away, pushing himself away from the table and making a quick escape toward the exit before he can embarrass himself further.

The air outside is cold enough to sting a little, bits of winter still clinging to the early spring. He watches you adjust the strap of your bag, and before he can really think too hard about why he wants to, the words leave his mouth.

"I'll walk you to your dorm."

You look up at him in surprise. "Oh. You don't have to do that."

"Yeah well." He shrugs. "It's getting dark. And if you get kidnapped, I lose my tutor."

"Campus is pretty safe, I think I'll survive."

Satoru groans. "Oh c'mon. Humor me."

Your cheeks warm slightly before you finally nod. "Alright. Fine."

You start walking down the path towards the dorms, Satoru falling into step beside you. He shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at you every couple seconds while trying to think of literally anything to say that doesn't involve tutoring or the fact he's spent the last few hours noticing entirely too many things about you.

"So, uh, what do you like to do for fun? Besides tutoring, of course?"

"First, I don't tutor. Second, you think I'd do tutoring for fun?"

Satoru laughs. "Okay, throw me a bone here. I'm trying to make small talk."

"Ah," you hum. "First time for everything huh?"

Satoru looks at you flatly. "You're brutal."

"Truth hurts."

God. Were you always this—

Satoru cuts the thought before it can root, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter across the sidewalk.

"So?" he presses. "No sports? Clubs? Anything?”

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Just never interested me much."

Satoru doesn't buy that for a second.

"If I admitted stuff, you have to too," he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. "Only fair."

You hesitate before answering.

"There's just a lot of expectation for me to do well in school. From my family. From myself too, I guess. I focus on that."

"Yeah," he exhales slowly. "I get that."

You look at him curiously. "With hockey?"

"Hockey's kinda my whole life. So not being able to play feels…" he trails off. "I dunno. Weird."

"Do you miss it that much?"

"Do I?" A thousand different things come to mind. "Yeah. It kinda feels like I'm screwing up the only thing I'm supposed to be good at."

The vulnerability is so raw, you both can feel it in the space between you. Satoru isn't used to this feeling, and immediately tries covering it back up.

"But y'know," he grins weakly, "I'm Satoru Gojo. I've got everything handled."

The statement falls flat, he knows it does, but you don't pity him too badly for it.

"Give yourself more credit," you look over at him. "You've been working really hard this last month."

Satoru nods, absorbing your words into his heart instead of his ego. People compliment him all the time, but not like this.

"I guess."

You look up towards the sky, as if the answer for him is written somewhere within the stars that begin to shine.

"Perhaps you are just growing into a different version of yourself."

Satoru snorts softly. "That sounds poetic."

"I've always thought I should become a poet"

That pulls a laugh out of him.

The rest of the walk passes with light conversation about favorite foods, movies, places to waste time and things that could disappear from the earth without either of you shedding a tear.

Turns out you both have a mutual hatred for weather that's way too hot, and engage in a passionate debate about which type of sushi roll is the best.

Talking to you is easy, and Satoru feels very irritated at how fast the dorm building appears in front of you both.

Neither of you say goodbye immediately, you just stand there awkwardly beneath the streetlight for a second.

"Thank you," you break the silence first. "For walking me back. I'm sure you scared off all the potential kidnappers with your…" you gesture vaguely towards him, "…everything."

Satoru smirks, but it's kinder. The light is hitting your face just right, and he really doesn't want the conversation to end.

"Oh, shit" he reaches for his wallet. "I forgot to pay you for tonight and last time."

"Don't worry about it," you insist, waving him off. "Consider them free since you weren't a menace."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." You start backing towards the dorm entrance. "Good luck on your midterm tomorrow."

Shit. Right, that was tomorrow.

"Yeah," he clears his throat. "Right. Thanks."

Your hair swishes as you turn, fumbling briefly with your keys before unlocking the door. Right before stepping inside, you glance back and give him a small wave.

Satoru lifts his hand automatically in return.

Then you disappear into the building, and he stays there way longer than he should, thinking about how he just voluntarily spent hours studying, walked a girl home, and paid attention to the way she doodles in her notebook.

Since when did he care about stuff like that?

What the hell was going on?

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He is still benched for the first playoff game.

Satoru tries not to let it get to him, really. But after all the bullshit assignments he's dragged himself through lately, still not being allowed back on the ice feels genuinely insane.

I mean, come on. His statistics midterm scores came back.

Eighty-one percent.

At this point, he's half convinced you're a witch, because there's no other explanation for him suddenly pulling scores like that. But apparently your weird tutoring magic only works on grades and not on convincing Yaga to stop being stubborn, because despite looking impressed for maybe half a second, the old man still doesn't budge.

Something about the lineup already being finalized. Plays already built around the current roster. Team chemistry and all that shit.

And just to piss him off more, they fucking win.

Satoru watches the celebration through Instagram stories with his jaw clenched so tight it aches. The team group chat won't stop blowing up while he's stuck in his dorm reviewing flashcards like some miserable honors student, trying to keep his GPA high enough for second-round eligibility.

It's humiliating.

Satoru doesn't think of himself as an angry person. Hockey usually burns the worst of it out of him before it settles too deep under his skin. Without it, the frustration just sits there festering, hot and ugly beneath the surface.

So by the time he's shoving through the crowded hallways to get to class the next morning, he's in a terrible mood.

Then the universe decides to fuck with him even more.

He rounds the corner and spots you immediately.

And some guy.

Talking with you.

Not casually, either.

No, Satoru knows flirting when he sees it. He's mastered it, perfected it. He knows every little trick—the slight lean in, the lowered voice meant to force someone closer, the subtle shoulder brush that lingers just long enough to test boundaries and see what someone will allow.

How funny.

So this random asshole gets to flirt with you, but he isn't allowed to?

Maybe it's the leftover rage from being benched. Maybe it's something else entirely that he refuses to unpack anytime soon.

Either way, his feet are propelling him forward before he fully thinks it through.

"Hey," he cuts in smoothly, interrupting the guy mid-sentence without a shred of guilt.

Satoru steps directly between the two of you like it's the most natural thing in the world, broad shoulders blocking the other guy out completely before he glances down at you.

"Still on for this week?"

Your eyes widen slightly. "Hi, Satoru. Um, yes?"

"Mm, good."

Behind him the guy scoffs. "Hey, dude. We were kind of having a conversation."

Satoru turns slowly like he genuinely forgot another person was right there.

"Oh, were you?"

The guy straightens a little at that, clearly trying not to back down. Kind of funny, honestly.

"Yeah," he says. "We were."

Satoru stares at him for a second before a grin spreads lazily across his face.

"My bad," he laughs.

His tone says the exact opposite, and it gets him the reaction he wants. The guy's expression tightens before he mutters something under his breath and walks off, deciding you aren't worth dealing with an asshole this early in the morning

The smug grin is still sitting on Satoru's face when he turns back towards you, but slowly drops the second he sees your expression—the same look you gave him after he fucked up the first time you met.

Shit.

"What the hell was that about?" you ask, arms folded tightly across your chest.

An answer doesn't come fast, because really, what the hell was he doing?

It’s all he knows, so his voice turns defensive automatically. "What? I can't come talk to you?"

"Obviously you can. I'm not referring to that."

"Then what are you referring to?"

You exhale slowly, tilting your head in exasperation. "Don't play dumb."

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings. He probably should feel ashamed, but the anger inside is boiling over that feeling.

"I'm not."

You gesture toward the hallways the guy disappeared down. "You totally scared him away."

"So?"

"So?" you echo incredulously. "So that was rude."

"Oh, what, so you care about him or something?"

"That's not the point! He was probably a really nice guy. Why does it matter to you anyways?”

Satoru turns his head away, jaw flexing.

Of course you'd want the nice guy. The guy who walks you to class instead of riling up the students in the hallways. The guy with perfect attendance and a normal future that doesn't revolve around bruises, aggression, and chasing adrenaline across ice rinks every night.

Why does it matter?

"Whatever."

"Satoru—"

But he's already in motion, speed-walking away from you before you can say anything else, shoving his headphones over his ears to drown out the sound of his own heart pounding violently against his ribs.

The anger doesn't dissipate.

And maybe that's a good thing, because Coach lets him play that night for the second round of playoffs.

Satoru arrives to the rink early, skating hard laps around the ice until the cold air burns in his lungs harder than the frustration clawing through his chest. He only stops to grab his stick and start firing pucks into the net from every angle he can think of.

Each shot is harder than the last. Sharp cracks echo through the empty rink as puck after puck slam into the net.

Your face keeps flashing through his head between swings.

The softness of your expression during tutoring.

The irritation in your eyes this morning.

He shoots again, too hard this time, and the puck ricochets off the goalpost with a loud clang before skittering across the ice.

A miss.

How fucking ironic.

"Sure you're ready to be back?"

Satoru doesn't even bother turning around. "Not in the mood, Suguru."

"Oh, you're never in the mood."

Suguru skates closer, dark hair tied back into a loose bun, already fully dressed in uniform.

"Is it that girl?"

"What girl?" Satoru grumbles, skating over to retrieve the puck.

Suguru steals it before he can reach it, smoothly dragging it away with his stick as he glides towards the opposite goal.

"Your tutoring chick."

Satoru goes defensive instantly—with hockey and everything else

"What about her?" He shoulders Suguru hard enough to steal the puck back before skating towards the net.

"You like her, huh?"

The words catch him off guard for half a second, more than enough time for Suguru to swipe the puck back into his possession and skate past him.

"I don't fucking like her," Satoru snaps, chest heaving as he pivots to chase after him.

Suguru shoots. Scores.

The net snaps and waves with the force before Suguru circles around it with a laugh.

"And is that supposed to convince me or you?"

He doesn't give Satoru time to answer, already skating backward toward the tunnel while calling out something about not missing the pregame meeting. Captain duties.

Satoru stays where he is for a moment, standing alone at the center ice while Suguru's words settle uncomfortable deep in his chest.

He doesn't like you.

No fucking way.

Except it's all he can think about for the entire game.

They win, obviously, but not without a fight.

The energy in the arena is brutal from puck drop, bodies slamming hard into the boards, skates carving sharp lines into the ice as the game turns increasingly aggressive by the period. Satoru throws himself into it recklessly, like if he hits hard enough or skates fast enough he can physically outrun the mess in his head.

It doesn't work.

He misses passes, takes risks, and ends up shoved into the penalty box after nearly starting a fight in front of the net.

And sitting there behind the glass with adrenaline pumping in his veins, your voice is louder than the crowd—where you are no where to be found.

By the time the final buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts around them, he barely feels the excitement.

They're headed to the conference final. His teammates are yelling, shoving each other around, celebrating as they skate off the ice.

But Satoru doesn't linger. He rips off his helmet the second he reaches the tunnel, damp white hair sticking to his forehead as cool air rushes against his overheated skin, trying and failing to calm the lingering buzz of the game—and something much deeper inside his chest.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

They said that falling for someone was like falling asleep. Slowly, then all at once.

Satoru remembers reading that cheesy ass quote somewhere online once and laughing his ass off about it because seriously, who even writes stuff like that?

Apparently someone wiser than him.

Because this? Whatever the hell this is, sneaks up on him so quietly he doesn't realize he's screwed until it's already happened.

Satoru had completely ghosted you.

For the first time in over a month, he skips tutoring without warning. Then he skips again. And again after that.

He tries not to think about you sitting alone at the library waiting for him. Tries not to picture your eyes lifting every time the door opens before falling again when it isn't him walking through. He hopes you didn’t eventually check the coffee shop just in case he went there instead.

At least you never exchanged numbers. That fact feels equally relieving as it does horribly disappointing.

He's still mortified about the last time he saw you. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The way he shoved himself between you and that guy like some territorial jerk.

It's insane, because you two weren't anything, and Satoru doesn't do jealousy. He flirts. Hooks up. He gets bored.

So he handles you the same way he handles every other girl: distance himself before things get messy.

Except its already messy, and the more he avoids you, the worse it gets.

Because Satoru Gojo has real feelings for you. Actual feelings that make him restless and irrational and weirdly miserable because you don't worship him like everyone else does, you see him exactly how he sees himself sometimes.

Arrogant. Performative. Kind of an asshole.

The version of himself he hides behind because it's easier than letting people get too close.

Those quiet tutoring sessions felt more real than packed screaming arenas ever did. No expectations ever came from those moments between flashcards and stolen glances. And he can't tell if it terrifies him because he ran or because he wanted to stay.

The rink is freezing at eight in the morning. Empty too.

Satoru skates mindless laps around the ice, sharp turns cutting white lines into the fresh surface while cold air burns in his lungs. There's no practice today, No game. Just him trying to outrun his own head.

The rink door opens, then closes.

He notices you immediately.

You don't speak at first, just linger near the entrance by the glass, bundled against the cold with your hair braided back. Your eyes meet his before dropping away again. Even across the rink, he can see the hurt sitting on your face, and his stomach twists unpleasantly

Pretending he's irritated is easier than admitting he feels guilty, so Satoru keeps skating.

One lap. Then another.

The scrape of his blades echo through the arena while he acts like you aren't standing there watching. But when it becomes obvious you're not leaving, he finally slows near the boards, snow spraying beneath his skates as he exhales through his nose.

He still can't fully look at you.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?" The roughness in his voice sounds forced, even to him.

"Because you missed tutoring this week." Your voice bounces off the walls in the empty arena. "Again."

Satoru keeps his eyes down, dragging the tip of his skate against the ice.

"I figured you were still pissed," he mutters. "And you were probably gonna drop me anyway since my grades are decent now."

Silence.

Then—

"Do you always make assumptions?"

Icy blue eyes finally lift to yours, but before he can answer, you walk towards the benches and crouch down to pull something from underneath them.

Satoru blinks.

Are those—

"What the hell?"

You sit casually and start lacing up a pair of skates like this entire situation is completely normal.

"Where did you even get skates?"

You gesture towards the rental storage closet near the front. "They left it unlocked."

"So you broke in?"

"One could phrase it that way."

"You're a criminal now?"

"And you're not guilty of anything?"

Satoru swallows hard while you stand and wobble towards the rink entrance. The second your blade touches the ice, your balance completely disappears. You slam yourself against the wall before you can fall.

Satoru stares at you because you are actually unbelievable.

"Okay," he sighs, skating over before you crack your head open. "What exactly are you doing?"

Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. Or embarrassment. Maybe both.

But despite how obviously nervous you are, you straighten stubbornly and meet his gaze with a determined look that makes warmth bloom painfully in his chest.

"I'm gonna ice skate," you declare. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like a baby deer who’s learning how to use its limbs."

You glare. "Well, teach me then."

"Me teach you how to skate?"

You scoff and push away from the wall too confidently and immediately start flailing. Satoru catches both of your hands on instinct before you eat shit.

"Gonna yell at me for breaking one of your rules?"

"Shut up."

Something helplessly fond pulls at his mouth as he begins slowly skating backwards, keeping your hands in his while guiding you forward. Skating he can do, so his focus directs to that.

"Bend your knees a little," he says. "You're too stiff."

"I'm trying."

"You're just letting me drag you."

"Because I don't wanna die."

He laughs quietly.

God, he missed this.

"Okay, you're not gonna die." He says. "Push with one foot first. Not too hard." He tightens his grip when you wobble again. "Alright. You're doing it. Kind of."

"Wow. Such encouragement."

"You want me to lie?"

You roll your eyes, but try again.

The rink settles into silence again, broken only by the scrape of blades across ice. It's a sound he's heard most of his life, but right now it's completely new.

Little by little, your movements smooth out. The death grip you originally had on his hands loosen and your shoulders relax. Satoru keeps skating backwards in front of you, guiding you through slow turns while trying not to focus on how cold your fingers are against his palms.

Or how badly he doesn't want to let go.

But you've found your rhythm, so he starts pulling one hand free, only to be met with your fingers tightening around his before he fully can.

"Why did you stop coming to sessions?"

Satoru debates lying, and almost does. But the rink is empty, your hands are in his, and somehow honesty feels easier here.

"I didn't know how to see you again after how I acted."

"Why?"

He lets out a dry laugh. "What do you mean, why? I was being a douche bag. Acting weird. Scared off your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Whatever. Still." His jaw tightens slightly. "How I acted was not cool. I know that."

"Why didn't you just apologize then?"

Satoru spins you both slowly in a small circle before bringing you to a stop.

"Pride," he admits.

You just nod lightly, like that answer makes perfect sense. Like you understand him.

"So do you not need a tutor anymore?"

He looks away. "Yeah. Guess not," he forces a shrug. "You're free now. We don't have to see each other again."

"You're so dramatic," you remark. "I said you don't need a tutor. Not that you have to banish me completely."

Satoru huffs out a laugh through his nose. "Well. I still owe you an apology." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "So… I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you."

Simple and easy, like you hadn't spent the last few weeks wondering why he'd disappeared, and he wondering why he did.

Guilt still sits ugly in his chest, but it loosens enough for him to breathe around it now.

"Alright," he says finally, changing the subject before anything else can slip free. There's already too much lingering in the air between you both. Too much he doesn't know how to unpack yet. "You wanted to skate? Lets skate."

It's like the roles reverse.

Satoru teaches you something he's actually good at, just like you'd done for him all those days at the coffee shop and the library. He corrects your stance lightly when you lock up. Laughs when you panic every time you gain speed.

While you skate, he learns about you—and not just the simple little things, like your favorite color or why you decided to come to this college. The deeper parts of yourself that most people don't know because they don't come easy.

Why you find yourself anxious over things that seem small to everyone else. Why some nights sleep feels impossible no matter how exhausted you are.

He shares things about himself, too.

Not the version of Satoru that everyone else knows, but the real parts. The pressure he puts on himself. The moments he wishes he could take back.

The chasm created doesn't feel so vast anymore. Like maybe it could be crossed if he stopped being afraid of it.

Eventually, he lets go of your hands completely.

For three whole seconds, you're actually skating on your own, face lighting up in disbelief right before your balance gives out.

"Oh my god—"

You pitch forward, the world tilting before one arm wraps around your waist the other finding your wrist, the force pulling you flush against him before you can fall.

Everything goes still.

Your bodies press together, skates drifting slightly while cold air fogs between you.

Too close.

Way too fucking close.

Satoru can see every detail of your expression—the surprise in your eyes, the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth.

His own eyes follow before he can stop himself, and for one second, he really thinks you might kiss him.

He thinks maybe he'd let you. Or maybe he'd stop being such a coward and kiss you first.

Then you pull away suddenly, scrambling clumsily against the ice with one hand pressed against his chest, face burning red.

"Thanks," you stutter. "Sorry."

"It's cool."

But his heart is racing, hands still tingling where he held you so close just seconds ago.

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, and he's genuinely about to say something he's never said to anyone else before.

Then the rink doors swing open.

"What the— hey!" an older employee yells from the entrance. "We're closed right now!"

Your eyes widen in panic, and Satoru just bursts out laughing.

"Gojo!" the man calls again. "I'm serious. Get your ass off the ice or I'll make you drive the Zamboni."

"You act like that's a punishment, Lee!" he shouts back before turning his gaze back to you. "C'mon, lets go."

He offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation. He keeps one hand hovering behind your lower back as you carefully step off the ice onto solid ground again, prepared to catch you if needed.

Down you both collapse onto the bench side by side, shoulders brushing while you unlace the skates.

"So,' he says, focusing too intensely on the laces so he doesn't have to see your reaction. "Are we cool?"

"Yeah," the reply is immediate. "Of course we are."

Pure relief. Enough for him to ask something bigger.

"We've got the conference finals this weekend. Big game."

"Mm."

"You should come."

You pull your feet free from the skates and glance up at him. "To your game?"

"Obviously."

"Oh should I?" you tease. "After you avoided me?

Satoru can't stop the cocky grin on his face at your banter, feeling more like himself.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry," he says. "And I just saved you from a concussion."

Your socked foot kicks his shin lightly, and Satoru grins so hard his face hurts.

"Really though," he gets quieter, his smile softening around the edges. "You've only ever seen me challenged." His eyes finally meet yours. "I think it'd be cool if you saw me doing something I'm actually good at."

You just look at each other, the almost-kiss swirling electric and unfinished in the space between you both.

"I'll come to your game, Satoru."

"Yeah?" his voice lifts an octave higher.

A small smile spread across your face.

"Yeah."

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

There's two things that Satoru is going to do tonight.

First, he's going to win the conference game and drag his team straight into finals.

Then he's finally going to tell you how he feels. No more dodging around it like a coward.

After you left the rink that morning, after that almost-kiss still burning hot in his head, Satoru spent the next few days mentally kicking his own ass for not just doing it. For not telling you the truth and then grabbing your face and kissing you stupid right there on the ice while you looked at him like that.

It was fine. He'll make good on it after the game.

Assuming these idiots listen to him for once.

"Yo!" he calls over the locker room noise buzzing with a mix of pregame excitement. Gear clatters against benches while music blasts faintly from someone's speaker. "C'mon. Huddle up."

The arena tonight is massive compared to their home one. Packed, too. Satoru could hear the crowd before they'd even stepped onto the ice—a least a hundred voices blending into one roaring pulse of excitement that vibrates through the walls.

He hopes yours is somewhere inside it.

"Listen," he says, his voice carrying that intense captains edge he slips in naturally. "I don't need to tell you shit you already know. You guys can play. It's why were here."

A few guys laugh. Someone shoves another.

"So just… don't fuck it up at the last second." He points around the circle. "Let's win this game, so we're closer to taking that pretty cup home, yeah?"

The response erupts loud enough to shake the room, and adrenaline floods his veins instantly.

The tunnel to the rink glows brightly ahead of them, arena lights spilling across the ice while the crowd explodes the second the team skates out.

Satoru isn't paying attention to any of it.

The pregame announcements blur together while he skates a lazy loop around the ice, scanning rows and rows of faces. Girls scream near the glass when he passes, whistles echoing behind him while people pound excited fists against the barrier trying to get his attention.

Usually he'd grin. Wave. Feed into it.

Tonight he doesn't care. Not until he sees you.

Halfway up the lower section you sit, wire-rimmed glasses catching the lights but not hiding the way you're watching him.

The noise disappears the second your eyes meet. No screaming crowd. No announcers. Just the violent pounding of his own heartbeat.

You're here.

And when he finally skates past, forced to break eye contact, the sound comes rushing back in as he goes to the center.

The game starts brutal. From puck drop, Satoru plays like he has something to prove.

The opposing team is good, but comes out aggressive immediately, throwing hard checks into the boards and trying to force sloppy passes under pressure. Satoru reads through them fast. Their defense is overcompensating and they leave gaps open whenever they get impatient.

So he exploits it.

Hard.

The first interception happens barely four minutes in. Satoru cuts across center ice, steals the puck clean off their right wing, and accelerates so fast the crowd rises before he even shoots.

The goalie barely reacts before the puck rockets into the top corner.

The arena erupts, and you're on your feet too. Smiling so hard it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

The rest of the period moves fast and violent.

The opposing team gets close to scoring but loses the puck in a battle. Satoru intercepts another pass late in the first, setting up an assist that is barely caught by their goalie.

It's alright. It's still one-zero.

By the time line changes finally roll around, his chest is heaving with exertion. He taps gloves with his teammate before collapsing onto the bench, spitting his mouth guard free.

He squirts water into his mouth, then leans forward and lets some droplets spray onto the ice.

And immediately catches you staring.

Your chin rests against your hand, eyes locked onto him with complete focus until you realize he's looking back. You turn away too fast, fingers spreading across your cheek to hide your face.

Satoru bites back a grin.

You're so fucking cute.

"Gojo!" Yaga snaps. "Quit flirting with the crowd!"

The second period gets uglier as the other team starts losing patience.

A defenseman twice Satoru's size drives him hard into the boards after a whistle, a shoulder slamming into his ribs hard enough to make the glass shake. The crowd boos, and Satoru shoves him back without hesitation.

"Get off me, fucker."

Then the guy grabs his jersey.

"Back off, pretty boy," the defenseman spits.

Satoru grins meanly, his glove shoving against his chest to break free. They bicker for another minute before the ref breaks it up.

As he skates off, he secretly flips him off behind the ref's back while sticking his tongue out, making the guy nearly lunge for him again.

Penalty box for them both.

Worth it.

The game tightens by the third.

Two-one.

Then two-two.

He didn't think the game would be easy. He didn't want it to be. By the time overtime hits, his lungs burn and his legs feel heavy, but the rush buzzes through his body hard enough to make him forget it.

Sudden death. First one to score wins.

So Satoru scores first, obviously.

The puck snaps clean off his stick, low and fast, sliding past the goalie before he can react. The buzzer erupts through the arena a second later as their spot in the championship is secured.

His pulse pounds violently while he rips off his helmet, white hair damp with sweat and sticking it messily to his forehead. His teammates crash into him, shouting into his ear, patting his back hard enough to jostle him forward.

But he just needs to get to you.

Breaking free as fast as possible, he rushes through the handshake line with barely enough patience to be polite before disappearing through the tunnel. He only stops long enough to swap out his skates, fingers trembling from the energy while his heart refuses to slow down.

You're already waiting for him when he exits the locker room.

His uniform is still on, bulky, but doing absolutely nothing to hide how broad he is, how tall, and how unfairly good he looks flushed from a game. Sweat darkens the collar of his undershirt, strands of damp hair falling into eyes still bright from the win.

You'd never been to a hockey game before.

Never realized how intense it was. How violent and fast and overwhelming. How hot it was watching players slam each other into the glass.

Or maybe it was just him.

Your cheeks warm as you slowly meet him halfway.

Words, Satoru thinks desperately. There were words. He had practiced them for days—actual sentences that were smooth and honest. But standing here with the high of winning and you right there, none of them feel big enough.

"Hey, nice game—"

He cups your face before he can stop himself, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss lands messy with excitement, somewhere between soft and starving. He exhales softly against your lips, thumbs pressing lightly against your cheeks like he's been wanting to do for weeks.

You're stunned at first, fingers twitching against his jersey before you start to lean into him—

"Gojo! Get your ass back here for huddle."

Satoru is going to fucking kill his team.

He pulls away too fast, breathing hard as the realization burns the tips of his ears pink. You stand frozen in place, lips glistening and still parted from the kiss.

His team starts yelling from down the hall, and then, somehow, they're physically dragging him backwards.

He shoves at them, stumbling away. "I hate every single one of you."

They only laugh harder.

"Don't wait up!" he calls quickly, eyes darting back to you. "I'll— I'll come to your dorm after!"

The words are rushed, nervous in a way Satoru Gojo never sounds.

But he does show up.

After the debrief, the celebration, and the fastest shower he can take, Satoru practically sprints to his car and speeds to campus until he gets to your dorm with damp hair and a wrinkled shirt.

Now that the adrenaline is fading, anxiety takes it's place immediately.

He kissed you.

Didn't even confess first like he planned. Didn't ask. Just completely short-circuited and kissed you in the middle of a hallway like an idiot.

And you hadn't fully kissed him back—granted, his team interrupted after like three seconds, but still.

Maybe he got carried away. Maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe you only tolerated him because you were nice and he turned that into something its not.

By the time he reaches your door, his stomach is in knots.

He knocks anyways.

And the door opens.

You've swapped your clothes for something softer that makes him ten times more nervous. Everything feels more real and every thought in his brain trips over itself.

"Hey. I'm sorry for just kissing you after the game. I don't wanna come off weird, or like a complete fuckboy like I did when we first met. I've actually been trying really hard not to say dumb shit around you because I respect you. Like, genuinely."

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his still-damp hair before continuing without giving himself time to stop.

"I just—fuck. I really like you. Like, a lot. And I've never really had feelings for someone before, so I know I'm probably terrible at this, but if you don't want anything to happen, then nothing will. I can deal with it. Probably." He laughs anxiously at himself. "But I think of you constantly. Anytime I smell coffee or see shelves of books or—"

Satoru cuts himself off abruptly and stares at the floor for half a second, horrified. Just how long has he been talking? Why are words still coming out? Why haven’t you kicked him out yet?

“Are you done?” you ask softly.

“I think so,” he answers weakly.

“Good.”

Your fist curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him down before he can process anything else.

And then you’re kissing him.

Actually kissing him.

Every ounce of tension in his body melts instantly at the feeling of your lips moving against his. He lets out a startled breath into the kiss, hands finding your waist on pure instinct while he walks you backwards without ever pulling away.

His hand fumbles behind him until the door shuts with a quiet click.

You taste like something sweet and instantly addictive.

The kiss deepens, his thumbs brushing along your jaw as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip. A groan catches in his throat when you let him in, the sound swallowed by your mouth before it can fully escape.

He walks you back a few more feet. One hand cradles the back of your head until your shoulders meet the wall. The impact is soft, but the way he melts into you isn't.

Your hands disappear into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as need shoots through him so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. He exhales sharply against your lips, fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt.

Then they slip underneath.

"Is this okay?" he finally gasps, managing to pull away only enough for the words to brush against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a soft sigh before capturing your mouth again. Higher his hands roam, tracing the curve of your spine while you arch instinctively into his touch.

Of course you're not wearing a bra.

He's always been dominant, always the one in control—but he's more than willing to follow when your hands press firmly against his chest, breaking the kiss only long enough for you to shove him backward.

His brows shoot up as he stumbles towards the couch, landing against the cushions with a soft grunt, hands immediately finding your waist as you climb onto his lap.

And that's when Satoru turns pink.

He's painfully hard from nothing but making out with you, and the warmth between your thighs pressing exactly where he's throbbing beneath his sweats is not helping.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist as a slow, knowing smirk spreads across your face.

Satoru knows he's in serious trouble way before you dip your head and start pressing kisses along his jaw. Then lower, hunting for a sensitive spot to latch onto.

And then you start grinding your hips. Just slow, lazy passes that drag yourself over his length.

"Fuck," he pants.

His hands slide down to your ass, grabbing a handful in an attempt to slow you down. It does the exact opposite, and you whine against his skin before rocking your hips faster.

"Shit— you gotta—" his eyes squeeze shut. "Are you sure?"

"Satoru," you breathe against his neck. "Can you not tell how much I want you too?"

Something about the way you say those words—soft and sweet—snaps the last thread of restraint clean. His mouth finds yours as he starts pushing you forward, meeting every roll of your hips with one of his own.

His shirt is gone first. Yours follows seconds later.

The moment you're bare to him, he's all over you. Mouth dragging down your neck, across your collarbone, then circling your nipple with his tongue until it hardens beneath the attention.

You moan, a syrupy little sound he's no longer shy about chasing.

He guides you off his lap only to tug at the rest of your clothes, fumbling in impatience to find out just how many more of those noises you can make.

You dissolve into giggles.

"Move," you laugh, swatting his hands away. "You're going too slow."

He huffs but relents, yanking his sweats down while you finish stripping yourself. The thin cotton of your panties brushes against the hard length straining in his boxers when you settle back onto his lap.

You bat your lashes innocently, dragging your fingers beneath the waistband, tracing his hips.

"You want it?" you purr.

"Do I—" Satoru lets out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I fuckin' want it.".

"How bad?"

He catches your chin, forcing your gaze down. His cock twitches impatiently beneath the fabric.

"That bad."

You don't pull away from his grip, just smirk as you tug his boxers down. His cock springs free, smacking his stomach lightly. Angry red at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered—his need is obvious.

And so is the fear he's absolutely going to embarrass himself.

Satoru's flush spreads down his neck as you wrap your small hand around his cock, instantly pumping your fist.

"Oh s-shit—" he chokes out, his head falling back and exposing the long line of his throat.

"Mmmm… so big, 'Toru…"

Eyes squeezed tight, he tries to focus on anything—anything at all. The couch. The wall. The weather. Anything except the fact that he feels like he's about to bust a load already from a few dainty strokes of your oh-so-soft hand.

But your squeezing him just right, stroking in a perfect rhythm while making these little knowing giggles—

"Ah— okay— stop," he pries your hand off, flushed and laughing in embarrassment. His Adam's apple bobs. "If you want this to last, we gotta stop for a second."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just…"

He trails off, deciding his best reply is leaning forward to capture your mouth instead of explaining anything at all.

The movement presses your nipples flush against his chest and his cock twitches against your lower stomach.

His hands explore, swiping aside your panties and finding the warm, sticky mess between your thighs. You mewl into his mouth as his fingers find your swollen clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles until you're squirming on top of him.

Then he shoves his fingers inside you, working you open as your breath catches in sharp little bursts against his cheek.

"Satoru… oh god… fuck," you coo. "Please… please put it in."

His fingers don't slow, thrusting against the spongy spot inside you. "Okay…. okay, do you have protection?"

"I'm on the pill."

Satoru groans.

You're really gonna fucking kill him.

He gently pulls away his fingers, your slick mess stretching like a web between them as he helps you hover over his length. You slide his cock through your folds, coating him in a mix of your wetness and his precum.

"You're…" he tugs his lip between his teeth as you nudge the tip just barely inside. "A fucking tease."

You hide a smile. "You love it."

Then you sink down.

He's so thick, stretching your gummy walls perfectly. The agonizingly slow descent is on purpose, letting him feel every flutter of your pussy swallowing every inch.

Satoru thinks the next few minutes he blacks out.

He thought you were such a sinless sweetheart, but the second you adjust, a mischievous glint hits your eyes right before you brace your hands on his shoulders and start bouncing on him.

Straight from a wet dreams, you take him deep, tits bouncing with the movement as everything between you turns slick.

He's moaning— fuck, whimpering at how good you feel, letting praise slip from his mouth in jumbled slurs of pleasure he can't even think through.

"Fuck, baby— just like that— feels amazing— good fucking girl, take my cock—"

You let out a series of pretty whines, accompanied by the obscene sound of how wet you are each time you slam your hips against his.

And you're so beautiful. And you're his. And holy fuck it's only been a few minutes but—

"Shit—babe—" he gasps. "Wait— I'm gonna cum if you don't—"

But it's too late.

Satoru lets out a strangled moan as his cock throbs violently, hips driving upward and pressing his tip against your cervix before shooting rope after rope of his warm release inside you.

He's trembling from the ecstasy and pure embarrassment from his body's betrayal. He doesn't think he's cum this fast in his life, ever, and hides in your neck as he floats back to earth.

Your hands gently stroke his back, grounding him with kisses to his sweat-slicked shoulder. "You okay?"

"No," he grumbles, returning a lazy kiss to your skin anyways.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

He takes a few more deep breaths before clutching your body close and flipping you both with easy strength until he's braced on his forearms above you. His cock is still nestled inside you, sensitive, but still really hard.

His lips find the shell of your ear, nibbling the lobe before he whispers. "Promise I'm gonna make you cum, sweet thing."

And then his hips snap forward hard, dragging a broken moan out of you. The couch shifts beneath you both as he starts fucking you into it, determined to make you a babbling mess by the time he's done with you.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

It's loud. So loud it feels the celebration is cheering inside his skull.

Winning the cup is no small thing. It's what he's worked toward for as long as he can remember. Every morning practice, every brutal loss, every moment that should have broken his dreams but didn't.

And yet, somehow, none of it hits him as hard as you running toward him on the ice.

As you jumping straight into his arms.

He catches you instantly, crushing you to his chest and spinning you in a light circle that lifts your feet. You squeal and it locks itself into his mind as the sound he wants to hear forever.

Your laugh.

When he finally sets you down, he doesn't let go. His arms stay firm around your waist, keeping you close just in case the chaos around you tries to steal you away. Your eyes are bright when they look up at him, confetti tangled in your hair and blue stars painted across your cheeks from your support.

"Congratulations!" you beam, practically vibrating with joy. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Thank you," he says, grinning as he leans in and tilts your chin up. "You look really cute."

You blush, which is the exact reaction he wanted.

"Be my girl," he blurts over the noise. "I should have asked you way sooner."

But you only grin.

"I thought I already was."

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