Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru had a reputation.
Not the kind that got him suspended (okay, maybe once), but the kind people rolled their eyes at with a weird mix of admiration and exhaustion. He was that guy—loud, smug, magnetic in a way that felt unfair. Dating was a numbers game, and he was always winning. Throw a wink here, a corny line there, maybe flash that smile—easy.
Which was why it was absolutely, completely, unforgivably unacceptable that his brain short-circuited the moment he walked into that coffee shop and saw him .
Black hair tied back in a lazy half-bun, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, dark eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and still didn’t care. Gojo could feel himself being dissected under that slow, unhurried blink. Then came the real killer: a small, polite, weaponized smile.
“Welcome,” the guy said, voice smooth and quiet, like he had all the time in the world. “What can I get you?”
Gojo opened his mouth to say something cool—charming, effortless, devastating.
Instead: “…Coffee.”
Smooth.
The guy—Geto Suguru, according to the tiny black-and-white name tag on his apron—raised one perfectly unimpressed eyebrow. “Any particular kind?”
The kind that makes me look like less of an idiot, please.
“Uh… surprise me?”
A beat of silence. Geto just looked at him, unreadable, like he was trying to decide whether Gojo was worth the oxygen he was stealing. Then he nodded, turned away, and began working the espresso machine without another word.
Gojo exhaled like he’d just run a marathon and immediately slumped against the counter, dragging both hands down his face.
What the hell was that?
He wasn’t nervous. He was never nervous. He made other people nervous. That was his thing.
When Geto slid a cup toward him a few minutes later, Gojo grabbed it like a man clinging to the last vestige of his dignity. He took a sip. Sweet, creamy, just enough bitterness to make it feel like it had depth.
“You like sweet things?” Geto asked, not even looking at him, just wiping down the machine like Gojo wasn’t having a crisis five feet away.
Gojo grinned, finally finding a scrap of his usual rhythm. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.” Geto’s lips quirked, just slightly. “You look like someone with a sweet tooth.”
Gojo gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Are you calling me basic?”
“If the shoe fits,” Geto said, not even blinking.
And just like that, Gojo was gone.
He told himself it was a one-time thing.
That he just happened to be in the neighborhood the next day. And the next. That he just felt like coffee again. That he wasn’t thinking about those dark eyes or the way Geto always looked vaguely annoyed to be speaking to him. That the little smirk Geto gave him when he asked for a “mystery drink” wasn’t now living rent-free in his brain.
He even tried going to other coffee shops. Walked into one across town and stared at the barista’s overly cheerful grin like it was a personal insult. The coffee tasted like lies.
Somehow— somehow —he always ended up back at the corner shop with the too-quiet music and the smell of roasted beans and the guy behind the counter who never cracked, never faltered, and never gave Gojo the satisfaction of flustering him.
One day, Gojo walked past the shop without planning to. Just walking, minding his own business, and suddenly he was at the intersection and his feet turned of their own accord.
He stood outside the window, arms crossed, staring at the “OPEN” sign like it had personally betrayed him.
He didn’t want to go in.
But he did.
Geto looked up when the bell over the door jingled and said, without missing a beat, “You again.”
Gojo scratched the back of his head, pretending he hadn’t just been arguing with himself on the sidewalk. “Crazy, right? It’s like fate. Or caffeine addiction.”
“Both terminal,” Geto said, flat. “What’ll it be today?”
Gojo leaned against the counter, eyes narrowed. “Give me something bitter. Surprise me again. I can handle it.”
“Hmm,” Geto said, turning to the espresso machine. “We’ll see.”
A few minutes later, Gojo took a sip and nearly gagged. “Jesus, this is—what is this, liquid asphalt?!”
Geto smirked. “You said bitter.”
“You’re a menace,” Gojo muttered, but he took another sip anyway.
And maybe he was imagining it, but he swore Geto looked just a little bit pleased.
.
He kept coming back.
Not because of the coffee.
(Okay, partly because of the coffee. The man had talent.)
But mostly because of him.
Because Geto Suguru was a mystery Gojo couldn’t solve. Calm when Gojo was chaos, quiet when Gojo couldn’t shut up, unfazed by everything that usually worked. He didn’t laugh at Gojo’s jokes, but sometimes his mouth twitched like he wanted to. He never flirted back, but he didn’t push Gojo away either.
It was maddening.
It was addictive.
And Gojo—Satoru freaking Gojo—was hooked.
“So… where are you from?”
Gojo blinked.
He’d just taken a sip, and the question caught him mid-swallow. He coughed. Choked. Had to turn away and cover his mouth with the crook of his elbow while dying inside.
Geto didn’t move. He just waited.
Gojo wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. “Uh. School?”
Geto nodded slowly, like yes, that is exactly what I meant.
Gojo cleared his throat. “Jujutsu High.”
“Hm,” Geto said. “Thought so.”
Gojo frowned. “Wait—what do you mean, thought so?”
“I’ve seen you around.”
Gojo stared.
“What?” he said, dumbly.
“I go there too.”
Silence.
A long, painful silence.
Gojo stared harder, like maybe the force of his confusion would make it make sense.
“You—what?”
“I’m in Year Two,” Geto said, brushing some stray coffee grounds off the counter. “You’re in Year Two, right?”
“I—yeah—but—what?!”
Geto tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely curious how Gojo could be this shocked. “We’re in the same school.”
“No, we’re not.”
“We are.”
“No, because I would’ve noticed.” Gojo gestured to him, vaguely. “I mean—look at you. You’ve got that hair. The—uh. The face. The whole. Thing.”
Geto just looked at him.
Gojo crumpled internally.
“I mean, not in a weird way,” he added quickly, stumbling over his words. “Not that I look at people’s—faces. Or things. Like your face. Specifically.”
Geto raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Gojo covered his face with both hands. “Please erase this entire conversation from your memory.”
“No promises.”
.
The next day, he spotted Geto in the hallway.
He’d just turned the corner when he saw him: leaning against the wall, arms crossed, talking to Shoko like he wasn’t currently throwing Gojo’s entire existence into disarray. And seriously, how is Shoko on good terms with literally everyone?
Gojo spun on his heel so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He power-walked in the opposite direction like he was fleeing a crime scene.
This kept happening.
He’d see Geto near the vending machines, or outside under a tree, or walking across the football field, and every single time, Gojo’s brain shorted out. He’d either duck behind something or walk the long way around. One time he almost dived behind a bush.
How had he never noticed him before?
Had Geto always been this composed? This unreadable? This weirdly magnetic?
Gojo was losing it.
The next time they crossed paths in the hallway, there was no escape. It was just them—no one else. Geto was walking toward him, hands in his pockets, looking like he had absolutely zero stress in his life. Meanwhile, Gojo felt like his soul was trying to eject itself from his body.
He pretended to check his phone. He pretended to tie his shoe. He considered throwing himself down the nearest flight of stairs.
Then Geto slowed.
Stopped.
“Hey,” he said.
Gojo blinked up at him. “What?”
“I said hey.”
“Oh.” Gojo looked around like he wasn’t sure who Geto was talking to. “Uh. Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Me? Yeah. Fine. Totally. Great.”
Geto nodded. “Cool.”
And then—then—he just kept walking.
Like nothing happened.
Like Gojo hadn’t just had a full-body shutdown in the middle of the hallway.
Gojo stood there for a good thirty seconds, trying to remember how to breathe.
.
He stopped going to the coffee shop for a few days.
Told himself it was because he was busy. Practice. Extra classes. Homework. Life stuff.
It had nothing to do with how he’d said “you’ve got that face” out loud like a moron. Nothing to do with the fact that now Geto was just there, all the time, and Gojo was painfully aware of every glance, every nod, every hey.
He lasted four days.
Then he walked into the shop again, eyes down, shoulders tense.
The bell above the door jingled.
Geto looked up from behind the counter.
“Hey.”
Gojo froze halfway to the register. “Hey.”
There was a pause.
Geto’s voice was calm, almost teasing. “Still from Jujutsu High?”
Gojo groaned and dropped his forehead onto the counter.
Geto chuckled. Quiet. But real.
And Gojo, face-down, let out another groan. “I swear I’m not always like this.”
“I know,” Geto said.
Gojo turned his head slightly to glance at him. “You do?”
Geto met his eyes—steady, composed, and frustratingly serene. “Told you I’ve been seeing you around,” he said again. “Even if you didn’t see me.”
That sentence landed like a strike to the chest. Seen him around? When? Where? Gojo’s thoughts raced. What was he doing? Did he say anything weird? Did he look alright? No—definitely not.
Gojo opened his mouth, maybe to ask one of the twelve questions piling up in his head, but all that came out was a confused, “Wh—?”
Geto just chuckled, soft and low, and Gojo forgot how to function for a full three seconds.
.
He returned the next afternoon.
This time, with a plan: act natural. Be normal. Keep it light, keep it friendly. No weird comments about faces or teeth or hair. Just speak like a normal person.
He rehearsed lines in his head on the walk over.
“Hey, how’s business?”
“What’s your favorite thing on the menu?”
“Wow, the weather’s doing... weather stuff!”
Easy. Normal.
The bell chimed when he walked in. Geto looked up. Same black apron, same calm expression. Somehow already making Gojo feel like a bag of loose wires.
“Hey,” Geto said.
“Hey,” Gojo replied, a little too loud. Then cleared his throat. “Hi. I mean—hey. Hi. Hello.”
Nailed it.
Geto blinked, then turned to the espresso machine. “The usual?”
Gojo nodded. Then realized Geto wasn’t looking and added, “Yeah. That’d be—that’d be cool. Great. Awesome.”
He sat at the counter and tapped his fingers like they might keep him from saying something stupid.
“So,” he tried, “you uh… you ever wonder who invented coffee?”
Geto glanced at him, then back at the machine. “No.”
Gojo nodded like that was a deeply profound response. “Yeah, me neither. That’d be weird, right? Just thinking about coffee inventors. Who does that? Definitely not me. I just thought, you know, maybe it was an accident. Like, someone boiled some beans one day and thought, hey, let’s drink this bean water. And everyone else was like, wow, what the hell, but then they tried it and boom, coffee.”
Silence.
Geto didn’t say anything. Just moved smoothly behind the counter, finishing the drink.
Gojo swallowed. “Sorry. That was dumb.”
“It was... something,” Geto said, placing the drink in front of him.
Gojo took a long sip just to shut himself up. It was good. Of course it was good.
Shoko slid into the seat next to him like she’d been summoned by a cosmic force.
“Did you just say ‘bean water’ in public?” she asked.
Gojo jumped. “What—no. When did you get here?!”
“Long enough to hear your little monologue.” She raised an eyebrow at Geto. “And you didn’t throw him out?”
“I considered it,” Geto said, deadpan.
Gojo groaned and dropped his head onto the counter again. “Why am I like this?”
“Because your mouth runs faster than your brain,” Shoko said, sipping from a drink she clearly didn’t pay for. “Also, you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered,” Gojo mumbled into the wood.
“You are. You’ve got that scrambly energy. Like a puppy who knows it just peed somewhere it shouldn’t have.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
Shoko turned to Geto. “He’s usually unbearable in a different way. This is new.”
Gojo sat up and glared at her. “Shoko.”
“Yeah?”
“Please stop talking.”
She shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
“You’re not. ”
But Geto was smiling now. Just faintly. Just enough for Gojo to see it from the corner of his eye and spiral even more.
He stared into his drink like it might open a portal and suck him into a parallel universe where he had dignity.
.
That night, Shoko walked home with Gojo.
The sidewalk hummed with the sound of late-summer cicadas, while the sun hung low, painting the sky in warm tones. Golden light filtered through the trees lining their neighborhood, casting a soft glow over everything.
Gojo had his hands jammed into his pockets and his head ducked just slightly—not his usual posture. Not his usual anything, lately.
“So,” Shoko said, lighting a cigarette without asking if he minded. “You gonna talk, or do I have to pry it out of your skull?”
Gojo kicked a rock down the path.
“I wasn’t being weird today, right?” he asked.
Shoko blew smoke out the corner of her mouth. “Define ‘weird.’”
“Like. Normal-weird or... me-weird?”
“You asked a guy if he thinks about coffee inventors.”
Gojo groaned. “Okay, yes , but that was—it was just a…”
“A what?”
“I don’t know. A normal conversation.”
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then Gojo muttered, “He talks so calmly. Like, always. Even when I’m being a disaster. He just stands there, being all composed and— normal —and I’m over here short-circuiting over eye contact.”
Shoko didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Gojo glanced sideways at her. “Why are you friends with the whole school anyway?”
“Because I’m tolerable.”
Gojo snorted.
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You mean Suguru?”
Gojo paused for half a step.
“I didn’t say that,” he lied immediately.
“You didn’t have to.” She blew out a puff of smoke, casual. “You said ‘he’ , like there’s only one person in the world capable of destabilizing your brain chemistry. And, let’s be real—there is.”
Gojo squinted at the pavement like it had betrayed him. “Why do you know him?”
“Because I’m not a self-absorbed gremlin who floats through life missing literally everything unless it sparkles.”
Gojo made a face. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Gojo rolled his eyes so hard his neck cracked. “He’s been in our grade this whole time ?”
“Yep.”
“In the same school?”
“Since freshman year.”
“I’ve literally never seen him before.”
“You didn’t realize you have the attention span of a squirrel and only look at people who either scream your name or post thirst traps.”
Gojo glared at her. “He’s just... always at that coffee shop. Being all... calm. And quiet. Like he’s figured out life. And then he’s suddenly in our school ? With, like, math homework? That’s illegal.”
Shoko laughed. “He’s a person, Satoru. Not a cryptid.”
“But he—” Gojo ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “He said he’s seen me around. Seen me. Like casually. While I’ve apparently been walking around with sunglasses on my soul.”
“You’ve shared multiple classes.” Shoko stated.
Gojo turned to stare at her. “No, I haven’t.”
“You have.”
He frowned. “I would’ve remembered.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said. “You were too busy peacocking around anyone who breathed near you.”
Gojo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Shoko smiled, just a little. “You didn’t see him before.”
He glanced at her, suspicious. “You’re implying something.”
“I’m not implying anything,” she said, flicking ash into the wind. “I’m stating it.”
“Stating what ?”
Shoko gave him a long, flat look.
Gojo looked away first.
They kept walking.
Eventually, he muttered, “It’s not like that.”
“Sure.”
“It’s not.”
“Okay.”
“I just think he’s... interesting.”
Shoko nodded. “ Interesting .”
Gojo groaned. “Can you not?”
“I am not.”
“You’re doing the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one where you sound like you’re five minutes from printing the wedding invitations.”
Shoko grinned. “You’re doing the eyes.”
“What eyes?”
“The ones where you look like you’ve just discovered feelings and want to return them immediately.”
Gojo kicked another rock. Harder this time.
They kept walking, the air stretching between them like elastic.
And Gojo—Gojo felt it. Something new and dumb and uncomfortable blooming in his chest like a weed growing through pavement.
He tried to shove it down. Shrug it off.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about Geto’s voice. His face. That line—
“Even if you didn’t see me.”
He saw him now.
Too clearly.
And it was a problem.
That night, he’d been “studying” — which, in Gojo terms, meant opening his laptop, pulling up the school’s student directory, and promptly falling down a rabbit hole. One minute he was checking something for homework, the next he was staring at Geto’s name on his class schedule like it was some kind of rare bird sighting.
They had Literature together. And U.S. History. And—he double-checked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating—Biology. Three classes. Three. That was practically fate. Or a cosmic joke.
He closed the laptop before he could start imagining entire semesters’ worth of witty banter and dramatic desk partner moments.
The next day, Gojo walked into U.S. History five minutes early.
Which was suspicious behavior.
He dropped into his seat and immediately started overthinking his posture. Was he slouching too hard? Sitting too upright? What did normal posture look like? He wasn’t even focused on the fact that it was history class. He was focused on the fact that Geto Suguru sat exactly one row diagonally behind him.
And today—today Gojo was going to talk to him.
Just… a little.
Casual. Easy. Normal.
He turned slightly in his seat, glanced back, and—there he was. Hair half-tied again, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, twirling a pen in his fingers like his hands couldn’t be bothered to fumble. He looked up and caught Gojo’s stare.
Gojo panicked.
Too late to look away. Couldn’t pretend to be looking at the clock. So he did the worst possible thing.
Geto blinked at him.
Then, mercifully, pulled out one earbud. “Hey.”
Gojo’s brain scrambled. “Hey.”
“Early today.”
“Yeah, I…” He fumbled for a reason. Any reason. “...woke up.”
Geto’s mouth twitched. “That’s usually how mornings work.”
“Right. Yep. Mornings. Big fan.”
Silence.
Gojo wanted to crawl under the desk and stay there for the rest of his life.
“So uh,” he said, trying again, “how do you like… the… war?”
Geto raised an eyebrow. “The war?”
“The Civil War. Or whichever one we’re learning. The World one. Y’know. Just wondering how you’re finding it.”
“I’m surviving,” Geto said.
Gojo nodded, like that was deep. “Right. Yeah. Survival’s good.”
From across the room, Shoko had just sat down at her desk. She made direct, unblinking eye contact with Gojo. Then she slowly, dramatically dragged her hand across her throat like abort mission. You’re dying out there.
Gojo pretended not to see her.
Geto looked vaguely amused, like he knew he was witnessing someone actively drowning in air.
“So,” Gojo said, in one final desperate bid for connection, “do you think Lincoln would’ve liked bagels?”
There was a full second of silence.
Then Geto, to his eternal credit, didn’t laugh. He just looked at Gojo for a moment and said, “What?”
Gojo blinked. “I just think he had a bagel guy. That’s all.”
Geto let out a quiet breath— not a laugh, but dangerously close.
“You always like this?” he asked.
Gojo leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and whispered, “No. It’s worse.”
And that was when the teacher walked in and saved him from total combustion.
.
Lunch couldn’t come fast enough.
Gojo slammed his tray down across from Shoko and dropped into the seat like his soul had just left his body.
“I’m never speaking again,” he announced. “Ever.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said, deadpan, peeling open a yogurt.
“I asked him if Lincoln liked bagels , Shoko. Bagels. ”
“You did,” she nodded.
“I don’t even like bagels.”
“You panic-scrambled. It happens.”
Gojo buried his face in his arms. “I need to transfer schools.”
Shoko poked at her salad. “Or—and hear me out—you could just let it happen.”
Gojo peeked up. “Let what happen?”
She smirked. “The meltdown. The slow, glorious descent into emotional ruin. You’re not gonna get out of this clean. Might as well make it entertaining.”
Gojo stared at her. “You are the worst support system.”
Shoko nodded. “And yet, you keep coming back.”
He groaned and slammed his head back down on the table.
Behind him, at another lunch table, Geto sat with his usual small circle—calm, unreadable, chewing on an apple and occasionally glancing over without making it obvious.
Gojo didn’t see it.
But Shoko did.
And she smiled to herself.
.
It started in third-period Lit.
Mrs. Tanaka stood at the front of the room, holding up a copy of The Great Gatsby like it personally offended her.
“Group presentations,” she said, to the groans of half the class. “You’ll analyze a theme of your choice and present next Friday. I’ll be assigning partners unless anyone volunteers to work together.”
Gojo was only half listening. Until he heard:
“…unless anyone
volunteers
…”
His eyes snapped to Geto—who was sitting three rows over, flipping through his copy of the book like he was actually reading it. Like he wasn’t a black hole Gojo’s attention kept getting sucked into.
Shoko glanced at Gojo. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Gojo whispered.
“You’re thinking about doing something.”
“No, I’m not.”
Mrs. Tanaka continued, “If not, I’ll just call names—”
“—I’ll go with Suguru,” Gojo blurted.
The room went silent.
Even Mrs. Tanaka paused, blinking. “Excuse me?”
Gojo sat up straighter, trying to sound casual, failing spectacularly. “I mean. I’ll partner with Suguru. If he’s cool with it.”
Now everyone was looking.
Geto looked up from his book, perfectly unbothered, and nodded once. “Sure.”
Mrs. Tanaka looked surprised but not enough to argue. “Alright, then. Geto and Gojo.”
Shoko dragged her hand down her face like she was watching a toddler sprint toward a plugged-in toaster with a fork.
Gojo exhaled slowly, heart racing like he’d just confessed to a crime. But hey— it worked . He did it. He secured the partner. This was fine. Everything was fine.
He spent the rest of class pretending to take notes but mostly just drawing little spirals in the margins of his notebook while trying not to look at Geto.
When the bell rang, Gojo gathered his things way too fast. He was halfway out the door when a voice behind him said:
“Hey, Satoru.”
He turned so fast his bag nearly slipped off his shoulder. “Yeah?”
Geto adjusted his backpack. “You got your number?”
Gojo frozen.
His brain crashed. Rebooted. Blue-screened.
“My—my what?”
“Your number,” Geto said again, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “So we can plan the project.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Obviously. My number. Phone number. Not like… shirt size or anything.”
Shoko, walking past, whispered, “ What. ”
Gojo ignored her. His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled out his phone and unlocked it. He stared at the screen like he’d never used it before.
“Here,” he mumbled, thrusting it out toward Geto like it was cursed. “You can just put yours in and then text me so I have it and then I’ll have yours and we’ll both have—each other’s.”
Geto took the phone, thumbed in his contact, and handed it back without hesitation.
The screen now read:
Suguru 🍵
Gojo’s brain made a dial-up noise.
He stared at it, then looked up.
“Cool,” he said, voice an octave higher than usual. “Awesome. That’s. Yeah.”
Geto smiled—barely, but it was there. “How’s later? Around 5?”
Gojo blinked. “Uh—yeah. Yes.”
“At your place? Perhaps?”
"That works. Totally works.”
Cool. Smooth. He nodded, as if he wasn’t already calculating how long it would take to shove every piece of laundry under his bed and pretend his desk wasn’t a disaster.
Geto’s eyes held his for a second longer than necessary. “Great. I’ll bring snacks.”
Snacks. He’s bringing snacks. Gojo nodded again, possibly too much. “Right. Good. I have… chairs. And… tables. You know. Furniture.”
There was a beat of silence before Geto chuckled, low and quiet, and Gojo felt the tips of his ears heat up.
Then he turned and walked off down the hall like he hadn’t just handed Gojo a live grenade.
Gojo stood there, vibrating slightly.
Shoko appeared at his side. “You gonna cry?”
“No,” Gojo whispered. “But if I do, don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m taking a screenshot of this moment with my mind ,” she said. “You volunteered in front of the entire class.”
“I panicked.”
“You projected desire across four rows.”
Gojo stared at his phone. At the name. At the emoji.
Suguru 🍵
“Do you think he drinks tea?” he asked quietly.
“You’re talking nonsense again.”
“I’m just saying, what if he’s not a tea guy? What if he prefers juice?”
“You’re naming drinks, Satoru.”
“I’m not okay.”
“I know.”
Shoko took a slow sip from her drink and didn’t even try to hide her grin. Gojo, meanwhile, buried his face in his arms and let out a long, muffled groan that vibrated through the lunch table.
Gojo peeked up. “You think he hates me now?”
Shoko didn’t answer right away. She looked past him, to where Geto sat at another table—shoulders relaxed, legs stretched out, lazily twirling a pencil in one hand while chatting with someone Gojo didn’t recognize.
He looked fine. Like nothing weird had happened.
But Gojo felt like he’d gone through war.
Shoko shrugged. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because if he did, he wouldn’t have asked for your number.”
Gojo blinked. “Oh. Right.”
His ears turned pink. “That happened.”
“It did, plus he’d even asked to meet up at your place”
“Do you think he regretted it?”
Shoko didn’t even blink. “Desperately.”
He threw a napkin at her.
.
The moment Gojo got home, he sprinted up the stairs like his life depended on it.
Operation: Clean Entire Room In One Hour had begun. And maybe—just maybe—he could figure out how to casually look like the kind of person who had it together enough for late-night study sessions and conversations that didn’t end in personal embarrassment.
He ended up cleaning his entire room twice.
The desk was spotless, the carpet freshly vacuumed, every dumb anime figure shoved into the closet. The air smelled like citrus-scented panic and half a can of body spray.
He’d even lit a candle.
Then blew it out because it felt like too much.
Then lit it again.
Then stood there arguing with himself over whether a scented candle screamed try-hard.
Shoko had stopped by earlier and stood in his doorway, arms crossed.
“You’re not studying,” she said flatly.
“I am studying,” he argued, fluffing his pillow aggressively. “Studying vibes. ”
She eyed the playlist he had cued up. “Is that slow jazz?”
“Subtle. Classy. Mature. ”
“It's giving ‘midlife crisis wine bar’ ” she said, and left.
Now Gojo sat at the edge of his bed, bouncing his knee, briefly debated changing into something less “I’m trying but pretending I’m not.”
By the time the doorbell rang, Gojo was on his third outfit and eighth internal monologue.
Gojo sprinted down the stairs, opened the door too fast, and nearly crashed into Geto—standing there with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a packet of Oreos in his hand.
“Hey,” Geto said, calm as ever.
“Hi,” Gojo breathed, immediately too loud. “I mean—hey. Come in. You brought Oreos. That’s cool. That’s really cool of you. Are you cool? You are. You’re cool.”
Geto blinked. “You okay?”
“Absolutely not,” Gojo muttered, then stepped aside. “Come in.”
“Totally. Awesome. Great.” He stepped aside like he was trying to be casual but somehow ended up knocking his own shoulder into the doorframe. “Come in.”
Geto stepped inside, glanced around. “Smells like... oranges?”
“No idea why,” Gojo lied.
They headed upstairs, and Gojo gestured vaguely at his room like he wasn’t currently mentally inventorying every object Geto’s eyes might land on. To his horror, Geto sat right on the bed like it was no big deal, cross-legged, already pulling out his notes.
Gojo sat on the floor, pretending it was because his back hurt and not because the idea of sharing a mattress with Geto Suguru would physically disintegrate him.
“So,” Geto said, flipping open his notebook, “Gatsby.”
Gojo stared at him for a beat too long.
“Yeah,” he said. “That guy. With the… jazz. And the green… feelings.”
Geto looked up slowly.
“You didn’t read it, did you?”
Gojo snapped out of his daze like he’d just been hit with a dodgeball to the face. “I did! Sort of. I absorbed the vibe.”
Geto raised an eyebrow without saying a word.
“I mean, the green light thing is hope, right?” Gojo continued, waving vaguely. “Or longing. Or mold. Depends on how you look at it.”
“Mold.”
“I’m just saying, that dock probably wasn’t pressure-treated.”
Geto stared at him. Gojo cracked under it in about three seconds.
“Okay, no, I didn’t read it.”
“Figured.”
“But I was going to!” Gojo added quickly. “I opened the book and everything. I just—then there were snacks. And then I fell asleep on chapter one.”
Geto nodded slowly, flipping a page in his notebook. “You want a summary?”
“That would be incredible. I will owe you my life. I will buy you a house. A dog. A car. Whatever literature majors dream about.”
“I’m not a lit major.”
“You have that energy, though.”
Geto didn’t respond. Just reached into the packet of Oreos, handed one to Gojo without looking, and said, “So basically, Gatsby’s obsessed with this dream version of a person he’s built up in his head, but the reality doesn’t match, and it all comes crashing down.”
Gojo took the Oreo. “That’s… depressing.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think I’m like Gatsby?”
Geto looked up.
Gojo immediately panicked. “I mean—not in, like, a creepy way. Just—just the overthinking part. The, uh, losing grip on reality part. Not the rich guy or the bootlegging—although, Gatsby had great outfits, I respect that.”
Geto blinked, then let out the smallest, softest laugh.
It was quiet. Barely a breath. But it was real.
Gojo stared. “Did you just laugh?”
“I didn’t laugh ,” Geto said, looking back down.
“You did. You totally did.”
“Keep talking and I’ll deny everything.”
Gojo smiled, wide and stupid. Then immediately realized he was smiling wide and stupid and covered it with a cough.
Geto didn’t say anything for a second, then passed him a copy of the book. “Start with chapter five. You’re doing the symbolism slide.”
Gojo took the book like it was made of glass. “Right. Symbols. Yeah. Like uh, colors. Or… metaphors. Or—what’s the other thing?”
“Themes?”
“Those. Yes. I love a good theme.”
Geto handed him a pen. “Underline anything that sounds like rich people being sad.”
“That’s the whole book, ” Gojo said.
“Exactly.”
The room fell quiet, except for the sound of pages turning and Gojo’s leg jittering like it had its own personality. He was hyperaware of every breath Geto took, every movement, the way he absently drummed his fingers against his knee while reading.
At one point, Geto leaned forward to reach for the Oreos on the floor, and Gojo’s entire nervous system misfired.
“Want more?” Geto asked.
Gojo nodded too fast and choked slightly on the cookie. “So uh,” he said mid-cough, “how come you wanted to do the project with me?”
Geto looked at him, deadpan. “I didn’t. You volunteered in front of the entire class.”
“Oh. Right. That’s—yep. That’s exactly what happened.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Totally fine.” Gojo blinked at the page. “So fine.”
There was a pause. A very long, very still pause.
Geto took a sip from his water bottle, then said, without looking up, “You’re weird around me.”
Gojo felt like someone had hit him in the face with a pillow full of bricks. “Wha—what? No. That’s just—this is how I am.”
“You’re not like this with other people.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
Gojo opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the wall like it might save him.
“You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” Geto asked, turning a page.
“No,” Gojo said, because it was true.
He talked this much when he liked someone.
And that was a horrifying realization to have on his own bedroom floor.
Geto didn’t press. He just kept reading.
Gojo tried to focus on the text, but all he could see was one sentence running across his brain in bright, blinking neon:
He knows.
And worse:
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Later that night, Gojo stared at his phone like it had personally insulted him.
The screen glared back, cold and blank, waiting.
He had the chat open. Suguru 🍵 . No messages yet. Just a blinking cursor in a tiny bubble and a lot of very bad ideas.
He typed:
‘hey’
Then deleted it.
He typed:
‘yo, this is gojo. just letting u know i got ur number lol’
Then deleted it, physically recoiling.
He typed:
‘project stuff again—what days work for you?’
Then deleted it again, because it sounded like a corporate email.
His thumbs hovered.
His brain screamed.
He dropped the phone face-down on the bed, flopped backward, and groaned into the void. “Why is texting harder than talking ?! I TALKED ABOUT BAGELS. I SURVIVED THAT.”
After ten full minutes of lying there and spiraling, he finally grabbed the phone again, forced himself to type something non-embarrassing, and hit send before he could think about it.
hey, it’s gojo. when are you free to meet up again for the project?
Sent.
Delivered.
Read.
His stomach dropped.
Immediately, a typing bubble popped up.
Gojo sat straight up like he’d been electrocuted. The bubble kept going.
“What are you writing? A novel ?” he whispered to the phone.
Still typing.
“Oh my god,” he hissed. “He saw it. He’s writing. He’s writing so much . What did I say?! Did I sound weird? Did I sound too formal ? Oh god, should I have said ‘yo’?? Why didn’t I say ‘yo’?!” He clutched his head. “I sound like a dad . He’s going to think I use calendars.”
The bubble stopped.
Disappeared.
Reappeared.
Stopped again.
Then, finally, the message came in.
' tomorrow after school work for you? i don’t have anything going on'
Gojo stared at it.
Just stared.
Then flopped back on the bed and whispered, “I am never emotionally recovering from this.”
And yet, somehow, he still replied: yeah that works 👍 cool cool
He immediately regretted the double "cool."
Then followed it up with: where do you wanna meet?
Then regretted not waiting for Geto to answer the first message before sending the second.
Then stared at the screen for ten minutes straight, motionless, like a ghost trying to possess his own body again.
And the whole time, the bubble never came back.
He was dead. This was his ghost now. Wandering the earth, haunting his own phone, forever waiting for Geto Suguru to text him back.
He didn’t sleep.
Okay, he did , technically. But it was the kind of half-conscious, stress-infused sleep where your body’s out but your brain is pacing circles in a room screaming, Why did you say cool twice?
He checked his phone three times in the middle of the night.
Still no reply.
He wasn’t worried , per se. It wasn’t like Geto had to respond instantly. Maybe he got busy. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe his phone died. Or maybe he read the double “cool” and blocked Gojo on the spot.
By morning, Gojo’s dignity was hanging on by a thread and one granola bar.
At school, he walked into the first period looking like someone had kicked him down a flight of stairs emotionally.
Shoko didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. Then said, “So. The ghost of Gojo Satoru walks.”
He sat next to her, dropped his head on the desk, and mumbled, “I sent him two texts. Two.”
“Like, two texts? In a row?”
“In a row.”
“Bold.”
“Desperate.”
“You hear back?”
He shook his head. Slowly. Dramatically. Like he was in mourning.
Shoko pulled out her phone. “You want me to text him?”
Gojo sat up so fast his chair squeaked. “No! God, no. What would you even say?”
“I don’t know. Something like, ‘hey my friend is melting into a puddle of social anxiety, can you just like him back already so we can all move on.’”
He dropped his head again. “I hate everything.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I give it, like, two more hours before he replies.”
“Two hours?”
“Maybe less. He likes torturing you.”
Gojo groaned into the desk.
Lunch passed. Third period passed. Geto was in the hallway once—Gojo saw him across the lockers—and for a half second, he thought about asking him in person. Just to get it over with.
Then Geto looked over.
And Gojo short-circuited, spun on his heel, and walked straight into a recycling bin.
By the time the final bell rang, he was defeated.
He trudged out of school, shoulders slumped, scrolling aimlessly through his phone as he walked toward the gate—
And then, like a divine miracle, his screen lit up.
He glanced down without expecting anything, ready to feel disappointed all over again, but there it was—Suguru 🍵, finally.
' sorry, was working at the cafe u like last night. couldn’t text. i’m off today. library okay? or u wanna go to that cafe?'
Gojo blinked.
Working.
At the cafe.
The cafe Gojo had definitely, coincidentally, been visiting way too often lately. Of course he worked there. Of course he did. He was probably wiping down counters while Gojo was at home having a full mental breakdown over bubble timing and double texts.
He read the message five times.
Then again.
The cafe you like .
He knew.
He knew .
Gojo stared at the screen, frozen. The top of his ears were already going red.
His thumbs scrambled.
‘ cafe’s good!! perfect. totally fine. cool cool cool ’
He stared at the triple “cool” in horror. Backspaced.
Then added:
‘ that works 👍 ’
Then backspaced that .
Then finally just sent:
‘café is good 👍’
Still bad. But sent.
It was basic. It was safe. It didn’t say “I’m currently combusting.”
But before Geto even had a chance to reply, Gojo sent another message.
Then another.
but actually
you can just come over again if that’s easier? i already have the book and notes and stuff
The three dots popped up almost immediately.
Gojo clenched the phone like it might explode in his hand.
Suguru 🍵: sure. let me know when
That was it. Easy. Effortless.
Meanwhile, Gojo was trying not to scream in the middle of a public sidewalk.
What did when mean?
When was too soon? Too late? Did Geto want to come over now ? In an hour? Was he free tonight? Tomorrow? Did he expect Gojo to be decisive? Chill? Gojo had never been decisive or chill in his life.
‘uh like 4?’
No. Weak. Too uncertain. Backspace.
‘how about 4? if ur good w that’
Softer. Still bad. Still sounded like he was asking for permission to breathe.
‘we can do 4? or later if that’s better??’
Backspace. Backspace.
His thumbs hovered.
He finally landed on: how’s 4?
Send.
Immediately regretted using no punctuation. Too casual? Or did it sound annoyed?
But then:
Suguru 🍵: works for me. see u then
Just like that. So simple. So calm . Geto didn’t even say “cool” once. He didn’t need to. He probably didn’t sit around analyzing word choice like a maniac. He just existed. He flowed .
Gojo, meanwhile, stood frozen next to a bike rack, squinting at his phone like it had just given him a life-altering prophecy.
4 p.m.
That was two hours from now.
Two hours to completely lose his mind.
By 3:50, Gojo was pacing his room like a trapped animal. He changed his shirt twice. Straightened up the books on his desk. Knocked over a lamp. Lit the candle again. Then blew it out. Then lit it again.
At 3:57, he opened his curtains and peeked out the window.
Nothing.
At 3:59, he did it again.
Then at exactly 4:01, the doorbell rang.
He flew down the stairs, nearly twisted his ankle on the last step, and yanked the door open so fast it startled them both.
Geto blinked once. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Gojo said, too breathless. “Hi. I mean—yeah. Come in.”
Same backpack. Same hoodie. Same calm energy that Gojo both admired and resented with every fiber of his being.
Back upstairs, Geto set his stuff down on the bed without hesitation. “You lit the same candle,” he said.
Gojo froze in the middle of turning off the overhead light. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“You noticed ?”
“It’s citrus.”
Gojo made a noise somewhere between a cough and a squeak and muttered something about ambiance. He sat down on the bed. Not on the floor this time. Progress. But he kept his body turned just slightly, like if he looked directly at Geto too long he’d be vaporized.
Geto opened the book. “You remember what chapter we’re on?”
“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Absolutely not.”
“Cool.”
He pulled out a second copy from his bag and handed it over. Gojo took it, their fingers brushing for half a second—nothing, really. But it still shot straight to his chest like static electricity.
They read in silence for a while. Or rather— Geto read. Gojo mostly watched the words float past without absorbing a single one.
At some point, Geto spoke without looking up. “You don’t have to act so stiff.”
“I’m not stiff.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m just… caffeinated.”
“You’re always like this around me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are .”
Gojo paused. Swallowed. Looked down at the book, open on his lap, unread and upside-down.
“…I’m trying not to be weird,” he mumbled.
Geto turned a page. “You’re failing.”
Gojo groaned and flopped backward onto the bed, covering his face with the book. “I know. ”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Geto said, quietly, “You don’t have to try so hard.”
Gojo peeked out from behind the book.
Geto still wasn’t looking at him—still focused on the page, still unreadable—but there was a softness in his voice that hadn’t been there earlier.
“I’m not trying,” Gojo said, too fast. Then winced. “I mean—I am , obviously, but not, like, in a manipulative way. I just don’t know how to… exist normally when you’re here.”
Geto didn’t respond right away. He just kept reading, flipping another page. Gojo thought maybe he’d gone too far. Maybe he’d said too much again, wrecked the fragile balance they’d managed to find.
Then Geto said, barely audible, “You’re fine.”
Gojo blinked. “What?”
“You’re fine,” he repeated. “You’re just loud about it.”
And for some reason, that was the nicest thing anyone had said to him all week.
Geto glanced at him then, almost as if he’d remembered something. “By the way, the presentation’s next Monday,” he said. “I have to work both Saturday and Sunday, so tomorrow’s the only day we can get everything finished.”
Gojo nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow. Got it.”
He was still reeling from the fact that Geto had said he was fine—like, fine fine—so his brain was already fogged when they fell into a quiet rhythm again. The scratching of pens, the occasional rustle of paper, the smell of that stupid citrus candle he had definitely lit on purpose—everything was strangely… nice.
At some point, Gojo caught himself staring at Geto, the way his hair fell forward a little when he leaned over his notebook, the tiny furrow between his brows when he was focused. And before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I like hanging out here with you.”
It was one of those moments where the sound of your own voice feels like a betrayal. He froze.
Geto’s pen didn’t stop moving, but his eyes flicked up briefly. “You’re not turning in that essay late again, are you?”
Gojo blinked. “What? No! That’s not—” He clamped his mouth shut before he could make it worse.
The corner of Geto’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, but he went back to writing. Gojo stared down at his own blank page, his ears burning.
They worked for another fifteen minutes before Geto closed his notebook and leaned back slightly. “Want to hang out the day after the presentation?”