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Senku doesn’t have a type.
It’s a fact—one that most of his classmates know, even if none of them believe it. Knowing, of course, has never stopped anyone from speculating.
Some assume he’s into cold, calculating women. The kind that keeps him on a leash—close enough to tug, close enough to watch and learn and know, but never close enough to truly touch. Women who don’t bend easily at the whims of another person. The kind who make others work to prove they’re worth a real, meaningful conversation.
And maybe that’s true.
He thinks of you in chem lab, chin propped in your hand, eyes half-lidded as some poor soul drones on about a reaction everyone in the room had already run twice. Your boredom is palpable. If looks could kill, your glare would’ve incinerated him on the spot. Senku barely listens to the explanation—too busy judging the audacity of assuming you, sitting in an honors lab, wouldn’t know the basics.
It’s laughable.
He remembers the first time you were paired together. The way you’d looked at him—not impressed, not dismissive, just… measuring. Like he was a hypothesis waiting to be tested. He’d had an ego then, sure, but he never talked over you. Never diminished your work. He learned quickly that if he wanted your respect, he’d have to earn it.
So he did.
You worked as equals. Fell into a rhythm almost immediately. Competing, yes—but not to dominate. Just to see who could get there first, who could shave seconds off a calculation, who could spot the error before the other did.
You kept pace with him. Pushed him. Made him better.
He finds that intoxicating in a way he’d never admit out loud.
But still, people talk. They always do.
Others say he’s into sweet, doting types—the ones who fuss over him, pack extra lunches, leave little notes tucked into bags and books.
Which is ridiculous. Obviously.
And yet—he never seems to mind when you slide a coffee across the desk before lecture. Black, every time. You always find a way to comment on it, too, wrinkling your nose as you call it “old, embittered man coffee,” like you don’t drink it the same way when you’re exhausted.
You’re the one who reminds him to eat. To sleep.
The one who writes don’t forget to sleep, or there’s a test tomorrow on a scrap of paper and sticks it to his laptop screen when he’s not looking.
Senku pretends not to care.
But there’s a suspicious pile of sticky notes hidden in one of the drawers of his desk, saved instead of thrown away.
Then there are a few who think he’d be into the mischievous type. Someone clever enough to disguise teasing as curiosity, who masks provocation behind plausible innocence. The kind of person who enjoys reactions more than outcomes. Who pokes and prods simply to see what happens.
Someone who knows how to get under his skin.
Someone like you.
The bratty, teasing side of you that makes him both frustrated and… inexplicably excited. The way you lean too close under the excuse of needing to see, the way your voice drops when you know he’s already focused, whispering things that do absolutely nothing to help his concentration.
They’re right, he supposes.
It happens late one evening, his apartment is quiet except for the hum of his computer. He’s halfway through debugging something when he feels it—warmth at his back, sudden and unmistakable. Your presence presses in before you say a word, body flush against his, familiar enough that his shoulders tense on instinct.
Your head dips, forehead nudging into the side of his neck as you peer at the screen. “Whatcha working on?” you murmur.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says.
You giggle, soft and delighted, the sound vibrating against his skin. “Doing what?”
Your hands come next.
They slide up his chest from behind, slow and exploratory, palms warm, fingers splayed like you’re mapping him out. Up. Down. Again. Not rushed. Never rushed. Like you’re taking your time just to see how much he’ll tolerate before snapping.
“Get off,” he mutters, entirely unconvincing.
“Mm,” you hum, clearly not listening. Your lips brush closer to his ear, voice dropping. “You’re so tense.”
Your hands continue their lazy path, thumbs pressing lightly, then retreating, then returning again. Close enough to distract. Close enough to drive him insane. He swallows hard, eyes still fixed stubbornly on the screen even though he hasn’t processed a single line of code since you touched him.
Your mouth is close to his ear now, voice low. Not suggestive in words—just in tone, in timing, in the way you linger. Your fingers trace idle patterns, light enough to tease, firm enough to ground him there.
“We could go have some fun,” you say casually.
The words themselves are harmless. Innocent, even.
Your tone is anything but.
Senku swallows. Hard.
“That’s vague,” he mutters.
You grin against his neck. “Is it?”
Your hands drift—up, then down again—never crossing a line, just brushing close enough to make him acutely aware of every inch of space between you. You know exactly what you’re doing.
“You’re just a pervert, aren’t you?” he snaps, more breath than bite.
You laugh again, brighter this time, and finally pull back—just enough to deprive him of the heat, the weight, the distraction. Your hands leave his chest last, trailing away like you’re reluctant to let go.
“Maybe,” you say lightly. “But you don’t complain.”
Senku exhales only after you’re gone, dragging a hand down his face. Although there is a pink tint to the tips of his ears.
God. You’re unbelievable.
And then—because people never stop talking—there’s one last theory that circulates.
Some think he’s into nerdy, antisocial women. The kind who disappear into their own head for hours at a time. Who forgets to answer texts because they’ve fallen down a rabbit hole of theories and half-written notes. Someone just as obsessive, just as relentless when something catches their interest. The type who’d rather stay in and read than go out, who gets lost in ideas and theories and forgets the rest of the world exists.
And… yeah.
Maybe he can see that too.
Because sometimes he catches you like that—curled into a chair in the corner of the library, or tucked away in his apartment while he works. Knees drawn up, a book balanced in your hands like it’s an extension of your body rather than something you’re holding. Your glasses sit low on your nose, slipping just enough that you nudge them back absently, never once looking up.
Your face is different when you read. Softer. Unguarded in a way it rarely is when you’re aware of being watched.
You get this look—focused, absorbed, utterly gone. Like the rest of the world has dimmed to background noise, and whatever’s on the page is the only thing that matters. He’s seen you like that during lectures, too.
It’s… adorable. Annoyingly so.
Because for all your teasing, for all your sharp edges and deliberate provocation, there’s this part of you that’s quiet and thoughtful and deeply, undeniably sincere.
And Senku finds himself watching longer than necessary.
He’s a lost cause, isn’t he?
The truth, when he finally admits it to himself, is painfully simple.
You’re not one thing. You never were.
You’re sharp and guarded when it matters. Warm and attentive when he needs it. Teasing when you’re bored. Brilliant when you’re passionate. Sometimes all of it in the span of a single afternoon.
And he doesn’t love you despite that.
He loves you because of it.
So no—Senku doesn’t have a type.
He just simply loves all of you.