Chapter Text
The university library was usually a sanctuary of silence, but for you, it was simply home. Without the intrusion of sound, the world became a series of vivid, moving portraits.
From your usual corner table, you often found your gaze drifting toward Satoru Gojo. He was impossible to miss: a shock of white hair and a height that seemed to dwarf the sea of people around him. He was the university’s sun; everyone orbited him.
You watched him with a detached, sociological curiosity. You noticed how his smile never quite reached his eyes when he was surrounded by a crowd, and how he had a habit of tapping his fingers in a specific rhythm when he was bored of the praise.
What you didn’t realize now is that Satoru was doing the exact same thing. He watched you navigate the world with a quiet, grounded grace. He noticed how you tilted your head when you were deep in a book, and the way you didn't look up when the heavy library doors slammed, which is a remarkable contrast to the way everyone else jumped at his loud arrivals.
A large shadow fell over your notebook. You looked up to see Satoru Gojo pulling out the chair right next to yours.
The library was nearly empty and there were dozens of vacant tables, yet he sat so close your elbows almost brushed. He looked effortlessly cool, leaning back with a smirk.
He didn't speak. Instead, he tore a piece of paper from a notebook and slid it toward you.
“Nice try, but you could have just asked for my number in person instead of texting me from a burner account. 😌”
You blinked, your brow furrowing. You reached for your pen, movements sharp and defensive.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t even have your number. Why would I want it?”
He let out a huff of a laugh, you could see the vibration of it in his chest. He fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to a text thread, sliding the device onto your open textbook.
Unknown: I’m the girl who sits in the corner of the library. Meet me there at 3? I’ve been wanting to talk to you.
Your face heated up, not from shyness, but from pure, unadulterated annoyance. Someone was playing a prank, using your "solitary" reputation to bait the campus golden boy. You felt your pride prickle— thinking you weren't a prop for someone’s joke.
You didn't bother writing a response. It was too slow. So you looked him dead in the eye, expression hardening.
You raised your hands, moving them with sharp, emphatic precision. Your fingers curled and flicked:
[Go to hell.]
You expected him to look confused, or perhaps offended. Instead, Satoru froze. His smirk widened into a genuine, toothy grin, one that actually reached his eyes.
"That's not very nice," he mouthed, lips moving with exaggerated clarity. Then, to your absolute shock, he lifted his own hands. His movements were a bit clunky, lacking your fluent speed, but the signs were unmistakable.
[I’m already there. It’s boring. Stay here with me instead?]
Your heart skipped a beat. You stared at his hands, then back at his face. He knew?
Satoru leaned in closer, his blue eyes peered over. He grabbed your pen and added a line to the bottom of the paper.
“I’ve been practicing. I figured if I wanted to talk to the most interesting person in this library, I should probably learn her language.”
The annoyance didn't vanish, but it was quickly being overtaken by a strange, fluttering heat in your chest. Satoru Gojo was arrogant and far too loud for a library. But for the first time, someone had actually tried to bridge the silence.
He simply existed in your personal space with the energy of a localized storm. Every few minutes, a fresh scrap of paper would slide over your open textbook, covering the paragraphs you were trying to read.
"What are you reading? Is it better than talking to me?"
You pushed it aside without a glance. Two minutes later, another one:
"If you could eat only one sweet for the rest of your life, would it be Kikufuku mochi? (Hint: The correct answer is yes.)"
You didn't even twitch. You kept your eyes locked on the page, determined to prove that your willpower was stronger than his need for attention. You could feel him watching you with a restless, vibrant curiosity. He was a man who lived at a high frequency, and your stillness seemed to fascinate him.
A third note appeared.
"How do you sign 'annoying white-haired guy'? I want to make sure I recognize my name when you're talking about me to your friends."
You suppressed a tiny, traitorous tug at the corner of your mouth. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. You simply shifted your book further to the left.
The notes stopped. For a long moment, the air beside you felt heavy. Then, a light, rhythmic tap landed on your shoulder.
You turned your head slowly, meeting those striking eyes. Satoru wasn't smirking anymore. He looked surprisingly soft, an expression uncharacteristically gentle.
He raised his hands. His signs were slow, deliberate, and remarkably respectful of the space between you.
[I’ll be leaving you alone now. See you around.]
He gave a small, two-finger salute, stood up, and moved away. He didn't look back to see if you were watching. He just blended back into the flow of the library, a tall frame eventually disappearing past the tall oak bookshelves.
You sat there for a while, as you tried to focus on your book, but the words felt like static. After thirty minutes of staring at the same page, you sighed and closed the cover.
As you began to pack your bag, your hand brushed against the mountain of paper scraps he had left behind. You picked them up, intending to throw them away, but your eyes caught the final note, the one he had slid over just before he tapped your shoulder.
Unlike the others, this one wasn't a joke. It was a clean, folded page. You opened it.
“I know the text message was a prank. But I’m really glad it brought me to your table. I promise I can be quieter next time if you let me sit here again.”
At the bottom, written in a bold, sweeping script, was a phone number. Beneath it, a single, humble request:
“Please text me.”
You looked at the number, then at the empty chair beside you and you tucked the paper into your pocket, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed for the exit. As you walked out into the late afternoon sun, your thumb traced the edge of the note in your pocket.
The golden hour light hit the pavement outside. You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering over the keypad as you carefully typed in the digits from the crumpled paper.
To: Satoru Gojo “You’re right. ‘Go to hell’ was a bit much. Maybe just go to the cafeteria and buy me a coffee for all the pages I couldn't read today.”
Later that night, your phone didn't stop buzzing. What started as an exchange about coffee turned into a stream of texts from Satoru: photos of a half-eaten cake and random questions about which sign language gesture was the hardest to learn.
It was a chaotic frequency you weren’t used to. He flirted shamelessly, yet strangely, you never felt pressured. He left the door open for you to retreat, but his energy was so bright you found yourself stepping closer instead.
The next day, he appeared at your library table with two cups of coffee. One was a complex, sugary concoction for him; the other was exactly what you had mentioned in your texts. He didn't just drop it off, he stayed. And when the library lights dimmed at closing time, he insisted on walking you to the train station.
This became your "normal." For a month, the empty chair beside you was permanently reserved for that white-haired boy who was slowly getting better at sign language.
When the new semester reset, the library was filled with fresh faces. You were at your usual spot, waiting for Satoru, when a guy you didn't recognize approached. He tapped your table, offering a friendly, somewhat desperate smile.
He pulled out a notebook, writing: “I’m in your Art History class. I don’t really know anyone yet... mind if I sit here?”
You hesitated, offering a small, polite nod. You didn't mind the company, but the atmosphere changed the moment Satoru rounded the corner. He didn't have his usual playful grin. He stopped, eyes dropping to the stranger in "his" chair.
"You're in my spot," Satoru said aloud.
The transfer student looked up, startled by Satoru’s intimidating height. "Oh, sorry, I didn't know. We're just classmates..."
Satoru didn't look at him; he was looking at you. He noticed the way you had pulled your shoulders in slightly, a subtle sign of discomfort you hadn't even realized you were showing.
Satoru stepped forward, his hand landing firmly on the back of the chair. He didn't raise his voice, but the arrogance in his posture was suffocating. He signed to you first: [Are you okay?]
You gave a small, uncertain shrug. Satoru turned back to the student. "She’s busy, and you’re making her uncomfortable. There are plenty of other tables. Pick one that isn't this one."
The tension was thick enough to feel. The student scrambled to grab his bag, mumbling an apology before disappearing into the stacks.
Satoru sat down and turned to you with a dramatic pout. He signed, his movements slightly exaggerated: [One month and you’re already replacing me? I’m hurt.]
You watched the transfer student disappear, the air finally feeling thin and breathable again. Satoru was still pouting, but his eyes were scanning your face, checking for any lingering stress.
You pulled your notebook toward you and wrote with a steady hand:
“Thank you. I’m not good with strangers. I get uncomfortable easily.”
You paused, then decided to be honest.
“When you can't hear, you learn to read everything else. Body language, the way someone leans in, the energy they bring... I’ve spent my whole life hyper-aware of people’s intentions just to stay safe. It’s a habit I can’t really turn off.”
You expected him to give a pitying look or a joke to brush it off. Instead, Satoru leaned his chin on his palm, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
He raised his hands, signing slowly:
[It’s a good habit. You’re smart.]
He then took your pen and wrote beneath your lines:
“I get it more than you think. Being watched by everyone makes you pretty good at reading the room, too. I promise I’ll never cross your boundaries. I want you to feel safe when I’m around.”
Then, the familiar, mischievous glint returned to his eyes. He added one more sentence:
“However, if I ever do get too annoying or cross a line, you have my full permission to punch me right in the face. I’ve been told I have a very punchable face anyway.”
You let out a soft, silent huff of a laugh, the tension fully draining from your shoulders. You looked at his high cheekbones and perfectly straight nose, then looked back at him, raising an eyebrow.
[I’ll keep that in mind. It is a very expensive-looking face to break.]
Satoru beamed, leaning back in his chair with a triumphant grin. [Exactly! So you better keep me around to protect this very expensive, handsome face.]
That night, the silence of your room felt different. It was filled with the rhythmic thud of your own heart. You replayed the way he signed safe and the way he looked at you.
Do I like him? You wondered, staring at the ceiling. It felt like asking that question is the denial itself.
The next morning, that realization hit a wall.
As you crossed the campus quad, you spotted him. He wasn't alone. He was leaning against a brick pillar, laughing with a girl who was tucked into his side. He was doing that thing, the effortless charm and radiant smile that made him the center of the universe.
A cold weight settled in your stomach. He’s just naturally nice, you told yourself, ducking your head and walking faster. He’s charismatic. It’s his nature to bridge the gap with everyone. I’m just another person he’s being "nice" to.
By the time you reached the library that afternoon, you felt hollow. You were already seated when Satoru arrived. He slid into his spot.
He nudged your arm, sliding a note across.
"I found a bakery that makes the best strawberry tarts. Want to go after this?"
You didn't look up. You scribbled a short response without the usual flair.
"Busy. Maybe another time."
He paused, his pen hovering. He looked at you, trying to catch your eye, but you kept your gaze fixed on a diagram of a Roman arch. He wrote again.
"You're reading the same page for ten minutes. Is the arch that interesting, or are you mad at me?"
You felt your jaw tighten. You hated how well he could read you. You grabbed your pen, movements stiff.
"Just tired."
The air beside you shifted. Satoru didn't write back. Instead, he put his phone face down on the table and leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours. Even without looking, you could feel the intensity of his focus. He reached out, his hand gently covering your pen to stop your frantic scribbling.
When you finally looked at him, he wasn't smirking. His blue eyes looked worried.
[What's wrong?] he signed.
You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you tried to pull your hand back. You quickly grabbed your notebook, scribbling with a hand that felt uncharacteristically shaky.
“Nothing is wrong. I told you, I’m just tired. Don't worry about it.”
To finish the act, you looked at him and forced a smile. It was a mask, and you hoped it was enough to make him back off.
Satoru didn’t buy it for a second.
He leaned back, squinting his eyes at you. He looked at the way your smile didn’t crinkle your eyes and the way your fingers were white-knuckled around your pen.
He didn't say anything for a long minute, the silence between you stretched thin. Then, he slowly lifted his hands.
[So,] he signed, his expression deadpan. [Is this the moment?]
You blinked, confused. [What moment?]
He leaned in closer, pointing a finger to his own cheek. [The moment where you punch me in the face? Did I cross a boundary? Or am I just being that annoying again?]
The sheer absurdity of him offering up his face for a beating, especially with such a serious, expectant look shattered your resolve. The wall you had built up all morning didn't just crack; it crumbled.
A genuine, breathless laugh escaped you, your shoulders shaking as the tension finally snapped. You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to at least hide the wide stretch of your lips, but the sight of the Satoru leaning in and practically begging for a right hook was too much.
Seeing your reaction, Satoru’s face instantly relaxed into that familiar, cocky grin.
[There she is,] he signed, his eyes sparkling. [I prefer that over the fake smile. That one was scary.]
He took the pen from your hand and wrote at the bottom of your "tired" note:
“If you’re not going to punch me, then you have to eat the strawberry tart with me.”
The walk to the bakery was a quiet transition from the stuffy library air to the crisp afternoon breeze. Satoru walked on the side of the street, positioning himself between you and the traffic, hands tucked loosely into his pockets. He didn't wait until you reached the shop to bring it up.
He stopped walking and stepped in front of you, gently touching your arm to get your attention. When you looked up, his expression was open and sincere.
[Earlier,] he signed with careful movements. [What happened? You were upset. Tell me so I can avoid making you feel that way again.]
You looked down at your shoes, and debated lying again, but the way he was looking at you made the truth spill out. You raised your hands, signing slowly.
[I saw you earlier. In the quad. With a girl.] You paused, your heart is doing that frantic dance again. [I realized you’re nice to everyone. I thought maybe I was just another person you’re being "nice" to. It made me feel... small.]
Satoru stood perfectly still for a full minute. The usual playful energy around him vanished, replaced by a focused intensity. He stepped closer, closing the gap until you had to tilt your head back to see him.
[Were you disappointed?] he signed, his eyes searching yours.
He took a breath, hands moving with a new kind of determination. [If it makes you uncomfortable, do you want me to stay away from other girls? Do you want me to be only yours?]
Your breath hitched. You hadn't expected him to be so blunt, so willing to hand over the reins.
[I will,] he continued, gaze unwavering. [I would do it in a heartbeat if you asked me to. You’re the only one I’m learning a new language for. You’re the only one I want to sit with in the silence.]
He reached out, thumb grazing the back of your hand, a silent question hanging in the air. For a man who lived his life in the center of a crowd, he was telling you that his world was actually quite small, and you were the only one at the center of it.
The bakery was small, but its popularity was evident by the crowd pouring out the door. As you approached, three girls who had been loitering near the entrance spotted Satoru. Their faces lit up instantly, and they moved as a unit to block his path.
"Satoru! We didn't think we'd see you here," one of them chirped, leaning in toward him. "Are you getting the limited edition tart? We were just about to head to the cafe next door—you should come with us!"
Usually, you would have stepped back, melting into the background to let the "star" handle his fans. But before you could even move, you felt a large, warm hand slide firmly into yours.
Satoru’s fingers interlaced with yours. He didn't even slow his pace. He gave the girls a polite, closed-mouth smile.
"Sorry, ladies," he said, voice clear and projecting just enough for them to hear. "I'm actually on a date right now. And I’ve been told I need to be on my best behavior."
The girls froze, their eyes dropping to your joined hands and then up to your face. The shock on their expressions was palpable. Satoru didn't wait for a response; he gently guided you past them and into the warmth of the shop.
Once inside, tucked away in a quiet corner booth, he finally let go of your hand, though he seemed reluctant to do so. He looked at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of triumph and nerves.
[Was that okay?] he signed, his movements slightly fast. [I told them they can’t tag along because I’m on a date with you.]
He reached for the menu, but stopped, looking back at you with a soft, lopsided grin.
[So... strawberry tart? Or do you want to punch me for calling it a date?]
You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck, but this time, it wasn't from embarrassment. It was a slow, beautiful burn of belonging. You reached across the table and tapped his hand, a small smile playing on your lips.
[The tart,] you signed back. [But keep the hand-holding. I think I liked that better.]
Satoru’s laugh was so genuine it seemed to vibrate the very air around you, and for the first time, the "popular" boy looked like he had finally won the only prize that mattered.