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* ੈ✩‧₊˚
Everyone knew Gojo Satoru was smart.
That wasn’t an opinion—it was a fact, as solid and unavoidable as gravity. His name sat neatly at the top of every exam list, every semester, every class that dared to involve mathematics or physics. It was almost comforting in its consistency. No matter how badly anyone else did, Gojo Satoru would always be there, first place, written in the same tidy handwriting as always.
You hated that list.
Mostly because your name hovered near the bottom of it.
Quantum physics was ruining your life. Or at least, that’s what it felt like every time you sat in the lecture hall, staring at the board while symbols blurred together into something incomprehensible. You tried. You really did. You read the textbook. You rewrote your notes. You watched videos at three in the morning, hoping something—anything—would click.
It never did.
So when Professor Yaga cleared his throat and said, “I’ve arranged tutoring for you,” you felt a spark of hope.
That hope died the moment he added, “Gojo Satoru will be helping you.”
Your head snapped up.
He sat two rows ahead, hunched slightly over his notebook, glasses perched low on his nose. He froze when he heard his name, shoulders stiffening as if he wished very badly to disappear. Slowly, he turned around, pale blue eyes meeting yours for half a second before darting away.
His ears were red.
“…Sir,” you said carefully, “are you sure?”
Professor Yaga raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” you said quickly. “No problem. None at all.”
Gojo looked like he might pass out.
After class, you waited while everyone else filed out. He lingered too, packing his bag with excessive care. You stood there awkwardly, shifting your weight from foot to foot.
“Um,” you said finally.
He startled so hard he nearly dropped his pen.
“Oh—sorry. Hi.” His voice was quiet. Softer than you expected. “You’re… um. You’re the one I’m tutoring.”
“That’s me,” you said. “Unfortunately.”
He smiled nervously, pushing his glasses up. “I—uh—I’ve never tutored anyone one-on-one before.”
That surprised you. “Really?”
“Well,” he admitted, “people usually… don’t ask.”
You bit back a laugh. “Can’t imagine why.”
He huffed out a tiny sound that might have been a laugh if he were braver.
They assigned you a study room in the library. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made every movement feel too loud. He sat across from you, posture stiff, hands folded neatly on the table like he was afraid they’d misbehave.
“So,” you said, breaking the tension, “quantum physics.”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. Then, after a beat, “Sorry. Yes.”
You watched him fidget with his sleeve. This was… not what you’d expected. You’d imagined smugness. Condescension. Maybe a bit of teasing.
Instead, he looked like a startled deer.
He began explaining concepts carefully, checking your face every few seconds. When you frowned, he stopped. When you nodded, he relaxed just a little. He never raised his voice. Never rushed you.
When your fingers brushed as you reached for the same notebook, he flinched like he’d been shocked.
“Sorry,” he said at the same time you did.
You smiled despite yourself.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
By the fourth tutoring session, something had changed.
He still sat stiffly, still avoided eye contact more than necessary, but he was loosening up. He talked more when he got excited, words spilling out faster, hands moving as he explained theories with quiet passion.
You noticed things you hadn’t before.
The way his hair fell into his eyes when he leaned over your notes. The way his voice softened when he realized you were struggling. The faint smile he tried—and failed—to hide when you finally understood something.
“You got it,” he said once, eyes lighting up.
“I got it,” you echoed, surprised and proud.
He looked at you like you’d done something incredible.
That look stayed with you long after you left the library.
* ੈ✩‧₊
You were packing up after a late study session when music thundered through the air outside the library. Heavy bass. Laughter. Shouting.
You grimaced. “Who throws a party on a Friday?”
He stiffened.
“…A frat,” he said.
“You sound like you know,” you teased lightly.
He adjusted his glasses. “I—uh. Yeah. I guess.”
You stepped outside together, the noise growing louder. The house across the street was glowing with light, people spilling out onto the lawn. Someone leaned dangerously over a balcony, yelling something unintelligible.
You stared. “That’s… huge.”
“Yes,” he said faintly.
You turned to him. “You okay?”
He hesitated, then sighed like he’d lost a battle with himself.
“I should probably tell you something.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “I’m… involved with that house.”
Your brain stalled. “Involved how?”
“I help organize things,” he said quietly. “I live there.”
Silence.
“…You live in a frat house?”
“Yes.”
“You?” You gestured at him. “You?”
He winced. “I know how it sounds.”
“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that the shyest person I know runs a frat?”
“I don’t run it,” he said quickly. Then paused. “I mean. Sometimes I do.”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it.
He looked mortified.
“I’m sorry,” you said, wiping your eyes. “I just—wow. I did not see that coming.”
He peeked at you through his lashes. “You’re not… weirded out?”
“No,” you said honestly. “Just surprised.”
Something in his shoulders relaxed.
“You don’t have to come,” he added quickly. “To the party, I mean. I just thought—well—if you wanted to see—”
You surprised both of you by saying, “I’ll come.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.”
* ੈ✩‧₊˚
The night of the party, you almost backed out.
Music shook the house. Lights flashed through windows. You stood awkwardly near the entrance, clutching your bag like a lifeline.
Then Gojo appeared.
Not library Gojo. Not quiet, nervous Gojo.
This Gojo wore a hoodie that fit a little too well, sleeves pushed up, glasses gone. His hair was messier, confidence radiating off him in a way that made your heart stutter.
He froze when he saw you.
“You came,” he said, wonder softening his voice.
“I said I would.”
He smiled—small, genuine, just for you.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised. “Okay?”
Okay.
Inside, people greeted him easily. Clapped his shoulder. Called his name. He responded with easy familiarity, but his attention never fully left you. His hand hovered near your back, never touching, but always there.
On the balcony later, away from the noise, he leaned against the railing beside you.
“I’m different here,” he said quietly.
“I noticed,” you replied.
He glanced at you. “Is that… bad?”
“No,” you said softly. “It’s kind of amazing.”
His breath hitched.
“I like you,” he blurted, then clapped a hand over his mouth like he could take it back.
You stared.
He panicked. “I’m sorry, that was—too much—I didn’t mean—”
You stepped closer. “I like you too.”
He looked at you like he’d just solved the universe.
When he kissed you, it was gentle. Careful. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.
For the first time, quantum physics wasn’t the hardest thing you’d ever tried to understand.
Gojo Satoru was.