Chapter Text
.☘︎ ݁˖
He is an asshole.
Not in the charming, lovable way people excuse because he’s tall and rich and looks like he stepped out of a magazine. No—he’s an asshole in the way that makes your eye twitch during lectures and your jaw clench every time he opens his mouth.
Which is often.
“Seriously?” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folded behind his head like he owns the lecture hall. “That question was practically begging to be solved.”
You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on your notebook, pen still moving, even though the professor has already moved on.
“Some of us don’t enjoy masturbating over our own intelligence,” you reply flatly.
A few people snort. Someone chokes on their coffee.
He laughs.
Not offended. Never offended. He never is.
“Ouch,” he says lazily. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”
You finally look at him then, deadpan. “I don’t.”
That’s a lie. You care a lot—about how infuriating he is, about how he always gets perfect scores without trying, about how he never looks stressed even during finals week while everyone else is barely holding it together.
And worst of all?
He knows it.
He is a frat boy. Everyone knows that. White hair that never stays tied, stupidly expensive hoodies thrown over fraternity shirts, the kind of grin that gets him into places he shouldn’t be allowed into. He throws the biggest parties on campus—technically under his name, but everyone knows his friends do most of the organizing.
People flock to him like moths to a flame.
Not because they like him.
But because knowing him means access.
Access to alcohol, rooftops, afterparties, connections. Access to a version of college life most people only see on Instagram stories.
You want nothing to do with it.
Unfortunately, he wants everything to do with you.
It starts small. Annoyingly small.
He takes the seat next to you in lectures when there are dozens of others available.
He “accidentally” borrows your pen and never gives it back.
He makes comments just loud enough for you to hear—never enough to get in trouble, always enough to irritate.
“You’re writing that formula wrong,” he says one afternoon without even glancing over.
You don’t miss a beat. “You’re breathing wrong.”
He grins like you just flirted with him.
The thing is, he doesn’t look like someone who should be smart.
People expect frat boys to coast. To scrape by. To rely on group projects and charm.
He annihilates every test.
Top scores. Perfect essays. Answera questions professors don't even expect anyone to try.
And he does it all with that smug, infuriating air—like academia is a game he mastered out of boredom.
You hate that.
You hate him for it.
Because you work hard.
You stay up late. You rewrite notes. You double-check formulas. You earn every good grade you get.
And then there’s him, doodling in the margins of his notebook, barely paying attention, and still beating everyone by a landslide.
Including you.
“Second place again?” he asks one day, peeking at the graded midterms as they’re handed back.
You don’t respond.
He tilts his head. “You’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep scowling like that.”
You snap. “Do you ever shut up?”
He pauses.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he smiles wider. “Only when I’m asleep.”
You glare at him. “Do the world a favor and nap more.”
“Ouch,” he repeats, hand over his heart. “You’re really mean to me, you know that?”
You laugh humorlessly. “You’ll survive.”
He watches you for a moment after that. Really watches you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
That’s when it starts changing.
You don’t notice at first—but he does.
He notices how you always sit alone.
How you never come to parties.
How you don’t laugh at his jokes like everyone else.
How you bite back every time he teases you, never backing down, never softening.
It’s… refreshing.
Annoying. Infuriating. But refreshing.
He has a lot of friends.
They crowd around him at parties, slap his back, chant his name when he wins drinking games he barely participates in. They use him—his name, his house, his reputation.
He lets them.
Because it’s easy.
Because being wanted for what he provides is simpler than being known for who he is.
No one sees him in the library at 2 a.m.
No one knows he actually enjoys complex theories, niche research topics, obscure books hidden in the back shelves.
No one—except you.
The first time he sees you there, it throws him completely off balance.
It’s late. Quiet. The kind of silence that hums in your ears.
He expects the library to be empty.
It isn’t.
You’re there, tucked into a corner, surrounded by books, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into your face as you scribble notes furiously.
Focused. Intense. Real.
You don’t notice him at first.
And for once, he doesn’t announce himself.
He just… watches.
Until he accidentally knocks over a chair.
You look up, eyes sharp. “Do you mind?”
He blinks. “Wow. Even your whisper sounds angry.”
“Because you exist,” you mutter, going back to your work.
Something twists in his chest.
He doesn’t know what to do with that feeling.
So he does what he always does.
He teases.
“You know,” he says quietly, pulling out the chair across from you, “if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”
You snap your notebook shut. “This is my study spot.”
“Public library,” he counters. “First come, first serve.”
“You don’t even study.”
He smiles. “Ouch. Slander.”
“You ace everything without trying. That’s worse.”
For the first time, his grin falters.
“Is that what you think?” he asks.
You scoff. “Is it wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You really hate me, huh?”
You meet his gaze. “You make it easy.”
Something about the way you say it—honest, unfiltered—hits harder than any insult.
He laughs softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Guess I’ll have to work harder then.”
“On what?” you ask coldly.
He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.
“Getting you to look at me like that for a different reason.”
Your stomach flips.
You stand abruptly. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you’re still here.”
And that’s the problem.
Because despite everything—despite how much you hate him—
You are.
.☘︎ ݁˖
He starts losing control in ways no one else notices.
Not his friends—who still treat him like a walking invitation. Not the professors—who see a brilliant, annoying prodigy. Not the girls at parties who laugh too loud and touch his arm like they’re testing ownership.
Only you.
You notice because he stops being predictable around you.
He shows up to the library again. And again. Always late. Always pretending it’s coincidence.
“You stalking me now?” you ask one night without looking up.
He pulls out the chair across from you anyway. “Please. If I were stalking you, I’d be way better at it.”
“You’re terrible at everything that matters,” you mutter.
He smiles automatically—then pauses.
“…You really think that?”
You glance up, irritated. “Why do you care?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
That happens more often lately.
Gojo Satoru—who always has something to say—starts hesitating around you, like he’s walking through a minefield and doesn’t know which step will blow up in his face.
You don’t soften for him.
If anything, you push harder.
When he teases, you bite back.
When he smirks, you glare.
When he gets smug, you remind him he’s insufferable.
And somehow, that only makes it worse.
Because he likes it.
God, he likes it.
“You know,” he says one afternoon after class, falling into step beside you, “most people would kill to be on my good side.”
You don’t slow down. “Most people have bad taste.”
He laughs, but it’s quieter than usual. “You ever wonder why I keep talking to you?”
“No,” you say. “I assume it’s a personality flaw.”
He watches your profile as you walk. The determined set of your jaw. The way you never look at him unless you’re ready to fight.
“I’m serious,” he says.
“So am I.”
He stops walking.
You don’t—until you realize he’s no longer beside you.
You turn back, annoyed. “What?”
For once, he isn’t smiling.
“I don’t talk to people who don’t want something from me,” he says. “Except you.”
That makes you uncomfortable. You hate that it does.
“Maybe I just haven’t asked yet,” you say.
He snorts. “Please. You wouldn’t take it even if I offered.”
Silence stretches.
Then you scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You walk away before he can respond.
He stands there longer than he should.
.☘︎ ݁˖
At parties, people start noticing he’s distracted.
He doesn’t flirt as much. Doesn’t drink as much. Disappears early.
“Where you going?” one of his friends asks as he grabs his jacket.
“Library,” he replies.
They laugh. “Good one.”
He doesn’t.
The thing is—he is a nerd. Always has been. He just learned early that being brilliant gets lonely unless you wrap it in arrogance and noise.
But with you?
He doesn’t want the noise.
He wants the sharp looks. The arguments. The way you challenge him like he’s not untouchable.
He wants your attention—and not in the way everyone else gives it.
The first time you catch him actually studying, you almost don’t believe it.
It’s late. Again. The library is nearly empty.
You’re already there.
He sits two tables away this time, books spread out, glasses perched on his nose—actual glasses, not for show.
You stare before you can stop yourself.
He looks… different.
Focused. Serious. Real.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
His lips twitch. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
You scowl. “You wear glasses now?”
“Only when I want to see clearly,” he says.
Something about that feels pointed.
You go back to your work, annoyed at the heat creeping up your neck.
Minutes pass.
Then—quietly—“You got number five wrong.”
You snap your head up. “Excuse me?”
He gestures vaguely. “Derivative. You skipped a step.”
“I did not.”
He stands, walks over without asking, leans over your shoulder just enough to point.
There it is.
The missing step.
You freeze.
“…Oh,” you mutter.
He’s close. Too close. You can smell clean laundry and something faintly citrus.
He doesn’t move away immediately.
“Still second place,” he murmurs. “But barely.”
You elbow him back. “Don’t get cocky.”
He laughs softly, stepping away. “You keep me humble.”
That’s when it hits you.
He’s not teasing to win anymore.
He’s teasing to stay.