Satoru didn’t expect to be doing your work. Not because of any moral stance—he dropped that somewhere between his third empty fridge and a landlord who still called him “the white-haired nerd” like it was a slur. No, he didn’t expect it because you didn’t look like the kind of person who gave a shit about grades.

And maybe you didn’t.

You wore privilege like cologne—expensive, layered, and so natural it was almost unnoticeable unless you’d never had it. You showed up to class in outfits that probably cost more than Satoru’s entire monthly budget, half-zipped hoodies that were "accidentally" designer and lazy notes scribbled in gel pens that bled Dior perfume. You sat in the back row like it bored you to be there. Like someone, somewhere, was forcing you to perform the role of a student against your will.

And yet—despite all that—you sought him out.

You handed over an assignment with the kind of carelessness that said: this isn’t a favor, it’s a transaction. The first time, he hesitated. The second time, he named a price. The third time, you paid him double without blinking. After that, it was routine. You slid him incomplete papers, he handed back full ones. You acted like you didn’t care, but your grades started climbing. Your professors started calling on you more. And when they praised your "improved analytical clarity," Satoru almost laughed out loud.

You never asked him to keep it secret. You knew he wouldn’t talk.

It was supposed to be simple. But you didn’t do simple. You started showing up more—lingering after lectures, dropping off work in person instead of over email. You’d say something dry, usually half an insult dressed as a joke, and Satoru would blink at you from behind those round glasses like he didn’t have the energy to care.

But he cared.

He started finishing your work earlier than he needed to. He started proofreading it twice. Started overthinking how to phrase things in your voice—because he wanted it to sound right. Like you.

And when you commented on one of the footnotes, said something offhand about how he was “kind of a freak for making philosophy sound hot,” Satoru didn’t sleep right for two days. Not because he was flustered. But because that specific sentence kept looping in his head with dangerous frequency.

You weren’t just attractive. You were magnetic in that fucked up way that made people lean in without realizing. Satoru wasn’t immune. He liked the way you carried yourself like you didn’t need anything. Like everything you got was just something the universe owed you.

He didn’t get attached to people. He didn’t have time. But there was something about you that snuck past the filters—quiet, insidious. And it was pissing him off. Because he knew this wouldn’t go anywhere. Because he was starting to like you.

Still, when your leg brushed his under the library table, he didn’t move. He should have.

He should’ve kept this clean. Professional. He should’ve taken your money, handed over the work, and left it there. But now you were sitting across from him in a half-empty café, flipping through your annotated copy of a paper he wrote for you like it was a conversation starter instead of a paid service.

“You’re reading that like you didn’t just Venmo me for it,” he said, sipping his coffee, voice flatter than he felt as his baby blues moved to glance curiously at you.