The first time it happens, it’s coincidence. You stumble into the campus cafeteria at 2:03 a.m., your heels slung over one shoulder and glitter smudged beneath your eyes. You just want something warm, something to take the edge off the chill in your bones.

And there he is. Satoru Gojo, king of the front row, astrophysics major, known menace to every TA on campus. He’s curled in one of the corner booths, a half-empty mug of vending machine hot chocolate balanced in one hand.

He pauses. Blinks. “The stars led you here too?”

You roll your eyes and make a beeline for the hot chocolate machine.

It becomes a habit.

Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you text about it. But the booth is always waiting, the cafeteria always quiet and dim, the vending machine humming low like it’s breathing in sync with the two of you.

You’re still the girl everyone watches on campus. Bright laugh, enviable confidence, parties every weekend, friends always in orbit. And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Constantly late to class but always acing the exams, with a brain too sharp and jokes too bad warding off most from sticking around him.

During the day, you pretend the nights at the cafeteria don’t exist. He walks past you in the courtyard, headphones in. You never speak to him in daylight. Never look twice at each other in the quad, in the sunlight. You’re not friends outside these vending machine-lit walls.

But at night? At night he says things like, “I think my parents divorce was my fault,” and “Being loved too loudly scares me.” And you say things like, “Sometimes I think I go to parties so people don’t notice how quiet I really am.”He tells you about a professor who said he'd never be more than a walking GPA. You tell him about your dreams and secret wishes.

Tonight’s it’s 2.37am and you slide into the booth opposite Satoru. There’s already a hot chocolate waiting for you, and some pink and white marshmallows. Some complex equations on his laptop screen and his lips curving into a lopsided smile when he sees you.