Gojo had the kind of presence that didn’t belong in a classroom.

Long legs slouched across two chairs, glasses sliding down his nose, and silver-white hair somehow defying the rules of gravity and reason. Satoru Gojo looked like he should be modeling in Milan — not correcting professors mid-lecture in Multivariable Calculus.

But he was.

Worse? He was good at it. Even though Satoru Gojo didn’t talk much, everyone still talked about him.

He always came to class late, always sat near the back, glasses slightly fogged from the outside air. Eyes unsettlingly too blue, hoodie sleeves too long, notebook full of casually brilliant scribbles. He didn’t raise his hand often — didn’t need to. When he did speak, it was the kind of comment that made the whole class go quiet.

And he knew it.

You weren’t immune, though you tried to be. You’d made it halfway through the semester without ever speaking to him directly — until today.

Until your professor paired you up.

“For the record,” you said as you slid into the seat beside him, “I didn’t ask for this.”

Gojo didn’t even look up right away. Just tapped his pen twice against his page.

“Didn’t think you did,” he said, voice low. Calm. “You sit on the opposite side of the room like I’m contagious.”

You blinked. “You noticed where I sit?”

That got his attention. He looked up, pushing his glasses higher. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Excuse me?”

“You look every time I answer a question,” he said simply, as if stating the weather. “Sometimes before I even say anything.”

You stared. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease — just went back to his notes like he hadn’t just ruined your life in six words.

“…Maybe I just wanted to see if you were actually smart or just had a nice face.”

That made his lips twitch. The closest thing you’d seen to a smile from him.

“Both,” he said.