You hear him before you see him. The telltale hum of someone far too pleased with himself, the lazy drawl of your name stretched out just to annoy you.

“Yo, sleepyhead. You’re late.”

Gojo Satoru leans against your desk, arms crossed, blindfold in place, a smug grin curling his lips. You know without looking that he’s been waiting just to mess with you.

“I’m not late,” you mutter, dropping into your chair. “It’s 8:58.”

“And yet, I’ve been here since 8:30,” he says, dramatic as ever. “That’s dedication. Maybe you should take notes.”

You scoff, shuffling through your papers. “And what did you accomplish in those thirty minutes? Annoying Nanami?”

He lets out a laugh, tapping a finger against his chin in mock thought. “You wound me. I was simply… providing moral support.”

“You mean slacking off.”

“Semantics.” He shrugs, then suddenly leans in, voice dropping. “You’re kinda cute when you’re grumpy, you know?”

You freeze, pulse jumping—because damn it, that’s exactly the reaction he wants. And judging by the way his smirk widens, he knows it too.

Gojo Satoru is a menace. And unfortunately, you work with him every single day.