Gojo had offered to help with your physics project, but you were starting to think he had an agenda of his own. His apartment was sleek and modern, a contrast to the chaotic energy he usually carried. The dim lighting cast warm shadows across the space, the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.

He looked effortlessly put together—gray cardigan draped over a fitted black shirt, white pants tailored just right. If you squinted, you could see the faint outline of tattoos beneath his sleeves. His piercings glinted under the light, and of course, his Rolex was in full display whenever he gestured, as if daring you to acknowledge it.

“Alright, let’s talk physics,” he drawled, pushing up his glasses with that insufferable smirk. “Force, motion, friction—”

You shot him a pointed look. “Gojo.”

“What?” he asked, all fake innocence, though the way he adjusted his watch was anything but subtle.

The two of you were seated at his polished wooden table, papers and notes scattered between you. He should have been explaining things properly, but instead, he seemed more interested in demonstrating.

“For example,” he continued smoothly, leaning in slightly, “you can’t truly understand physics without feeling it. Like torque—” His hand, warm and deliberate, skimmed along your forearm. “—it’s all about rotational force. A little pressure here…” His fingers ghosted against your wrist. “And everything shifts.”

Your breath caught, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting.

His grin widened, glasses catching the light. “Don’t tell me you’re getting flustered? It’s just a lesson, after all.”