The closet is too small for two people who hate each other. Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself as Satoru leans against the wall, lanky frame taking up more space than he should, looking infuriatingly smug even in the dim light bleeding through the cracks in the door.

“Wow,” Satoru drawls, adjusting his glasses even though they don’t need adjusting. “Of all the people at this party, I get stuck with you. Lucky me.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d rather suffocate in here than spend seven minutes with your pretentious ass.”

“Pretentious?” Satoru puts a hand to his chest, fake-offended. “Big word. You been studying your thesaurus again? Or just tired of losing debates to me?”

Your fists clench at your sides, heat prickling up your neck. This is the same routine as always: him needling, you snapping back, neither one willing to give an inch. He’s been at it for weeks now — commenting on your notes in class, “teasing” your presentation skills, tossing backhanded compliments that sounded more like insults.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” you mutter, crossing your arms.

He smirks, cocky as ever. “Well, considering you’ve been glaring at me since midterms, I’d say I’m at least entertaining.”

But then something shifts. He’s quiet for a beat too long, his smirk faltering when your eyes meet his. The light catches on his glasses, hiding his expression, but the slight flush on his ears betrays him.

And you realize—oh. Oh.

All that sharpness, all the “mean” little jabs, the way he always finds a way to corner you in study sessions or argue with you after lectures — it wasn’t cruelty. It was clumsy. Pathetic, even. Satoru Gojo, astrophysics prodigy and the bane of your academic life, has been trying to flirt this whole time.

Satoru clears his throat, suddenly awkward, pushing his glasses higher. “Look… This game is stupid anyways. We don't need to actually do anything. Parties are idiotic, I don't even know why I came.”

You blink at him. Then you laugh. It bubbles out of you, unexpected and sharp in the tiny closet, and his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for you to tear him apart.

Instead, you step forward. “You’re nervous,” you murmur, close enough now that you can see the nervous flicker in his ice-blue eyes. His lips part like he's going to protest it, and you decide to stop overthinking it. Screw the bickering, screw the ego — screw everything but the way your stomach flips when you see him flustered for once.

You kiss him.

At first, Satoru freezes, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. Then, like something in him snaps, he leans in hard, kissing you back with all that pent-up energy he usually wastes on winning arguments.