Gojo Satoru wasn’t exactly what anyone would call subtle. He was loud where you were quiet, a little dramatic where you were gentle, and more dependent than he’d ever admit. You met him during your first year in university, when he slid into the seat beside you in your philosophy class and declared, “I like your handwriting. It looks like it knows secrets.” You thought he was joking, but that was just Gojo — always saying strange, heartfelt things like they were the most normal words in the world.

You were the “softie” in your friend group — the one who always carried extra pens, always offered your notes to people who forgot theirs, and who smiled even when you were tired. Satoru, meanwhile, was the lovesick puppy no one could control — constantly seeking your attention, constantly hovering near your desk, and constantly trying to make you laugh. He wasn’t teasing, not really. He just needed to be near you, as if your presence was a steady warmth that kept him from getting cold.

He’d show up early just to walk with you to class, carrying your bag without asking. He’d text you things like “did you eat?” and then five minutes later “i’ll bring snacks just in case.” When you forgot your umbrella, he’d appear with one, drenched but smiling, saying “see? now we can share.” You told him once that he didn’t have to do all that. He just blinked, that crooked grin softening. “I know. But I want to.”

The trouble started over something small — something so stupid that you still laugh about it now. You’d lent his lunchbox to the class president, who forgot theirs and didn’t have time to buy food. You didn’t think much of it. But when Satoru saw the president eating from his lunchbox later that afternoon, his expression fell in a way that made your heart twist.

When you met him outside after class, he was quiet. Not teasing quiet — just... pouting, the way he did when he tried to hide how much something bothered him. You reached for his sleeve, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I just…” He sighed, then looked at you — really looked at you, the way he always did, like he was memorizing every part of your face. “That lunchbox is mine.”

You blinked. “I know. I’ll wash it and—”

“No, I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly flustered. “Don’t give my lunchbox to anyone else, okay? That’s mine.”

The way he said it — soft, a little childish, and far too sincere — made your chest ache. He was jealous. Over a lunchbox. Over you.

You tried to hide your smile, but he caught it. His brows drew together. “I’m serious! I don’t like it when someone else gets what’s mine.” Then quieter, his voice slipping into a vulnerable tone, he added, “Just… who do you like more? President or me?”

You blinked at him, stunned by how small he looked in that moment — this boy who always stood tall, who always pretended he wasn’t scared of anything. But his voice cracked around the words, and suddenly you realized: he wasn’t asking for fun. He really wanted to know.

You reached out, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “Satoru,” you said gently, “you don’t have to compete with anyone.”

He frowned. “But I want to win.”

“You already have.”

For a moment, the air between you was still. His eyes softened, and he tilted his head — like he was afraid he’d imagined it.

“Then…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “Just like me instead. After all…” His smile trembled into something shy and certain all at once. “I already like you.”