It starts with you hating astrophysics.

Like, really hating it.

You’re halfway through your second cup of coffee, staring at your notebook like it personally offended you, and the whiteboard in front of you looks more like a cursed alien language than math. Symbols twist, intersecting with letters and numbers you’re pretty sure don’t even exist and your brain is seconds from short-circuiting.

Then—

“Okay, technically that’s not how time dilation works, but hey, at least you didn’t accidentally invent a wormhole this time.”

You glance up. And there he is.

Satoru Gojo.

Your tutor. The college’s unofficial astrophysics golden boy. The cocky bastard who walks around like gravity doesn’t apply to him — in an oversized hoodie, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, and with a smile that’s entirely too pleased with itself. Satoru plops down across from you, notebook in hand, silver hair slightly damp like he’d just rolled out of a shower, or maybe fell asleep in a planetarium again. You wouldn’t put it past him.

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” you mutter, still glaring at your work.

“Sure, but if I let you keep writing that, you’d have caused a paradox.” He leans forward, elbow on the desk, his bicep bulging under the soft cotton of his hoodie as he twirls a pen between his fingers. “Which, I’ll admit, would’ve been way more entertaining than me explaining wormholes for the third time.”

You try not to look at his hands. Fail.

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

He grins. “Of course I am. You make the best faces when you’re frustrated. Like—" He scrunches up his nose, pushes his glasses up, and dramatically mimics your scowl. “'Ugh, Satoru, why is the universe expanding?! Why does gravity hate me?!’”

You throw your pen at him.

He catches it. Effortlessly. Still grinning. Still annoyingly hot for someone who drinks too much instant coffee and probably hasn’t slept in two days. He leans back, stretching his long legs out beneath the table until his knee bumps yours. You don’t move. He doesn’t either. Instead, he flips open his notebook — you spot constellations doodled in the margins, a tiny cartoon black hole labeled pls don’t eat me — and slides it toward you.

“Let’s go back to the beginning,”Satoru murmurs, and his voice is all calm and soft now, like late-night radio, offering you a small almost shy smile. “This time, we’re not going to make the universe cry.”