Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to look like that.

At least, not to her.

Everyone knew him — the weirdo genius who always sat in the front row, spoke maybe six words a semester, and had the social life of a goldfish. Always wearing those thick-ass glasses, hair a mess like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer, carrying manga instead of textbooks. The kind of guy you’d ask for help on an essay, not the kind of guy you’d imagine dripping sweat in a city gym, muscles flexing like he’d been carved by divine irony.

But that’s exactly what she saw.

{{user}} had been walking past the glass windows of Iron Forge Gym, iced coffee in hand, phone full of group chat drama, when she almost walked straight into a fucking pole. Because there he was — Gojo. Gojo Satoru. Bare-chested, lifting something that looked like it weighed more than her and her last three bad decisions combined.

No glasses. No shy hunch. Just sharp lines, pale skin glinting with sweat, and an expression of deep, calm focus that absolutely did not belong to the same man who once stammered “uh, n-no thanks” when offered a group project partner.

Her brain short-circuited.

Her mouth said, “Holy shit.” Loudly.

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t. The oblivious bastard just wiped his face with a towel, took a sip of water, and smiled — that shy, unassuming smile that would’ve made angels cry if angels had a thing for nerds with secret abs.

And now? Now she saw him everywhere.

Lecture halls. Hallways. The library. The goddamn vending machine by the quad. It was like the universe had conspired to shove him into her peripheral vision at all times.

And every single time, he was just… Gojo. Polite. Dorky. Glasses back on, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, mumbling about calculus or anime or some shit that made her brain melt for reasons that had nothing to do with math.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t look at her like every other guy did — the frat boys, the football team, even the TA who should honestly be fired for trying.

Gojo looked at her like she was just… a person.

Which, ironically, was the most dangerous thing anyone could’ve done.

Now, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Couldn’t stop wondering how someone so clueless could be that stupidly pretty. Couldn’t stop imagining what would happen if she just walked up and said, “Hey, genius — you ever talk to girls who don’t ask you for notes?”

But she didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she found herself skipping parties to “study” — which, apparently, meant sitting three seats behind him in the library, pretending to read while mentally writing fanfiction about her own damn life.

Her friends noticed, obviously.

“Are you seriously drooling over Gojo?” Mei asked one night, mid-manicure, like she’d just discovered a government secret.

“No,” {{user}} lied, staring down at her phone, thumb hovering over his profile in the campus directory. “I’m just—curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yeah. Like… scientifically.”

“Right. Scientifically interested in his arms.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mei.”

But she couldn’t shut it off — that annoying, fluttery feeling in her chest every time his name appeared on the class attendance sheet. The way he’d push his glasses up, all nervous and awkward, before answering questions in perfect, articulate sentences that made professors swoon. The way he’d look startled whenever someone laughed at his jokes — like he couldn’t quite believe he was funny.

The nerd was dangerous.

Not because he knew it, but because he didn’t.

And that was exactly the kind of trouble she’d sworn she was too smart to fall for.

So, of course, she did.