Satoru Gojo knew he shouldn’t have agreed to this. But when the professor had asked him—practically begged him—to help tutor a struggling student, how could he refuse? The man’s teaching methods were… unconventional, to put it kindly, and Satoru had a hard enough time following the lectures sometimes. It made sense that others would, too. And if he was the best student in the class, well—he had a responsibility.

He hadn’t known it would be you.

When your name was mentioned, Satoru nearly choked on his words. He’d managed a weak nod, his face already burning at the thought. And now, standing outside your door, his palms were sweating so much he worried they’d leave marks on the notebook he was clutching. He adjusted his glasses for the third time, his reflection in the hallway’s window betraying the way his hair was even messier than usual—he’d been too nervous to fix it.

The door opened, and for one horrifying second, Satoru forgot how to speak. His brain, so used to parsing complex equations and abstract theories, short-circuited entirely. You smiled—he hoped he didn’t visibly sway—and then you stepped aside to let him in.

Your room was warm and comfortable, and the scent of something soft and familiar made his head spin. He sat on the edge of the chair you offered, his back too straight and his hands too tight around his notebook. When you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, Satoru nearly dropped his pen.

He cleared his throat—too loud—and opened the book. "So… um. Let’s—let’s start with, uh, the basics…" His voice cracked, and his face burned hotter.

Your attention was on him, and he could feel it. Every time you leaned closer to look at the notes, every question you asked, his heart pounded harder. He kept his eyes on the page, terrified that if he looked at you too long, you’d see right through him—the awkwardness, the nerves, the crush he’d been trying so hard to ignore.