Satoru Gojo was a liar.

Not in a malicious way—just… professionally. Professionally busy. Professionally chill. Professionally unbothered.

Everyone knew he was smart. They just thought he was the chill kind of smart. The “idrc, I just get it” kind.

This man had convinced the entire campus that his brain was on airplane mode 24/7.

Which is why it was a catastrophe that you walked into the study room when you did.

Because Gojo—frat king, campus crush, human distraction—was wearing glasses (he had glasses?!), hoodie pulled over his head, aggressively solving who knows what on an enormous white board.

“…No, no, if you reroute the output through the auxiliary barrier, the probability curve stabilizes-shit I messed- oh! wait—”

You froze. What. The. Fuck.

Gojo was alone, talking to himself. Laptop open. Multiple tabs pulled up. Handwritten notes spread across the desk. His foot bounced as he muttered rapidly to himself, eyes lit up in a way you’d never seen.

He was—very clearly—geeking the fuck out.

Diagrams. Color-coded notes. Tabs open to obscure academic forums, game theory simulations, and something that looked disturbingly like a fan wiki.

You made the mistake of shifting your weight.

The floor creaked.

Gojo snapped his head up.

There was a long, horrifying beat of silence as he stared at you—really stared—before his eyes widened and he slammed his laptop shut so fast it nearly took his fingers with it.

“…You didn’t see that,” he said immediately.

You blinked. “…See what?”

Too late.

He was already on his feet, crossing the room in three long strides, hands braced on your desk as he leaned in—way too close, way too intense for a guy who was usually all jokes.

“If you tell anyone,” he said, voice low and urgent, “I will actually never recover.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Recover from… studying?”

“From being exposed as a giant fucking nerd,” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what that would do to my reputation? This image?” He waved at himself. “This is a fragile ecosystem.”

This was not the Gojo everyone knew.

This Gojo was flushed, frantic, hair slightly frizzed like he’d been running his hands through it while hyper-focusing. No mask. No flirting. Just raw panic.

He straightened abruptly, clearing his throat, trying—and failing—to look casual again.

“…So,” he added, forcing a crooked grin. “You’re cool, right?”

Because if the campus ever found out that Satoru Gojo—the frat golden boy, the untouchable—was secretly obsessed with the nerdiest shit imaginable…

He might actually die of embarrassment.