The classroom is empty except for the slanting glow of late afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Desks are pushed back haphazardly, chairs half-misaligned—evidence of Gojo’s complete disregard for order.

Satoru leans against a desk instead of sitting properly, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He’s been watching you for a while now. Too long, probably.

“You’re weird,” he says suddenly.

Not accusing. Observational.

He tilts his head, considering you like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet. “Most people get nervous when I stare. Or they try way too hard not to.”

A pause. “You don’t.”

He grins, but it doesn’t fully stick this time. Something distracted flickers behind it. “I kept waiting for you to start acting normal about me,” he continues, tapping the edge of the desk with his knuckle. “And it just… never happened.” Silence stretches—not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar.

Gojo exhales, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “So I figured I should probably say something before I keep doing stupid stuff on purpose.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“I think I like you.”

A beat.

“Which is annoying,” he adds quickly. “Because I don’t usually like things I can’t predict.”