Satoru had no fucking clue what you just said. Not one. In fact, it had been like that a lot recently, not just sitting here “studying” (staring at you from across the coffee table like a creep) with you on a Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to listen to you talk — the opposite, actually. Your boyfriend could yap, but he was also a great listener when you needed it. The issue was you.

“Huh?” he muttered for the fourth time, feeling the tap of your pencil’s eraser against his nose. “What’d you say, sorry.”

Satoru was good at weaseling out of things, curling his lips up and showing his pearly whites, soft cheeks indented with the cutest dimples as he propped his face in his hand to continue staring, to wane some of your annoyance with him. He really had been taking notes up to a certain point! It was just, the more you droned on, the more he had to look at. He listened to maybe a single sentence of your light scolding before he goes back to staring, his baby blues practically heart shaped, every feature of you in their reflection. Gojo had no sort of taste for whichever one of your college classes you were trying to get him to study with you for.

“Y’know what we should do instead of studying,” he cuts you off, stealing your pencil to sketch hearts in the margins of your notebook from across the table. “We should just make out. Take a break, y’know? Breaks are good for you.”