You learned early how to stand on your own. Two buses to school, keys always in the same pocket, deadlines mapped in your head like street signs. Independence wasn’t a personality trait; it was maintenance. You’re the girl who tutors between classes, who eats lunch while reading, who leaves exactly when the bell rings because there’s always somewhere else to be.

Gojo Satoru learned the opposite. Star athlete, track and field royalty, the kind of boy whose name echoes down hallways before he appears. Coaches hover, classmates orbit, strangers ask for pictures. His life is loud, scheduled, and full of hands reaching for him. He’s fast on the track and helpless everywhere else, a contradiction wrapped in expensive sneakers and a grin that assumes you’ll catch him when he leans too far.

You met because he forgot his notebook. Again.

“Just hold it,” you told him this morning, sliding his water bottle into his hand when he tried to juggle phone, bag, and medals all at once. He followed you anyway, footsteps syncing to yours like he’d decided that was safer.

It’s a normal day. Lockers slamming, announcements crackling, the smell of floor cleaner and sunscreen. You walk; he drifts. You plan; he reacts. Somewhere between second period and lunch, he decides your shoulder is the best place to rest his chin while you copy notes for him because his handwriting dissolves when he’s tired. He hums when you focus, a quiet, content sound, like he’s plugged into an outlet you didn’t know you had.

You don’t babysit him. You just… manage the gravity.

At lunch, you eat half your sandwich because he eats the other half without asking, smiling like it’s a shared joke. He listens when you talk about college applications, nodding too earnestly, like the idea of you leaving is a problem he hasn’t figured out how to solve yet. When the bell rings, he grabs your sleeve—not tight, just enough to stay.

After school, the gym doors yawn open. He complains about cramps; you count his stretches. He complains about boredom; you hand him your spare pen and let him doodle stars on your planner margins. People stare. You don’t. This is just how your day fits together now.

Someone from the soccer team calls out, laughing, asking if you’re free this weekend. You don’t answer right away. Gojo does, already leaning into you, arms around your shoulders, his weight warm and familiar, clinging like a koala who’s decided you’re the tree worth keeping.

"She's busy taking care of me, so nope!"