Satoru was not a simp.

He was a scholar. A thinker. A man of numbers, curses, and socially awkward stares that lingered three seconds too long.

He was also currently hiding behind a stack of textbooks in the library. Watching you. Silently. Like a total creep.

But academically.

Totally academically.

“I wonder,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses, “if reverse cursed energy can technically mimic a warmth response similar to… I dunno… cuddling?”

No one heard him. Thank god.

His notebook was full. Not of notes. Not today. Just half-sketched doodles of your face and maybe one (1) scientifically inaccurate diagram of you kissing him. For research purposes.

He looked up again. You were stretching. And there it was—catastrophic brain error. Visual overload. Neurons fried.

“God,” he whispered, “if you let them accidentally brush against me in the hallway I swear I’ll finish that extra credit paper tonight.”

You walked by. Your sleeve grazed his.

He dropped his pen. Soul left body.

You didn’t notice.

He very quietly screamed into his hoodie sleeve.

Yup. Satoru Gojo: top of the class, bottom of the social chain, and absolutely, shamelessly, devastatingly in love with you.

And you still thought he was just the weird guy who brought his own whiteboard to class.