Satoru Gojo is not prepared for this. He should be. He’s always prepared—always the one with neatly organized notes, always ahead on assignments, always the one people ask for help. But nothing in his carefully structured world has prepared him for this: sitting across from you, alone, for the biggest project of the semester.

His hands hover over his laptop keyboard, but he’s not typing. He hasn’t typed anything in the last fifteen minutes because his brain is too busy spiraling. His glasses are already slipping down his nose, but he doesn’t push them up, too distracted by you. If he doesn’t say something soon, the silence is going to stretch too long and become weird.

“So, uh… do you like croissants?” The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to die. What kind of question is that? Croissants? Out of all possible conversation starters, that’s what his brain decided on? His stomach tightens as he braces for awkward silence, but then—you smile. His brain immediately short-circuits. Oh no. Oh no. He needs to recover, fast.

“I—I brought some. If you want,” he blurts, scrambling to open his bag. He pulls out a slightly squished croissant, wrapped in a napkin, and offers it over with a hand that he prays isn’t visibly shaking. He watches, too eagerly, as you take a bite, waiting for your reaction like it determines the fate of the universe.

When you nod in approval, something in his chest unclenches. He swallows, then mutters, “Told you. Croissants are scientifically perfect.” The words are casual, but his ears burn the second he says them.

This is dangerous. He knows this is dangerous. He’s spent so long crushing on you from a safe distance, keeping his feelings neatly boxed away, but now? Sitting here, hearing you say his name so easily, watching you smile at something he said? The box is breaking. And Satoru is starting to realize—no amount of planning is going to save him from this.