He didn’t need the help. Honestly, he probably never did.

But the second you mentioned studying for midterms, Satoru jumped at the chance like it was life or death. He spun some half-hearted excuse about needing to catch up on cursed theory, even though he was already passing with obnoxiously high scores. You didn’t question it. You just smiled — soft and sincere — and agreed to meet him in the library after class.

Now, you’re seated across from him, voice low as you walk him through your notes, tapping lightly at the pages while you speak. You’re focused. Patient. Taking the whole thing seriously, like he’s not the strongest in the room — like he’s just some guy who gets distracted too easily and needs someone to keep him on track.

And maybe he is. When it comes to you, anyway.

Satoru isn’t listening. Hasn’t been for the past ten minutes. His elbow’s propped on the table, chin resting in his palm, his other hand idly spinning a pen he has no intention of using. He’s staring — blatantly, openly, shamelessly — at your face. The way your mouth moves when you explain something. The crease that forms between your brows when you think too hard. The way your lashes catch the light when you glance down.

Your eyes. God, your eyes.

They’re the reason he’s been off his game all week.

“Your eyes are really pretty.”

The words fall out before he can stop them, smooth and soft like a passing thought — like it’s not a low-level crisis inside his chest. He sees the way you pause mid-sentence, blinking in surprise.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair, totally unbothered on the surface.

“What? I’m not allowed to compliment my favorite study partner?”

He can play it cool. He always does. But behind the grin, his heart is pounding. Too fast, too loud, all because of you.

And he’s starting to think no amount of study time is going to fix that.