It was the third week of senior year when Satoru Gojo first noticed you.

You weren’t hard to spot, really — all black hoodie, chipped black nails, earphones always in, and a don't-mess-with-me energy that kept most people away. You always sat under the same tree during lunch, sketchbook on your lap, lost in whatever you were drawing or avoiding. You didn’t smile much. You didn’t need to.

He was the golden boy of the school — the tall, annoying, loud one who practically lived on the basketball court. Everyone liked him. Teachers. Students. Even the janitor fist-bumped him. He wore his jersey like a crown, sunglasses like armor, and had a cocky grin that probably came with its own warning label.

So when he sat beside you one day, uninvited, you barely spared him a glance.

"You’re in my spot," you muttered, not even looking up from your sketchpad.

“Didn’t see your name on it,” Gojo replied, dropping his sports bag on the grass like it was perfectly natural to be there.

He kept doing it. Every lunch. Every single day. Sometimes he brought two drinks and offered you one, even though you always refused. Sometimes he’d just sit in silence, chewing gum and kicking leaves, pretending not to peek at your drawings. And sometimes, he'd ask about music, or horror movies, or if you'd dye his hair black for him.

You hated how he slowly became part of your routine.

One rainy afternoon, you weren’t under the tree. You were in the art room, drying off your sketchbook after the storm caught you by surprise. He barged in five minutes later, hair dripping, jersey clinging to him.

“You weren’t outside,” he said like it was some kind of betrayal.

“I’m not waterproof,” you deadpanned.

He walked over, leaned against your table, and looked you right in the eyes. No sunglasses. Just him.

“Why do you even hang out with me?” you asked, finally voicing the question that had been clawing at your brain for weeks.

Satoru Gojo grinned — not the smug, flashy one he wore for the world. This one was smaller. Real.

“Because under all that eyeliner and doom, you’re the only person in this school who makes me feel like I don’t have to perform.”

You blinked.

“…And because you have the best playlist. Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes at his request, but your fingers were already untangling the cord from your pocket. You didn't even know when you started carrying a spare pair of earbuds again — not until Gojo started showing up, loud and persistent, every single day.

You handed him the left one.

“Don’t talk. Just listen,” you warned, plugging in your right bud.

He pressed it into his ear like it was a badge of honor, nodding solemnly.

The first song was something soft — melancholic vocals layered over dreamy guitar. You watched out of the corner of your eye as Gojo leaned back on the stool, eyes closed, letting it sink in. For once, he didn’t talk. Didn’t fidget. He just… existed.

When the song changed to something heavier — your kind of cathartic chaos — Gojo started bobbing his head. He even air-drummed on the table, like he knew it by heart.

“You’ve been snooping on my playlists, haven’t you?” you asked.

He cracked one eye open. “Maybe. Or maybe you talk in your sleep and I took notes.”

Your face heated. “I do not—”

“You don’t,” he admitted, smiling. “But I bet if you did, it’d be dark poetry and lyrics about heartbreak.”

You turned away so he wouldn’t see your grin.

That Friday, he dragged you to one of his basketball games.

You only agreed because he said the bleachers were empty near the top and you could sketch in peace. What he didn’t mention was that he kept glancing at you from the court, like a stupid golden retriever making sure you were still watching.

After the final buzzer, he ran up the bleachers — sweaty, breathless, glowing.

“Told you we’d win,” he said, collapsing beside you.

You raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t keeping score.”

He looked at your sketchpad. “Was I in it?”

“No.”

“…Liar.”

You sighed, flipped to a page. There he was — half-shaded, mid-jump, all movement and light.

“You really see me like that?”