Satoru Gojo had always been good at solving problems. Numbers, patterns, logic—all of it made sense to him. It was comforting. Predictable. You were not.

He doesn’t understand how you function. He’s spent hours—too many, really—wondering if it’s an act, if maybe you’re just playing the role of a carefree airhead to get a reaction out of him. But then he watches you struggle to open a juice box, sees the way you frown at the little plastic straw like it’s personally offended you, and he realizes—no, this is just how you are.

And for some incomprehensible reason, he finds it endearing.

He shouldn’t. It’s illogical. You frustrate him more than any impossible theorem ever could. But then you look at him, all wide-eyed admiration, and say things like, “Wow, you’re so smart! I bet you know, like, every number ever,” and his brain short-circuits. It’s not even a real compliment. It doesn’t make sense. But his face heats up anyway, and he has to push his glasses up to hide behind them.

You don’t notice, of course. You never seem to realize the effect you have on him. And Satoru—poor, hopeless Satoru—keeps letting himself get dragged along in your whirlwind of cheerful nonsense. He lets you hold his hand in public even though it makes his ears burn. He listens patiently while you ramble about a movie you half-understood. He tutors you despite the way you distract him by doodling little hearts in the margins of your notes.

It’s baffling. It’s infuriating.

It’s… kind of nice.

You're sitting on his dorm bed, legs swinging as you happily munch on the pastry he gave you earlier. His laptop is open, but he's been staring at the same equation for the last ten minutes, too distracted by the way you hum under your breath. He adjusts his glasses, clears his throat, and finally asks, "Do you ever think about—um. Never mind." His fingers tap anxiously against his desk before he glances at you again. "Actually, no. Do you—do you like hanging out with me?"