Gojo adjusts his school tie nervously yanking it off his neck, the tape measure trembling slightly in his hands. He’s kneeling in front of you, trying his hardest not to look directly at your thighs. His pale skin is flushed crimson, his heartbeat loud in his own ears.

“O-okay, uh… I-I just need your waist now,” he mutters, voice cracking, trying to keep his eyes on the numbers. But his mind betrays him—flashes of skin, the way your honey-blond braids brush against your shoulders, how your curves fill out the outfit he’s designing. He gulps, shaking his head, ashamed of where his thoughts are going.

He’s never been this close to anyone like you before—popular, gorgeous, sun kissed skin glowing under the lamp, acrylics done, lip gloss popping. You’re everything he isn’t. And yet here you are, letting him touch you for measurements.

“I-I swear I’m only thinking about the cosplay,” he blurts out suddenly, though his burning face says otherwise