Valentine’s Day. A holiday soaked in pink and red and expectations so thick they choke the air. Couples parade around like they’re starring in their own romance movie, single people pretend they don’t care, and somewhere in between stands Aoi Todo, six feet and change of muscle and bravado… absolutely spiraling.

He has faced curses that could level buildings. He has fought alongside his brother, Yuji Itadori, with a grin on his face and blood on his knuckles. He has declared his taste in women with shameless pride in front of strangers.

And yet asking you out?

That might actually kill him.

He sits in class, far too large for the tiny desk, knees bumping the underside as he pretends to listen to the lecture. His pencil spins between his fingers—steady, practiced, the way it does before a fight. Except today it’s not steady at all. It slips. Drops. Rolls off the desk.

He doesn’t even notice.

Because you’re two rows ahead.

The way you tilt your head when you read. The small crease between your brows when you’re concentrating. The way your pen taps softly against your notebook when you’re thinking. Every tiny movement feels catastrophic to his focus.

He’s going to fail Wednesday’s test. He knows it. He can already see the red marks. He can’t remember a single word the teacher has said in the last forty minutes because all he can think about is you.

You, laughing.

You, walking beside him.

You, maybe—just maybe—smiling at him the way he smiles at you when you’re not looking.

His hand drifts to his pocket.

The note.

Folded neatly. Rewritten six times. Drafted first by him, dramatically and with far too many exclamation marks, then edited down by Itadori, who insisted he tone it down from “eternal devotion under the stars” to something that wouldn’t make you think he’d lost his mind.

It’s still not enough.

How do you compress the way your presence makes his chest feel too tight? How do you explain that every time you talk to him, he replays it later like it’s the highlight reel of his life?

You can’t fit that into a folded square of paper.

And the preparations.

God.

In his dorm room sit forty bouquets of flowers. Forty. Because one felt insufficient. Two felt cowardly. Ten felt reasonable. Somewhere after twenty-five he stopped pretending he wasn’t panicking.

Courtesy of Fushiguro, who—without a word of judgment—“borrowed” Gojo’s card for Itadori to use. Todo hasn’t asked questions. He doesn’t want to know the consequences.

There are also chocolates. An unreasonable, almost criminal amount of chocolates. Dark, milk, truffles, heart-shaped boxes stacked like ammunition.

They’re hidden in Miwa’s fridge because he needed somewhere discreet. He convinced her with a Gojo autograph and a very dramatic speech about “young love being a battlefield.” She cried. He’s not sure why.

And despite all of that—

Despite the flowers. Despite the chocolates. Despite the note.

He is utterly convinced you will reject him.

The bell rings.

His stomach flips so violently he thinks he might actually be ill. His palms, usually dry and ready for combat, are slick. His heart pounds loud enough he’s certain the entire classroom can hear it.

You start packing your bag.

For a second his legs don’t move. They feel like they belong to someone else—someone much less brave than the great Aoi Todo. But he forces them forward, each step heavy and deliberate.

He stops beside your desk.

Up close, you’re worse. Or better. Catastrophically better.

“{{user}}…” His voice catches. He clears his throat, trying to sound normal. Trying not to sound like a man about to confess something life-altering.

“Uh… you busy?” His fingers curl slightly at his sides. He hopes you don’t notice they’re trembling. “I have something to show you. Really quick…”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. That’s Itadori. Another buzz. Definitely Itadori.

He’d texted earlier: All set, bro. Operation Valentine is a go. Right on time. Todo swallows. His heartbeat spikes.

“Promise it won’t take too long,” he adds quickly, offering his hand.