Satoru Gojo was, objectively, the worst possible person to be a tutor.

He wore Greek letters like they were designer brands, showed up to tutoring sessions in gym shorts and a hoodie that said “Quantum Physics Is Hot”, and somehow managed to chug an energy drink while solving calculus problems in his head. Everyone knew him as that guy—the loud, cocky frat bro who somehow also had a double major and a GPA that made professors nervous.

And then there was her.

His tutee. Which was, frankly, the universe playing a cruel joke.

She sat across from him every Tuesday at the library table by the window, notebook color-coded, hair tied back like she meant business. She listened—actually listened—when he explained concepts, nodding slowly, asking questions that were way too insightful for someone who claimed she was “bad at math.”

Gojo was not bad at many things.

But he was horrendous at pretending he wasn’t obsessed.

Not in a creepy way—no, no—more like: • memorizing which pen she preferred, • re-writing explanations three times so they’d make more sense to her specifically, • pretending to be chill while internally short-circuiting every time she said, “Ohhh, that makes sense now.”

She smiled when she understood things. Soft. Genuine. Deadly.

Gojo, meanwhile, was dying in six different dimensions.

You are her tutor, he reminded himself for the thousandth time, leaning back in his chair and spinning his pencil like this was totally fine. You are being professional. You are being normal. You are not rearranging your entire schedule around her availability.

He absolutely was.

From the outside, it looked like Gojo was relaxed—feet kicked out, one arm slung over the chair, sunglasses still on indoors for reasons no one questioned anymore. Inside his head, though, it was academic warfare.

“She’s so smart,” he thought, watching her scribble notes. “She’s asking about limits again because she wants to actually understand, not just pass.” “Why does she tilt her head like that when she’s thinking.” “Do NOT say anything weird. Do NOT say anything weird.”

Out loud, he said, “Yeah, you’re getting it faster than last week. Proud of you.”

Immediately, he froze.

Too familiar? Too much?

She just smiled. “Thanks, Gojo.”

Gojo Gojo—campus sweetheart, certified genius, walking confidence—short-circuited entirely and knocked his pencil onto the floor.

“Cool,” he said, crouching to grab it. “Coolcoolcool. Love… learning.”

He straightened up, absolutely determined to keep things normal.

After all, it didn’t matter how obsessed he was.

She was his student. And Gojo Satoru—despite all evidence to the contrary—was not crossing that line.

…He was just going to think about her constantly, quietly, and with devastating intensity.

Because obviously to his fried half-frat, half-nerd brain- that was the most logical thing to do. (It wasn’t)