just a quick heads-up: I am officially losing my mind (affectionately) after binge-reading Toph fanfics for days, and now my brain decided it would be a great idea to write about the world’s greatest earthbender in that very specific “wow let’s philosophize about pussies and kiss girls” kind of way anyway.
let’s feed the sapphics. please. this is basically a collective mission now.
toph fans are absolutely unhinged and mildly perverted (myself included 🧍♀️)
— nerdjo x reader.. pure tooth-rotting fluff (a romcom designed to emotionally sustain us, yes).. Naoya comes with a built-in “proceed at your own risk” warning.. people throwing household appliances at each other because healthy communication is optional.. Gojo is loosely (very) inspired by Robbie Shapiro from Victorious (me inserting my childhood crushes into everything, someone stop me).. English isn’t my first language so just go with it if something sounds off.. Nerdjo is a very specific personal agenda of mine, do not perceive me.. “Emotions” by Mariah Carey playing dramatically at some point.. high school students with zero supervision and peak sitcom energy.
Exactly 305 days remained until a new year began, and only 5 until your graduation. You had completely crossed out your planner, marking appointments in red, crossing off yet another square on your calendar pinned to the wall, as you stepped back, tapping the tip of the marker against your chin, watching the countdown to yet another misstep.
You stretch out on your bed beside your already worn-out stuffed bear, its stitching coming undone with time. The longer you spend staring at it, lifting it up into the air, the more flaws you find—and maybe your mother is right about throwing it away. You’re not going to take an old toy to college… or are you? You keep staring at it, frowning and deepening the crease between your brows. You still love it, and maybe this new phase and fleeting melancholy mean more to you than an old plush ever could.
The white noise of cars and the metropolis of Tokyo seeped into your bedroom walls, along with the wave of heat that the unstable spring brought, before something hit your window—a thud that made you swing your legs out of bed, pulling yourself out of your spiral about the future to open the window, assuming it was just another stupid pigeon that had mistaken the glass.
Leaning your head outside, feeling the damp, cool breeze hit your face and fill your anxious lungs with fresh air, until: tok! You don’t see it, but you feel a burning pain on your cheek, caused by a stone thrown from your yard.
“Ow! What the hell was that—” you muttered, rubbing your cheek, lowering your gaze to search for the culprit, expecting your neighbor’s cat, the one that chewed on your mother’s flowers, to have gained consciousness and punished you—but rational, vengeful cats would bring fewer surprises than that. “Oh my God.”
On the lawn stood a boy with white hair, curled like waves—but now seeming to defy gravity—accompanied by ocean-blue eyes framed by a pair of unmistakable glasses. The same boy who had shared the same classes for three years; even if you didn’t consider yourselves friends, the time you spent together was minimal, and just like the words you exchanged throughout the school year, the same rules of social hierarchy applied to you, like something out of a Jane Austen novel—but the bourgeoisie was made up of physics students.
The music, finally audible, played from a rectangular radio, its thin antenna raised as if it were picking up signals from the air. Satoru held the radio above his head, arms raised, revealing a bit of skin between his blue pajama pants and his worn Star Wars hoodie—a scene straight out of an American romance movie. Beside him stood Suguru Geto, with his characteristic loose black hair and a taciturn expression, far less motivated than his friend, holding a hose above Satoru in an attempt to recreate rain on a spring night. And to his right, Shoko, holding more stones against her chest than she could possibly carry. Ieiri is the only one you show concern for—you were partners in biology class during a frog dissection, and she listened to all your morbid jokes about how you could do that for the rest of your life.
They both seem to notice your presence leaning out the window and your less-than-receptive expression toward the concert on your balcony, betrayed by the new crease forming on your forehead and the classic wrinkle of your nose. Satoru’s eyes, struggling to remain open because of the running water sliding over his glasses, widen in anticipation.
He takes a step forward, uncertain, in that clumsy way that makes his ears turn a new shade of pink in the hallways. He clears his throat, reminding you to sharpen your disapproving look. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate / Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…”
Is he really quoting Shakespeare?
His voice pauses for a moment, his eyes roll, and he stares directly at Suguru. “For fuck’s sake, man, how many times do I have to tell you to lift the damn hose?” Gojo shouted, still holding the radio, making the brunet shake the hose in irritation, frowning even more. “Continuing: and summer’s lease hath all too short a date—”
“What the hell is this?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you try to keep it steady, but it works, drawing both of their attention to you.
“Uh—h-hi.” His voice weakens, stuttering as if he forgot how to speak, which only makes you roll your eyes harder.
“Hi. What’s going on?” you reply, questioning right after, hoping to stop this from dragging on.
“I… I wanted to know if you know—wantedtoaskyoutotheprom…” His last words come out so fast you can’t understand them. You tilt your head, frowning in confusion, which is enough for him to take a deep breath and repeat: “If you would like to go to the—”
“Turn that off!” one of your neighbors shouts, interrupting him, but they ignore it and seem to turn up the volume of “Emotions” by Mariah Carey instead.
“If you would like to go to prom with me!” he shouts loudly enough for you—and several other people in your neighborhood—to hear.
Of course, prom. Despite all the capitalist, misogynistic, and elitist propaganda that comes with a pretty dress and a partner to show off, every student—senior or not—looks forward to it all year. They pair up like a harvest for winter: the freshest wins. The gym decorated with colorful ribbons and the giant disco ball used in every school festival—opting out of events like this is like signing your own coffin for social suicide. You, as your classmates and friends expect, had already been asked—with a sparkling dress your mother made sure to plan in every detail.
Naoya was the first to take the risk of asking you, with that crooked smile that drinks arrogance every morning at your cafeteria table, winning over your classmates like rats with a small piece of cheese. Running a hand through his greenish hair and with the most Freudian lines you’ve ever heard, you accepted, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted metal, while everyone applauded and you felt the most beautiful blue eyes you’d ever seen burning into your back. God, how do you describe such a frustrating feeling?
Your jaw dropped. Your lips parted into a perfect “o,” the pink from your ears spreading down your neck. The music still played over Satoru’s shoulder, and the words died in your throat. You closed your mouth, swallowing hard, your gaze dropping to your nails gripping the window tightly.
“I—I can’t!” you said, firmly—more to convince yourself. “Naoya already asked me…” Your voice trailed off, breaking between words. Your hands released the window ledge as you slowly stepped back.
“I don’t care!” Satoru voice rose above everything, making your eyes widen—the answer far too rebellious for someone who corrected teachers using dictionaries and charts. “I can fight him! I’m not scared, just let me take you the way you deserve—”
“Go home or I’m calling the police, you delinquents!” a woman from your left shouted, throwing what looked like a frying pan at Suguru.
“Hey, are you kidding me?!” he shouted back after it hit his head. “Hurry it up, Satoru, I don’t have all night!” he said, shaking the hose directly into his friend’s face, who spat water onto the ground.
“My God, Romeo and Juliet, can you hurry up? We need sleep,” Shoko complained, agreeing with Geto, dropping the stones at her feet. “Hey, s/n,” she said, standing up and greeting you with her usual lazy smile and a wave—which you returned with a smile and a wave.
Satoru turns his attention back to you, catching his breath after nearly drowning. His crooked glasses make you want to fix them.
“I want you to go out with me, please. I’ve always been in love with you, s/n. Just give me a chance.”
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep and iron in your blood, your heartbeat filling your ears and replacing the music—but when you look at him, soaked in front of your window, imagining the feeling he might bring—and the ones he already has in the few moments you’ve shared—it makes you smile for the first time that night. You lower your gaze, laughing softly before looking back up at him and saying:
“I accept, Satoru. I’d love to go to prom with you.”
“I’ll even pay if I have to… wait, what?” His body freezes. The radio drops at his feet, the music cutting off, but he doesn’t seem to notice, his whole body burning with euphoria. “Are you serious?”
The moment you blink, an older man walks firmly toward Suguru—looking like he could start steaming from his ears—grabbing the hose from his hands, claiming it as his.
“You delinquent teenagers, with your piercings… give me back my hose,” the man grumbled, wrestling it away before turning it on him. “Get out of here, you hose thieves!”
“Satoru, let’s go before this old man dies!” Geto shouted, raising his hands to shield his face—or at least try—from the water jets. Beside him, Shoko ran to the bikes, climbing onto one, but Satoru didn’t care; his eyes were fixed only on you, beautiful at your window, looking at him with the kindest eyes he had seen in a long time.
You just laugh at how hypnotized he looks—and how magnetic you are to him—before continuing
“I’m going to prom with you, idiot.”
“Oh… oh, right, okay,” he says, stepping backward slowly, smiling like a child until he trips, his face flushing red again. He rubs the back of his neck. “Great… I’ll come pick you up, then.”
“And I’ll be waiting,” you say, smiling softly at him, watching him stumble over his own feet to reach the bike again. “Good night, Satoru… and thank you.”
“Good night, s/n,” he says, getting onto his bike, ready to ride. Geto hops on the back, pushing off and flipping off the older man before leaving, leaving behind only Gojo’s gentle wave and the sway of his bike.
As you slowly step away from the window, filled with something new—a crooked smile paired with softened eyes—you walk to your calendar, once dominated by red. Now, in a new shade of deep blue, you write above a blank square: “prom,” adding a small heart beside it. Maybe the beginning of your year doesn’t have to start in 305 days after all.
The tense air in the room fades with the creak of wood beneath your mother’s footsteps, her hands drying on a cloth, the bittersweet smell of dinner following her, along with her warm, gentle smile.
“Sweetheart, is everything okay? I thought I heard something and had to check—” her soft voice is interrupted by the sudden hug you throw around her, and, without really knowing why, she simply hugs you back just as tightly.
— nerdjo x vampire!reader .. slightly suggestive but nothing explicit (they kiss, calm down) .. mentions of blood, alcohol, and drugs .. my entire understanding of vampires comes from Anne Rice and Carmilla, so blame them if anything feels dramatic .. reader has a personality (a shocking concept, I know), even if it’s a simple one .. english isn’t my first language, so please be gentle with me .. geto is gay in this because I said so and because the fandom knows it’s true .. satoru is, unfortunately for him, a very easy — and very delicious — prey .. the title is inspired by that Madonna song .. maybe the character will die because I'm not a reliable narrator
The legends about people like you were never wrong—only a hyperbole of what they could be. Miserable creatures wandering through the shadows between the crooked lines of time, hunting the first pure soul to satisfy their hunger, seeking pleasure in screams of horror. But tonight, Satoru thinks he might be witnessing a break in popular consensus.
The drink in his glass stares back at him again and again, swirling tediously, forming luminous colors beneath the lights that wash over sweaty bodies colliding with one another. His shoulders pressed against the carpeted wall of the venue, the only thing he has in common with the people in this room is the reason he’s here: Suguru Geto, the band’s vocalist tonight—and also his best friend. He’s the reason so many girls keep approaching him, their breath thick with cheap alcohol and nauseatingly sweet perfume.
But tonight, something shines and stirs his awareness. Not like the scream of the guitar echoing inside his skull or the stage lights reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. It’s a silhouette blended into the background, red light spilling across your face and eyes. He can’t stop staring, wondering why he feels so drawn to them—something not even years of studying physics could explain—entangling itself in the crowd, glowing for him, contaminating him completely.
For now, a vampire isn’t just screams and bloodstained fangs. A witch, a sorceress, half angel. How can eyes so beautiful and recognizable belong to creatures so terrible? By the end of the night he’s still fascinated by you, staring over the rim of his glass, still on his second sip since the night began, waiting for the first guy to find the courage to say out loud everything he’s been thinking in silence and carrying in the pit of his stomach.
In the first act, he doesn’t feel your presence—only the cold air creeping along his spine and the tips of your fingers, which tomorrow morning, when he wakes up, he’ll finally recognize as the touch from his most lucid and feverish dreams, burning against his skin. Even as the cold corrodes his flesh, his body still sways against the rhythm of the music.
Satoru has always found it irritating the way people follow each other like a herd ready to die. But you look ready to kill—and of course, he would die sweetly against your chest.
And then here you are, staring at him, breathing in his sweet scent like a man drunk on love. When your voice collides with the disaster he becomes, blood rushes up his neck to his ears in a deep flush.
“Pretty cool of you to follow your friend around to his shows.”
Your voice is far too sharp for him to hear clearly over the hysterical screams of the club.
“Must be hard living in someone’s shadow. Feeling like you’re not really part of it.”
Your lips shape the words beneath crimson lipstick, which he hasn’t taken his eyes off since you appeared beside him, leaning toward his ear.
“He’s gay,” is the only thing he says, taking another sip from his glass, failing to hide the trembling in his fingers that you provoke.
From the laugh that slips out of you, it’s clear Suguru isn’t the one you’re interested in.
“That wasn’t my question.”
In the second act, your skin collides again, but this time it feels intentional. The magnetism of your body pulls him toward you, your fingers sliding over his as you guide him down the hallway. The smell of weed and alcohol dulls his senses, forcing him to rely on you to lead the way. But he likes it—likes the coldness your body carries (the absence of life in your pulse, though of course he ignores that for now).
The path is intoxicating. Of course, for someone buried beneath physics books and possessing the social aptitude of a mole, like Satoru, any place like this would be uncomfortable. The urge to bury his face in the curve from your neck to your shoulder and hide there.
The screams, conversations, and the band fade as you walk. The carpeted hallway, the red lighting, the emergency lights reflecting against your hair and eyes spark what might be the chaos theory: this action will cause consequences. But he doesn’t care. Not when your hand reaches his shoulder and pushes him into what appears to be a staff-only bathroom.
And again, he doesn’t care—you’ve anesthetized him enough already.
When he lifts his blue eyes—some of the most beautiful you’ve seen in centuries—watching like a lamb waiting for slaughter, your hands reach his face, pulling him down until your lips crash against his, tight with the fear that they might pull apart and the taste of alcohol might disappear.
It isn’t beautiful like people imagine.
Like he imagined.
It’s sickening, messy, and a little pathetic on his part.
His large hands run across your body as if they don’t know where to go, unable to find a path. His inexperience makes you smile against his lips, taking his hand and guiding it to your waist, sliding down your lower back until it rests on your hip.
His kiss is clumsy, desperate—the kind that seems to need you just as much as you need him. Their lips part connected by a thin strand of saliva. His heavy breathing crashes against your back as he presses you against the cold tiled wall, one arm braced above your head.
And of course, that crooked smile you’ve watched for weeks, the dimple in his left cheek—everything for all of his blood, for a little of this, a little of him.
He doesn’t get the chance to speak, to ask your name or why he’s never seen you on campus before. His fingers clutch your shirt as his lips crash into yours again, hungry and frustrated, because this will end in a mess—like it always does for you.
You gasp when his hand grabs your thigh, squeezing gently as he lifts it, your legs wrapping around his waist, intensifying the kiss even more. Your hands slide into his platinum hair, pulling, building friction between his jeans and your skirt—far too short for a night this cold.
He smells even better up close, filling the air with a sweet, golden scent as you writhe against Satoru’s lean body. Your tongue grazes his lower lip, your aching fangs glinting in the yellow bathroom light.
The third act—and the last—is the first time you taste him outside of any dream you’ve invaded, any hallucination you’ve caused. A single drop, just enough to make you crave more, thirsty for blood down to your bones.
Pulling away slowly, you let out a small groan at the loss of his taste. He opens sapphire eyes, clouded with confusion, part of him wondering what mistake he’s made this time. He comes out of his daze when your head rests against his shoulder, your nose buried in his neck, your hand stroking his chest.
He breathes again, realizing he’s been holding it for far too long. His eyes, once lit by the red glow and naturally bright, darken with lust and selfishness as he admires you from beneath mascara-smudged lashes.
Gojo looks at you, confused. His arms still wrapped around you, his pupils dilated, the color around them burning red. The brush of your pearly teeth against his neck is the spark that makes him realize what’s happening.
The alcohol in his veins has vanished.
There’s no brutality in the gesture—only a strange calm that has bewitched him.
Then the teeth come, sinking deep into his throat, pressing his body against yours. Pulling your mouth away from his neck, you trap him between your thighs.
A distorted vision.
A monster.
A blood-drenched demon staring at him with hunger.
You are nothing like the myths. You are a thorned rose in a field, growing between every crooked line of time, rooted in a soil you never asked for.
You are beautiful.
His blood drips from your fangs, your throat struggling against the truth.
“Vampire,” he whispers, low, almost like a prayer, pulling a mocking smile of recognition from you.
“I thought you were smarter than that, Satoru. I guess I overestimated you,” you say like a terrifying cat, climbing up his chest until your eyes meet his.
His hands struggle, gripping your waist even as they fail. He fights. Heat floods his blood, heightening his senses.
You slam his head against the floor, crushing his glasses in the process. His breathing comes out ragged, like a deer sensing its own death. Your mouth drifts close enough to his neck as you laugh at the mess, the sweat running down his forehead—yet he still lets himself fall into your hands.
It’s quick. Agile. Almost painless. Mistaken for pleasure.
Your teeth buried in his neck, fingers tangled in his white curls. Suffocated moans escaping him. Metallic blood touches your tongue like a forbidden encounter, dripping from your chin down to your chest.
His soul tastes like desire, fear, and a first love.
It’s too sweet for you. So pure that you begin to hope that this time, you’ll finally be satisfied—that this will cleanse and erase two hundred years of self-destruction and violence.
He wilts in your arms like an empty shell.
You feel his chest beat once more, vibrate again, hoping the sensation will last this time. But when the syrupy taste fades, so does he.
You lie over Satoru’s chest, now silent, for a few seconds. His body is still warm. You close your eyes and curl into his arms, remembering how just minutes ago they held you with such ease and passion.
But then it all falls over you.
Death.
And the loss you have committed.
You stand up, stumbling like a madwoman from the amount of alcohol that had been in his blood. Grabbing Satoru’s lifeless legs, you drag him toward the yellowed bathtub that looks forgotten beneath layers of dust. You drop his heavy body inside, your arms going limp with the effort.
You kneel beside his lifeless form, staring into eyes now gray, completely void of vitality. Your hand rises to his cheek, caressing it gently, offering him a kiss—leaving a smear of lipstick and blood across his cheekbone before leaving.
“Without love there is no sacrifice, and without sacrifice there is no blood. I’m sorry,” your voice whispers low and broken through the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror is a work of art:
blood smeared across your chest and chin, hands that planned a murder and carried it out.
You wash them beneath running water, touching up the lipstick that faded.
Clean on the outside. Rotten like an apple on the inside.
When you open the door and the loud music floods the room again, you forget for a moment about the dead body in the bathtub.
And that tonight the band’s vocalist will be going home alone.
chemistry experiment gone mad! | gojo satoru x reader
synopsis: To secure a date with your best friend, physics genius Gojo Satoru hires you as his romance-scientist-mentor via a ridiculous contract paid in matcha, bread, and keychains. However, as the strategy briefings turn into lingering touches, it becomes clear that the smartest guy in the physics department has fumbled his own trial.
tags: college/university AU, physics major!gojo, biochemistry major!reader, friends to lovers, tiny bit of angst, yearning, idiots in love, jack dawson catches a stray for no reason
word count: 7k
credits: contract graphic inspired by a jeon jungkook fanfic called bitchin'. this fic changed me in 2019 and i reread it every now and then to feel something again (*^^*)♡ i recommend reading it for yourself!
The third-floor chemistry lab always smelled of isopropyl alcohol and the faint, lingering sulfur of someone’s failed experiment. It was a clean, unforgiving environment, which was exactly why you liked it. In biochemistry, things followed a sequence. So, if you followed the protocol, you got the result. There were usually no surprises.
Until Gojo Satoru started showing up.
He didn't belong in this wing of the building. He was a physics major; his world was made of whiteboards, Greek symbols, and the kind of math that made people’s heads spin. But for the past month, he has become a recurring element in your space. You were currently peering through a microscope, adjusting the fine focus on a slide of S. aureus, when the stool next to you scraped against the linoleum.
"You know, from a physics perspective, you’re just looking at a very organized collection of energy," his voice drawled.
You didn't look up. "From a biochemistry perspective, I’m looking at a lab practical worth 40 percent of my grade,” you huffed out, “why are you here, Satoru? Don’t you have a black hole to simulate?"
"Finished it early," he said, and you could hear the smirk in his tone. He leaned his elbows on the black laminate of the lab bench, his long legs tangled awkwardly in the narrow space. "Besides, I’m on a mission. Shoko mentioned she was having trouble with her organic chemistry synthesis. I thought I’d bring her some high-quality notes I- you know, acquired." He dropped a thick, light blue campus notebook against the edge of your microscope.
"Shoko isn't in this section," you said, finally pulling back from the eyepiece. You blinked, trying to clear the spots from your vision. Satoru was sitting there, looking entirely too bright for a windowless basement lab. The fluorescent lights of the lab were usually unforgiving, emitting that school air, but they seemed to treat Gojo Satoru like a curated exhibit; the harsh glow caught the white silk of his hair and the sharp, elegant slope of his jawline. It made him look less like a tired student and more like something sculpted out of moonlight and expensive glass. You shake those thoughts away before you get too lightheaded. "She’s in the Tuesday-Thursday section. It’s Wednesday."
Satoru paused. He blinked slowly, his blue eyes tracking the movement of your hand as you reached for a pipette. "Wednesday. Right. The day after Tuesday."
"Brilliant," you deadpanned. "Physics is really lucky to have you."
"Hey, time is relative," he countered, spinning his stool in a half-circle. He didn't leave, though; he kept watching you work. Usually, having someone watch you pipette microliters of reagent was nerve-wracking, but Satoru had a heavy presence that felt less like scrutiny.
"If you're going to stay and ruin my experiment, at least be useful," you muttered, sliding a box of tips toward him. "Refill them."
-
For the next hour, the most gifted mind in the physics department spent his time meticulously clicking plastic pipette tips into a tray. It was a mindless task, far below his pay grade, yet he did it with a purposeful focus.
"She likes you, you know," Satoru said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"Shoko? Of course she does. We’ve been friends since like freshman year."
"No," Satoru hummed, his voice dropping an octave. He stopped his movements. "I mean, she likes that you’re the only person who doesn't treat me like a trophy. Or a freak."
You paused, your heart giving a strange, rhythmic thump that had nothing to do with the caffeine in your system. "She thinks it’s funny that you’re so bad at hiding your intentions, Satoru. Everyone knows you’re trying to find a way in with her."
"Is that what everyone knows?" he asked. The rhythmic click of the pipette tips resumed, but it was faster now, a restless sound that mirrored the sudden tension in the air. Satoru didn't look at you; he kept his head down, his white hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding his expression. "Is it really that obvious?" he muttered, sounding more genuinely bothered than you’d ever heard him. "I thought I was being charming. The whole mysterious-genius-from-the-physics-department take."
"You’re about as subtle as a supernova," you said, turning back to your beaker, though your hands felt a little less steady than they had five minutes ago. "You hang around the biochem labs looking like a lost runway model. I am pretty sure people have noticed."
He let out a deep huff, finally looking up. He looked unfairly infuriatingly pretty in the cold white light, the kind of beauty that felt like a physical force in the room. His blue eyes were narrowed in thought, tracking the way you moved with a clinical, almost hungry curiosity.
"Then I’m doing it wrong," he concluded, dropping the last pipette tip into the tray with a definitive snap. "I don't know the language. I talk about entropy and quantum tunneling, and she talks about cellular degeneration and metabolic pathways. It’s like we’re on two different wavelengths and I’m the outsider." His chin is resting on his hand, currently invading your personal space with that effortless and casual arrogance that only someone like him could pull off.
"I need a translator," he said, his voice dropping to that resonant hum again. "Someone who knows how she thinks. Someone who can tell me why she’d rather spend Friday night looking at a petri dish than getting sweet lattes at that new cafe."
"She’s a scientist, and… We scientists, like definitive results. Dinner is a variable, a petri dish is a controlled environment."
Gojo groaned, tilting his head back so he was looking at the ceiling tiles. "You’re all the same. You need to help me. Map it out for me. If I’m going to get her to actually look at me as someone worth her time, what do I do?"
You felt a sharp, localized ache in your chest, one you immediately diagnosed as exhaustion. It had to be exhaustion. "You want me to coach you? On how to date my best friend?"
"Not just coach," he said, bringing his gaze back down to yours. The intensity in his eyes was staggering. "I want you to analyze it like one of your experiments. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” He reached out, his long, pale fingers briefly brushing against your sleeve. It was a small and simple gesture, but it felt like a jolt of static electricity.
"I’ll pay you in whatever currency you want," he added, a crooked, boyish smirk playing on his lips. "Coffee, dark chocolate, silence... or I could even help you with that thermodynamics problem set I saw peeking out of your bag. I promise my physics is better than my flirting."
You looked at him, really looked at him. He was so sure that Shoko was the prize at the end of the hall, but your heart was practically screaming for his attention, and his attention only. He was a genius who couldn't see the most obvious variable in the room.
"Fine," you whispered, the word feeling heavier than it should. "I’ll help you, but don't blame me if the chemistry doesn't work out."
Satoru’s grin widened, bright and blinding. "Yes. Deal. So, Professor... where do we wanna start?"
“My consulting fees are steep. You pay me in iced matcha lattes, those weirdly specific limited-edition keychains from the station, and good bread. Not the supermarket stuff, the actual bakery loaves."
Satoru let out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the tiled walls of the lab and making a nearby student jump. "Matcha, keychains, and carbs. You’re surprisingly easy to bribe for someone with such a high GPA." He reached out, his thumb catching a stray lock of your hair that had escaped your hairstyle, tucking it behind your ear with a casualness that made your breath hitch. “Consider me your most dedicated patron.”
So, there you were, sitting cross-legged in the overgrown grass of the quad, the late afternoon sun casting long amber shadows over the graph paper balanced on your knees while Satoru hovered over you, dictating terms like he was drafting a peace treaty between warring nations. He looked almost ethereal in the golden hour light, the soft breeze catching the loose strands of his hair with a serious expression on his face as he debated what good bread is actually composed of. The whole scene reminded you that he was, despite his looks, a complete dork.
"Wait," Satoru said, his hand shooting up as if he were in a lecture. "If we’re doing this, we’re gonna do it right. I don't operate on vibes and maybes; I’m going to need a protocol. A legally binding, or- well- at least socially binding document."
You rolled your eyes, but you were already ripping out a fresh sheet of paper. "You want a contract? For a crush? You are so dramatic."
"I am a man of precision," he declared, snatching a couple of pens from your pencil case. Satoru leaned over, his white hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled with the intense focus usually reserved for calculating the curvature of spacetime. When he slid the paper back to you, it was titled in large, loopy letters that were far too elegant for a man who spent his life in a basement physics lab.
You stared at the paper. It was ridiculous, even with the amendments you added. It was a waste of your expensive graph paper. It was exactly something Gojo would do.
"There," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a satisfied hum. He reached out and tapped the corner of the paper. "It's official! You’re stuck with me until I get the girl."
"Or until you run out of matcha," you countered, though the playful bite in your voice was getting harder to maintain.
"Please," he smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking infuriatingly handsome in the dim light. "I have a lot of matcha. We’re going to be here a while."
The first win for the agreement didn't happen in a lab or a lecture hall; it happened at 2:14 AM via a notification that lit up your phone like a flare. You had spent three hours the night before reviewing a specific Instagram reel for him, something niche enough to satisfy Shoko’s dark medical humor but mainstream enough not to make him look like he was trying too hard. You’d practically ghostwritten the text.
When Shoko finally replied with a "lol mood," followed by a link to a weird surgical fail YouTube video, Satoru had lost his mind.
True to the contract, the first payment arrived the following afternoon. You were leaning against a brick pillar outside the sciences building, blinking against the harsh sunlight after a grueling four-hour block of organic chemistry, when a condensation-slicked iced cup was pressed against your cheek.
"One iced matcha latte. Whisked by hand by a very grumpy barista who didn’t appreciate my notes on the water-to-powder ratio," Satoru announced, appearing out of the glare like a white-haired specter of high-fructose energy. He looked infuriatingly pretty today, wearing a simple black hoodie that made his hair look even whiter, and his jawline look like it had been sharpened for the sole purpose of causing heart failure. He’s wearing his glasses, but his blue eyes are clear as ever, crinkled at the corners with a triumphant glow.
"She replied," he said, leaning his shoulder against the pillar next to you. He’s acting like he didn’t spend at least 3 minutes sending you keyboard smashes after. "She actually engaged in a digital exchange of ideas. Or- well, she sent me a video of a guy getting a cyst removed, but in Shoko-speak, that’s basically a love letter."
"It’s progress," you agreed, taking a long, blissful sip of the matcha. It was perfect, earthy, sweet, and exactly what you needed to survive the rest of the day.
"It’s thriving," Satoru said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crinkly brown paper bag. "And because the response included a video, I decided to add a carb subsidy." He pulled out a thick slice of shokupan slathered in honey butter and sea salt. It was still warm, the scent of it cutting through the chemical smell that always clung to you.
"Satoru," you whispered, reaching for it like a drowning person reaching for a life raft. If you were Jack on the Titanic, you would’ve had no problem staying afloat. "I might actually cry."
"Don't cry," he said, his voice softening into something surprisingly gentle. He watched you take a bite, his gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that felt far too focused for a man who was supposed to be celebrating a win about another girl. "I can't have my lead scientist breaking down in the quad. It would be bad for morale."
You chewed slowly, the warmth of the bread and the sweetness of the honey hitting your system. "So, what's the next move? Now that you've breached the DM barrier?"
Gojo didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray grain of sea salt from the corner of your lip. His touch was light, but it lingered, a slow and deliberate movement that made the air in your lungs feel very thin. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he let his fingers trail down to your chin, tilting your head just a fraction of an inch closer to him.
"I was going to ask about that," he murmured, his blue eyes searching for yours. He drops his hand. "But honestly? I’ve spent the last three hours thinking about which bread to get and how much I think you’d like it. I think I’ve earned a break from more planning today."
"The contract doesn't mention breaks, Satoru," you managed to say, though your heart was currently doing a very high-speed physics calculation of its own.
He let out a dissatisfied hum, watching you take another sip of the matcha. "I’ve been staring at wave-particle duality equations since 8 AM. My brain is basically mush. I need a palate cleanser."
"I'm a palate cleanser now?"
"The best one on the STEM side of campus," he grinned, nudging his shoulder against yours. It was a solid, grounding weight. "So, enjoy your bread. I'll be back tomorrow for the next briefing. I’m thinking we need to tackle her favorite coffee order next. I need to know the exact ratio of espresso to leave-me-alone she requires."
You watched him walk away, his white hair catching the light as he waved a hand over his shoulder without looking back. You stood there, a warm piece of honey-butter bread in one hand and a perfect matcha in the other, feeling the heavy force he always left in his wake.
Two nights later, you were in the library, surrounded by open textbooks and empty snack wrappers. You were supposed to be reviewing the mechanism of ATP synthase, but instead, you were looking at your phone.
satoru: I saw Shoko at the cafeteria tonight. I asked her about the sequencing error rates, like you said I should.
Satoru then sends you a photo of a keychain. It was a tiny, plush baguette with a little face.
satoru: Found this at the station. It reminded me of your carb subsidy. Is this ugly-cute enough for the payment?
you: it’s hideous. I love it
satoru: Perfect. Payment secured.
You felt a small, sharp pinch of something in your chest. You’d forgotten, for a brief moment, that the bread and the matcha were only part of the plan.
you: did Shoko look impressed?
There was a long pause. The little typing bubbles appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
satoru: She looked confused but laughed anyway. She said, why are you talking like a textbook? Then she asked if you were the one who told me to say it.
You winced, burying your face in your hand.
you: shit sorry. I'm a bad mentor ( `ε´ )
satoru: Nah. She said she appreciated it. She said I was trying too hard, but it was almost endearing. But honestly? I didn't catch her whole response. I was too excited to go back to my desk, so I could tell you she laughed. Oops.
You stared at the screen. The text felt heavier than it should. He was supposed to be chasing her, but he was spending his victory lap talking to you. You felt selfish tonight, so for once, you let yourself bookmark this moment and keep it locked away in your memories for when Satoru ultimately stops talking to you when he ends up with his dream girl.
"Here," Gojo said, stopping under a streetlamp. He handed you a small bag. Inside wasn't another ugly-cute accessory, but a high-quality keychain of a stylized DNA helix made of blue glass. It was beautiful, expensive, and definitely not ugly-cute.
"This isn't part of the tax, Satoru," you said, holding the glass up to the light. "This is actually nice. And you already gave me the baguette keychain last week."
"Yeah- well," he muttered, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement. He was looking at the streetlamp instead of you, the light catching the silver of his lashes. "I saw it in the window of that boutique near the station. It was- I- I don't know, scientifically accurate? I figured a biochem major wouldn't want some cheap plastic thing that had the wrong number of base pairs."
"Satoru," you said, rotating the blue glass helix between your fingers. It was heavy and cool to the touch. "This is way over the budget we discussed in the quad."
"Consider it a bonus for the successes so far," he countered, finally looking back at you with a smirk that was a little too practiced, a little too much like his usual arrogant self. But his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, he wasn't leaning in, he was keeping an uncharacteristic distance. "I can’t have my lead scientist carrying around subpar equipment. It reflects poorly on the client."
"Right. The client's reputation," you repeated, your heart doing a strange, fluttering thing that you tried to suppress.
"Exactly," he said, turning to walk again, his pace slightly slower than usual, so you didn't have to hustle to keep up. "Besides, it’s blue. It'll match your bag. Shoko mentioned she liked your bag once, so if she sees the keychain, she might ask about it, and then I or- you- can tell her I bought it, and-"
He cut himself off, letting out a short airy laugh. "See? Everything is a vector. I’m just thinking five steps ahead, it’s all part of the plan."
You looked down at the blue glass and the way it caught the moonlight. He was still talking about Shoko, using her name like a shield, but he actually had spent twenty minutes in a boutique picking out a specific, accurate DNA model just to match your bag.
"A very detailed plan," you murmured.
"The best," he agreed, though he was unusually quiet for the rest of the walk. When you reached your dorm, he stayed at the edge of the light, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. He didn't try to linger; he just nodded toward your bag.
"Don't lose it," he said. "Those things are fragile. Just like my chances if you don't help me with my next Instagram DM to her."
"I won't lose it, Satoru."
"Goodnight, sweets."
You watched him disappear into the darkness of the campus, the blue glass helix clinking softly against your keys. He was still convinced he was headed in one direction, but as you infiltrated, you couldn't help but think that for a genius physicist, Satoru Gojo was remarkably bad at calculating his own center of gravity.
The cool night air usually helped Satoru think, but tonight it felt like it was just stripping away his defenses. As he walked away from your dorm, the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement felt too loud, too rhythmic, echoing the frantic pace his heart had settled into the moment he saw you hold that blue glass up to the light. It was just a bonus, he told himself, shoving his hands so deep into his pockets his knuckles brushed his phone. It was a performance incentive. He doesn't want his best source of intel to get burnt out. Yeah. Definitely that.
But the coping tasted like ash. He was a physicist; he knew that energy couldn't be created or destroyed, only transformed. And the energy he had been funneling into the whole Shoko plan had shifted; it had completely warped. It had been pulled into a black hole entirely, a force too strong that his heart couldn’t ignore. He thought about the way you had looked at the DNA helix, not with the polite "thanks" he got from most people, but with a genuine wonder that made him feel like he’d just discovered a new element. He’d spent so much time in that boutique, dismissing three different necklaces and a designer pen because they weren't right. They weren't biochem enough. They weren't you.
Why did he mention her name? He cursed internally, his jaw tightening. Why did he bring up Shoko liking the bag? It had been a reflex, a safety net of some sort. Every time the air between you and him got too thick, every time the silence lasted a second too long, and he found himself staring at your lips, he threw Shoko’s name out like a flashbang to blind and distract you both.
It was the only way to maintain the experiment. Because if he really spent time thinking about it, if he stopped being the client, then he was just a guy who was buying expensive lattes and artisanal bread for a friend who saw him as a chaotic project. He reached the fountain in the center of the quad and stopped, looking at his reflection in the dark water. He looked the same, pretty, untouchable, the other half of the contract. But he felt off-balance.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. There was a text from Shoko from three hours ago asking if he’d finished the notes he promised her. He hadn't even replied. But he had spent the last two hours tracking down a specific type of honey-butter bread because he knew you had a midterm on Thursday.
The math isn't adding up, he thought, a frustrated laugh bubbling up in his chest. He’s a genius. He’s literally the best at this. So why is he more excited to see another ugly-cute keychain than he is to actually go on a date with Shoko?
He looked back toward your dorm, the blue glass helix in his mind's eye. He’d told you it was to make sure you didn't forget who was paying the bills. Liars don't get Nobel prizes, he thought, turning back toward the direction of his dorm. And with terrifying clarity, Satoru realized he didn't want you to remember the payments. He wanted you to remember him. And as he walked into the night, he realized he wasn't looking for an in with Shoko anymore. He was just looking for the next excuse to buy you a latte or a silly keychain.
It happened in the back of a lecture hall during a joint-department seminar on Molecular Dynamics. The room was dark, the only light coming from the projector screen showing a complex simulation of protein folding. Satoru was sitting next to you, not because he had to, but because he claimed your seat had the optimal viewing angle. In reality, he was barely looking at the screen. He was slumped in the cramped lecture hall chair, his long legs encroaching on your space, his shoulder a warm weight against yours.
You were frantically taking notes, the scratch of your pen the only sound between you.
"You're doing that thing again," he whispered, his voice vibrating right against your ear.
"What thing?" you murmured, not looking up.
"That focused frown. Your eyebrows are solving a very complicated calculation." He reached out, you thought he was going to annoy you and poke your forehead. Instead, his hand landed on yours, the one holding the notebook steady. He didn't just tap you, though. He covered your hand with his, his palm large and warm, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles. It wasn't a mentor pat. It wasn't a professional handshake. It was intimate. It was heavy.
Your heart rate spiked so hard you were sure he could feel it through your skin. You stopped writing. The entire room seemed to go silent, the lecturer's voice fading into white noise.
Then, Satoru seemed to snap out of it.
He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, shoving it into the pocket of his hoodie. "Anyway," he said, his voice suddenly louder, returning to that forced casual pitch. "Shoko mentioned she likes people who are observant. Do you think that if I complimented her new lab coat, it would count as a significant breakthrough?"
The transition was so violent it gave you whiplash. You stared at your hand, where the ghost of his warmth still lingered. He just touched you like that? ... and then he asked you about her lab coat?
"Yeah," you said, your voice sounding thin and hollow to your own ears. "Sure, Satoru. Write it down in your little notebook."
That night, you sat at your desk, the blue glass DNA helix he gave you sitting next to your lamp. You stared at it, trying to reconcile the feeling of his thumb on your knuckles with the way he’d immediately pivoted back to Shoko. You’re imagining it, you told yourself, tapping your pen against your chin. He’s a touchy person. He’s chaotic. He’s high-energy; he probably does that to everyone.
You went back over the evidence. The matcha. The bread. The keychains. On paper, it looked like a courtship. But every single time, he’d attached a label to it. Payment. Tax. Subsidy. Shoko.
He’s literally paying you to help him get with your best friend, you thought, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. If you think he likes you, you’re the one who's being delusional. You’re projecting your own feelings onto a guy who is explicitly telling me he wants someone else. You picked up the glass keychain and tucked it into a drawer, out of sight, out of mind. You were a biochem major; you always dealt in facts. And the fact was, Satoru Gojo was a genius who knew exactly what he was doing. If he liked you, he’d say it. He wouldn't be paying you in fancy bread loaves to talk about another girl.
Stop being a loser, you whispered to the empty room. It’s just a contract. Get the matcha, get the bread, and stop looking for feelings that aren't even there. But as you closed your eyes, all you could feel was the weight of his hand on yours, and the terrifying suspicion that you were failing the most important test of your life.
But in actuality, Satoru Gojo was a fool who didn't know what he was doing. For all his talk of vectors and trajectories, he was currently flying blind through a storm of his own making. He sat in his dorm room, staring at a half-eaten bag of expensive pretzels he’d bought for you, wondering why the hell he’d pulled his hand away in that lecture hall.
The heat of your skin had felt like a physical constant that grounded every frantic thought in his head. And then, like a coward, he’d hidden behind Shoko’s name again. He was beginning to hate the sound of it on his own tongue, not because he didn't like Shoko, but because using her name as a shield was starting to feel like a lie that was becoming too heavy to carry.
The next Tuesday, the rain was relentless, turning the campus into a blurred watercolor of grey and navy. You were packed into the corner of the crowded bus, your bag on your lap, trying to ignore the way your heart dipped every time the doors opened at a new stop.
When the bus pulled up to the science quad, a flash of white hair appeared through the steam-fogged windows. Satoru boarded, dripping wet, his expensive jacket soaked through. He didn't even look for an empty seat; his eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto yours, like always, he shouldered his way through the standing students with a singular intent.
"I forgot an umbrella," he said by way of greeting, hovering over your seat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, crumpled paper bag from the bakery. "But you look like you were going to skip lunch. Contractually, I can't allow my favorite scientist to faint from hypoglycemia."
"Satoru, there's a monsoon," you said, looking at his damp hair and the way a single droplet of rain was trekking down the side of his neck. "You walked three blocks in this for a croissant?"
"It’s a pain au chocolat," he corrected, though he wasn't smirking. He looked frustrated, agitated in a way that didn't fit his usual breezy persona. "And the contract is the contract. I don't break legally binding documents."
You took the bag, your fingers brushing his damp ones. "Thank you. Now go sit down before you drip on someone."
"I'll stay here," he muttered, gripping the overhead handrail. He was standing so close that you were practically tucked into the crook of his arm. The bus lurched forward, sending a jolt through the passengers. To keep his balance, Satoru braced his other hand on the back of your seat, effectively boxing you in. For a long moment, he didn't say anything about Shoko. He didn't mention a DM or a new interaction. He just looked down at you, his blue eyes darkened by the shadows of the bus, looking for all the world like a man who wanted to say something entirely different.
"Is the- is the glass keychain still on your bag?" he asked, his voice low, barely audible over the hum of the engine.
"I put it in my desk," you said, your voice tight. "I didn't want it to get scratched. It's too nice for a daily commute."
He flinched. It was subtle, a tiny tightening of his jaw, but you saw it. "Right," he said, pulling back just an inch. "Safe storage. You’re always so smart. Wouldn't want the bonus to break before the job is done."
You watched him turn his head to look out the window, his expression unreadable. You felt a wave of coldness wash over you that had nothing to do with the rain. See? You thought, clutching the bag of bread like a shield. He’s disappointed because he thinks you’re not valuing the bribe. He’s just worried about the contract, you convince yourself.
You convinced yourself that the look in his eyes wasn't longing, it was just the reflection of the streetlights. You convinced yourself that his hand on your seat wasn't a protective gesture; it was just physics, so he doesn’t topple over. And Satoru, standing there with his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, watched your reflection in the glass and wondered how he was supposed to tell you that he had brought an umbrella, a sturdy black one actually. He had forgotten it in his locker, and if he had gone back for it, the bakery would’ve closed before he got the chance to buy you your bread. He was a fool. A genius, a physicist, and the most sought-after guy on campus, and he was currently losing a war against his own pride.
Next stop, science quad, the automated voice called out.
"That's me," you said, standing up.
"Yeah," Satoru said, stepping aside to let you pass. He didn't follow you this time. He just stood there, wet and beautiful and hopelessly lost, watching you walk off into the rain. "See you at the next briefing."
"See you, ‘Toru."
As the bus pulled away, you opened the bag. Inside, tucked next to the chocolate bread, was a hand-drawn note on a scrap of graph paper. It was just a small, carefully sketched heart with a lightning bolt through it, and the words
Don't get cold. -S
You crumpled the paper in your fist. He's just being nice, you told yourself, even as your eyes filled with tears. He's just a really, really good client.
Shoko was many things: a brilliant pre-med student, a world-class cynic, and someone whose bullshit detector was calibrated to a molecular level. She had been watching the two of you play this elaborate game of science and contracts for weeks, and she had finally reached her limit.
It happened in the student lounge of the biotech wing. You were staring at the little hand-drawn heart Satoru had left in your bread bag, trying to convince yourself it was just a friendly gesture of appreciation, when a shadow fell over your table. Shoko sat down across from you, dropped her heavy anatomy textbook with a resounding thud, and leaned her chin on her palm.
"How much longer are you going to do this?" she asked, her voice flat and exhausted.
"Do what?" you asked, quickly shoving the scrap of graph paper into your pocket.
"This thing," she said, gesturing vaguely to the empty chair next to you, the one Satoru usually occupied. "The I’m-helping-Gojo-Satoru-get-a-date thing. It’s getting embarrassing,” she mutters, “for everyone involved. Especially for the guy who thinks he’s being subtle."
"He is trying to get a date, Shoko. With you. He’s very committed to the... You know… contract."
Shoko let out a dry, short laugh. "Is that what he told you? Because in the weeks since he started stalking this building, do you know how many times he’s actually asked me out? Zero. Do you know how many times he’s asked me for my number? Zero. Do you know what he does talk about when you aren't around?"
You paused, your heart doing a slow, painful somersault. "His- I don’t know- physics theories?"
"No," Shoko deadpanned. "He talks about you. He tells me about the brilliant way you organized your lab station. He tells me about the specific way you like your matcha. I already knew that, though. He even tried to explain to me, for forty-five minutes, why the blue glass in some keychain he bought was the exact shade of your favorite reagent." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "He’s not using you to get to me- well, now he isn’t. Now, he’s using me as an excuse to be near you without having to admit he’s terrified of you saying no, you idiot."
She stood up, grabbing her bag. "Look, I’m done being the third wheel in a relationship that hasn't even started yet. The next time he brings you bread or a keychain, ask yourself why a guy who supposedly wants me is spending all his money and time making sure you don't skip lunch."
"And for the record," Shoko added, pausing at the door with a cigarette tucked behind her ear, "I have absolutely zero interest in a man who needs a literal flowchart and a bribe of pastries just to hold a conversation with someone he likes; I’d rather date a centrifuge than deal with his level of emotional incompetence."
Twenty minutes later, the door to the lounge creaked open. You didn't even have to look up to know it was him. The air seemed to vibrate, pulling toward the doorway as Satoru slid inside, looking characteristically chaotic. He was carrying a small cardboard carrier with two drinks and a white bakery bag between his teeth. He looked ridiculous. He looked beautiful. He looked like the man Shoko said was terrified of you.
"Found the best limited-edition station keychain so far," he said indistinctly, dropping the bag on the table before pulling the drink carrier close. "It’s a prawn wearing a tiny graduation cap. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re going to love it." He sat down, sliding your iced matcha toward you. He was grinning, that blinding, effortless Satoru Gojo grin, but as he looked at you, he paused. His smile didn't disappear, but it shifted, turning into something more questioning.
"You're staring," he murmured, leaning his chin on his hand. "Is there something on my face, or is my favorite scientist going mad?"
"Satoru," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Why are you here?"
He blinked, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses. "The briefing? We have to discuss Shoko’s favorite flower before the weekend. I was thinking peonies, but then I thought-"
"Shoko isn't interested in you," you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "She just told me, actually. She has zero interest, Satoru. None."
The silence that followed was absolute. Satoru didn't move. He didn't joke. He didn't pivot. He just sat there, the prawn keychain sitting on the table between you like a tiny, ridiculous witness to the end of the world. His hand, which had been reaching for his own drink, stopped mid-air. For the first time, you saw him without the client persona, just a boy who had spent all his genius-level intellect trying to solve a problem that didn't exist, only to realize he’d been found out.
"Oh- huh," he said, a small, hollow sound. "She told you that, didn't she?"
"She did." You leaned forward, your heart racing. "So, if you knew that, why did you bring the prawn, Satoru? Why did you bring the matcha?"
Satoru Gojo, the fool who didn't know what he was doing, looked down at the table. His ears were turning a betraying pink. "I think," he whispered, his voice cracking just a little, "that the contract might need some serious revisions."
The usual deflective armor, the smirk, the leaning back, the effortless persona all crumbled. He shifts his eyes at the iced matcha he’d meticulously ordered for you, then back at your face, and for the first time, his blue eyes looked entirely human.
"She’s right," he said, his voice quiet and devoid of its usual theatricality. "She’s right about all of it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the contract, the one that had started this whole mess on a sheet of graph paper. He rolled it between his long, pale fingers, staring at the ink.
"I’m a genius. I can calculate the probability of an electron's position in a vacuum. I can explain the curvature of the universe. But I spent like three hours last night staring at a picture of a plush keychain because I couldn't figure out if it would make you laugh or if you’d think I was being too much." He let out a short, breathy laugh that sounded more like a sigh.
"I don’t need a scientist anymore. Shoko is great, but I realized that she’s not the problem I’m trying to solve for anymore. She just became the only way I knew how to get you to look at me without me having to risk everything." He leaned forward, crossing the six-inch gap between your chairs that had felt like a mile for the last couple of days. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough that you could see the nervous tremor in his hands.
"I was terrified that if I asked you to hang out just ‘cause, at random times, you’d say no. But if I paid you in matcha to talk to me? Then I at least got to stay and I was sure of that. I got to sit in the grass with you. I got to watch you frown at your notes. I got to be the person who brought you bread when you were tired." He reached out, his hand hovering over yours on the table. This time, when he touched you, he didn't pull away. He slid his palm over yours, lacing his fingers through yours with a firm, grounding pressure.
"The contract is void," he whispered. "There is no operation-date-Shoko anymore. There’s just you. And I’ve been embarrassingly stuck on you since the that day I walked into that lab and you told me to get out of your way."
You looked down at your joined hands. The insecurity that had been shouting in your ear for weeks went silent. You couldn't gaslight yourself anymore, not when he was looking at you like you were the only constant in a chaotic universe.
"’Toru," you said softly, your own fingers tightening around his. "You could have just asked to hangout."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, not the arrogant one, but the one that reached his eyes and made the blue of them look like a clear sky. "Yeah, well," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours. "I’ve always been bad at the simple stuff." He reached out with his free hand and picked up the graduation-cap prawn keychain, sliding it toward you.
"But for the record? No more payments. No more subsidies. From now on, the matcha is just because I want to see you smile. Can you not go mad with that, my favorite scientist?"
You laughed, a small, relieved sound, and pulled him closer. "I think I can work with that."
author's note: i've been writing this instead of just going to sleep & then waking up early to tweak it so sorry if parts are unhinged, but this trope owns my entire soul right now. as always let me know what you think! (≧◡≦) ♡
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