(ꨄ) opposites attract : satoru gojo
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬: you don’t remember ever critiquing satoru gojo’s presentation — but he does. he’s the painfully shy but brilliant physics major who hides behind nervous smiles and gentle words. when he offers to tutor you, awkward study sessions turn into soft laughter, late-night coffee, and the slow, certain pull of falling in love — quiet, steady, and utterly undeniable.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: physicsmajor satoru x philosophymajor female reader.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: he's down bad (he can't seem to get you out of his head), yearning?, slowburnish, tutoring trope, fluff, happy ending, slightly rushed if you can notice, hes stalkerish, literally runs away from you, you're also quite weird too, hes a nervous wreck around you, suggestive?, mutual pining, povs switch mid-way, and then turns back into third person (just a heads up), a looooot of kissing, nerdy gojo !!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 26k
𝜗𝜚₊˚- 𝐧𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: after two weeks, its finally set free, this was so cute i was smiling while writing this, but whew i am tired..i may write short drabbles of these two. hes so clark kent coded omg, also i am so pissed off bc the ending wasn't supposed to be like that but i hope you guys enjoy this !!
satoru was never good at being put on the spotlight.
in childhood, he was a curious infant, always rubbing his small, nimble fingers at things children should never touch. in adolescence, he developed a craze for chemicals or how and why lights flicker at a rapid pace.
in high school, this seemed to flourish more. in the hushed sanctuary of his make-shift lab, with sodium seeping from the broken conical flask resting haphazardly in the corner, shards catching the natural sunlight through the windows, a maniacal grin splits his face. hands moving with the practiced precision of a thousand repetitions, measuring which volume is critical, which compound will birth the reaction he's been chasing for weeks.
and then it happens—element 119, stable for exactly 4.7 seconds before decay, long enough to be measured, to be real. the scientific community erupts. at seventeen, satoru stands on a stage in stockholm, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his ill-fitting suit jacket, squinting under lights that burn hotter than any bunsen burner. the applause crashes over him like a physical weight. he mumbles his acceptance speech, eyes fixed on his scuffed shoes rather than the sea of faces. the medal feels foreign against his chest, heavy with expectation. all he can think about is the failed experiment waiting back home, the one that should have worked, the mystery that matters more than any prize ever could. what complications a physicist has.
now he's twenty, a university student like any other—except for the medal gathering dust in his childhood bedroom, except for the papers published with his name, except for the way professors look at him with expectation heavy enough to crush.
he's giving a thesis presentation. routine. nothing like stockholm's lights and global audience. just a university auditorium, some faculty, some students fulfilling requirements.
....so why was his mouth suddenly sealed shut?
it was because of you - you sat right in the middle of the auditorium with wide, curious eyes that were begging him to open his brilliant mouth, a genuine hunger for his ideas. knuckles turning white from the amount of pressure you applied to the edges of the heavy fabricated chair.
(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)
"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.
that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?
you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.
he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.
that destroyed him completely.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 101
the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.
not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.
he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.
he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.
his heart stops.
then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.
he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.
you never look up. you never see him.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 102
tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.
the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.
the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.
then he hears your voice.
"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."
his entire body locks up.
you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.
the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.
you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—
he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.
he doesn't get coffee.
goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.
sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.
later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.
he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.
he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 103
the library becomes dangerous territory.
he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.
he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.
the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.
you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.
his phone buzzes.
his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.
when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.
he stays until they kick him out at 2am.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.
"you're doing it again."
satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"
"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."
"I'm fine, suguru."
"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."
suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.
"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."
satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."
"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"
"it's not about the presentation."
"then what?"
how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?
wait. no. not love. he's not—
"nothing. forget it."
suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."
"I know."
"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."
it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.
and reality showed him otherwise.
reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.
"I'll figure it out," satoru says.
"when?"
"eventually." he huffs
suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."
satoru doesn't sleep.
he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.
types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 104
he starts taking different routes to class.
the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.
he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.
mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.
but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.
he sees you anyway.
he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.
he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.
then he sees you.
three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.
he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.
his brain short-circuits.
you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.
someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.
he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.
you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.
your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.
panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.
the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.
he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.
that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.
he's so fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 105
he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.
the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.
he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.
he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—
and then he sees you.
you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.
you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.
one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.
you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.
it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.
you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.
he doesn't fit anywhere.
he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.
your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.
your eyes are going to land on him.
he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.
there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.
he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.
the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.
through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.
and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."
"no one died."
"then why do you look like you're grieving?"
satoru doesn't have an answer.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 106
he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.
the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.
there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.
and then he sees you.
you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.
your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.
you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.
you're maybe twenty feet away now. fifteen. getting closer.
you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.
or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—
his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.
fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.
there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.
the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.
he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.
he's going to be late. he's never late.
he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.
he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.
he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.
and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.
--
every time, his body has the same response.
heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.
fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.
he always, always chooses flight.
he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.
and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.
running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.
running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
twenty-four weeks. six months.
he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.
he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.
and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?
the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.
past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.
the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.
it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.
the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.
the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.
satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.
he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.
and then you walk in.
he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.
you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.
you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.
physics for non-majors.
even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.
you're struggling.
he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.
but you're struggling with physics.
and he knows physics.
and you look like you're about to cry.
and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—
he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.
his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.
but you need help.
and he can help.
and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.
and just like that, everything changes.
just like that, he gets his second chance.
just like that, he's more fucked than ever.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.
the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.
it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.
the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.
you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.
the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.
you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.
"you're using the wrong equation."
you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.
white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.
he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.
"what?"
"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."
his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.
you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.
"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."
"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"
you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.
and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.
"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.
he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.
"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."
the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."
he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.
he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.
but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.
"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."
"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."
he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.
his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.
"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."
you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.
"I... think so?"
"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."
he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.
his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.
he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.
"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"
no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.
until something clicks.
"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."
the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"
"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.
he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"
"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"
"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."
something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."
"I can't just take up your time for free."
"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."
there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.
you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.
it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.
"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."
"most nights? do you sleep?"
a half-smile. "not really."
you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.
"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"
he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."
he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.
you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.
but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session one
you show up the next night with two coffees.
"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"
"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."
it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.
you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"
"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."
a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.
"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"
"satoru. gojo satoru."
something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"
you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.
he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.
the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.
It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.
"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."
his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.
"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."
"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.
"stage fright?"
"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.
lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session four
it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.
when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."
his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.
you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.
you come anyway.
the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).
"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.
"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"
the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.
you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.
after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.
you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."
"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.
you blink. "you know Heidegger?"
"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."
"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."
"i'm not most physics majors."
it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.
"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"
he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.
"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."
you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."
"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.
"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."
"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.
you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."
"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."
you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.
when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.
(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session eight
you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.
you both reach for it.
his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.
"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.
you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."
the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.
"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."
"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"
you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.
"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."
"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.
he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"
"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"
"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."
the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.
"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.
your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.
"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.
he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.
"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"
something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.
"at 11pm."
"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.
"every night?"
"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."
(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.
he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)
you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.
"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."
his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.
"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."
you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t
he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.
when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.
the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.
"hey satoru?" you call out.
"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.
"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."
you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.
"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."
"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."
there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"
"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.
inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.
then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.
huh, you think.
you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.
you don't mention it on tuesday.
but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.
like he's been waiting for you.
(he has.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session ten
it's thursday and you're not doing physics.
"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"
"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"
"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."
there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.
you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"
"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."
something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.
"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."
you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.
he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.
"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"
"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.
"what?"
"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."
you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."
"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"
you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."
his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."
"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."
"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.
"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.
the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.
"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."
"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."
"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."
you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.
"okay," you say. "from the top?"
"from the top."
you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.
"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."
"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."
the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."
"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"
"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."
"chapter seven?"
"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."
he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."
"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"
"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."
you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.
"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"
"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."
"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"
"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."
you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.
he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."
"right. yeah. practice problems."
but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.
the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.
when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.
at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.
you don't know.
(you're starting to want to.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session twelve
it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.
this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.
"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.
"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"
you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."
(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)
"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."
"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"
"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"
his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."
there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.
you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.
"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.
"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."
"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."
"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"
"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."
you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."
"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—
you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.
then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."
"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.
his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.
the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"
"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.
you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.
and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.
it's searing.
"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.
"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."
"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.
"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."
"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."
he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.
"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"
"yes," you lie.
"what did I just say?"
"...something about equilibrium?"
he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."
"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."
"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.
he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."
"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.
"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."
"tell me anyway."
he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."
your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."
"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"
"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.
he's staring at you now. "really?"
"really."
"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."
"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."
the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.
then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.
"we should—" he starts.
"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.
but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.
you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.
his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.
you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.
"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."
"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."
"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."
"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.
you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.
eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.
"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"
"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."
"you don't have to—"
"I want to."
the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.
at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.
"so," he says.
"so," you echo.
"same time thursday?"
"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."
"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."
you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."
"thursday," he confirms.
neither of you moves.
"I should—" you gesture at the door.
"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."
"goodnight, satoru."
you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.
"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."
"you too."
you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.
you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.
this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.
you can't wait until thursday.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session fourteen
it's thursday and satoru isn't here.
you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.
you wait.
you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
11:15. nothing.
the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.
11:30. you text him. you coming?
you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.
your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.
11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.
"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."
his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.
beep.
"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.
you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.
by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—
or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—
no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.
but what if he would?
you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.
you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—
you're already walking.
the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.
warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.
warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.
the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.
you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.
fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.
you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.
you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.
what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—
you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
nothing.
the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.
you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"
more silence.
you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.
unlocked...
your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?
"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"
the room is empty.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).
barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.
his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.
you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—
but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?
you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.
the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.
your eyes catch on the title at the top.
Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions
Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science
Nakamura, T., Department of Physics
Submitted to: Physical Review Letters
your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.
element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.
that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.
you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:
...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...
...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...
...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...
there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.
"oh my god," you breathe.
you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."
and then—
a folder labeled "papers to read."
you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—
your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.
you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.
this is a really interesting point about authenticity
hadn't thought about it this way before
I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?
you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.
an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.
an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.
a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.
and then—
a document titled simply "notes."
you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.
you open it.
it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.
—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)
—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own
—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic
—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)
—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics
—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)
—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard
—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things
your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.
—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.
then more, scattered observations:
—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.
—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later
—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum
—I think I'm in trouble
the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.
—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.
—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—
—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.
—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.
—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.
—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—
it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.
you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.
"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"
the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.
he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.
there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.
satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.
his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.
"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."
professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."
the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.
he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.
you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.
he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.
"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."
"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."
it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.
"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."
"yes." barely a whisper.
"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."
"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.
"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"
"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"
his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.
"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"
he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.
"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."
he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.
"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."
the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.
"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."
if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"
he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.
"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"
he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.
"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"
he stops. puts his hands over his face.
"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"
his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.
"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"
he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.
"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"
his voice cracks.
"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"
you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.
he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.
his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.
you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."
"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"
"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"
you laugh softly.
"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."
you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."
"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"
"why would I be mad?"
"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."
"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."
you meet his eyes.
"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."
he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"
"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."
"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.
"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"
you search for the word.
"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."
his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."
"then why did you not act on it?"
he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.
you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.
"tell me about it," you say.
"about what?" his voice is rough.
"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."
"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"
"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."
"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."
"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.
"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"
you pull back to look at him. "keep going."
his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"
you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.
"and then?" you prompt against his lips.
"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"
his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.
"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"
you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.
"which what?" you murmur against his skin.
"I—I don't—what was I saying?"
you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."
"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."
his voice is getting progressively less steady.
"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"
you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.
"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"
he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.
"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."
"you're trying to make me lose my mind."
"can't I do both?"
he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.
"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.
he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."
"you timed how long we held hands."
"I have a very accurate internal clock."
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.
"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."
"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."
"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.
"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"
"I don't know how to be normal."
"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."
he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.
"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."
"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.
"I'll wait."
his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.
"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.
"satoru."
"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"
"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."
he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.
"twenty minutes," he promises. "thirty tops. I'll—don't leave. please don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere."
he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.
'I'm in love with her.'
element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.
you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
date session one
it's thursday and everything is different.
you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"
okay. it's not the same as always.
your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.
everything has changed.
the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.
satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.
but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.
"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.
"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."
"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"
he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.
this is excruciating.
"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.
"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.
"are we going to be weird about this?"
"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"
"me neither."
"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."
"extremely weird."
"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."
he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.
you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.
you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.
you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.
"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.
"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"
"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."
"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."
"maybe I just like having you explain things."
the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.
his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"
"yeah."
the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."
the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.
you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.
he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.
"is this okay?" you ask quietly.
"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."
you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.
"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.
"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."
"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"
he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.
"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.
"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"
you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"doing what?"
"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."
"I can move—" you start to pull back.
"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"
"satoru."
"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.
"you can kiss me if you want to."
"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.
"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.
"what about the physics homework—"
you cup his face and kiss him.
he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.
when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.
"hi," you whisper.
his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."
"better?"
"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"
you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.
"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."
"should we?"
"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.
"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."
"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"
you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.
"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it."
"I really do."
you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.
"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."
it works better than works.
you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.
"you're not listening," he says fondly.
"I am listening."
"you're staring at my mouth."
"I can do both."
"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."
"says who?"
"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"
you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.
the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.
you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.
"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.
"are you complaining?"
"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."
"good teacher."
"biased student."
you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.
"hey," you say.
"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.
"I have a question," you say.
"about physics?"
"about you."
"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."
"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"
he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.
"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."
his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.
"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"
he pauses, swallows hard.
"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"
his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.
"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"
his voice cracks.
"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."
"a problem?"
"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."
"your coffee is genuinely terrible."
"I know. I hate sweet coffee."
he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.
"what?"
"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.
"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"
"yeah."
"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"
"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"
he shrugs helplessly.
"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"
he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.
"—if it meant you kept coming back."
you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.
"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.
"I'm aware."
"three months of terrible coffee."
"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.
"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."
you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.
you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.
you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.
there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.
"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."
"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."
"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."
he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.
you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.
"oh my god," you say.
"that was—"
"mortifying."
"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."
"absolutely worth it."
"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"
"satoru, I was literally in your lap."
"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."
"you didn't object."
"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.
you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.
when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.
the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.
"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.
"so."
"I'll walk you back."
"it's not on your way."
"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."
you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.
the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.
it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.
"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.
"always."
"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."
you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."
you squeeze his hand.
"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."
"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"
"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."
the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."
your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.
he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"
he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.
"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."
"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."
he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.
his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.
when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.
at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.
"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"
"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"
his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"
"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.
"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.
"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."
"it's a date."
"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"
"or earlier. if you want."
"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."
"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.
"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."
"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.
"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.
"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.
"you have to let go of my hand first."
"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.
you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.
you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.
he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.
then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.
finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.
he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.
you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.
he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.
finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.
when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.
satoru gojo. element 119. the most brilliant person you've ever met. and somehow, impossibly, wonderfully—he's yours.
this is fucking peak im crying
