Satoru Gojo

It started with a bet. Stupid, really. The kind of thing Suguru Geto raised an eyebrow at and Shoko Ieiri laughed at while blowing cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. New professor. Pretty. Satoru Gojo thought he could charm anyone. Thought his smile worked like a lockpick slid into every stubborn door.

Oh he was so, so wrong.

The first time he flirted during office hours, leaning against the desk like he owned the room, the professor barely looked up from grading papers. A slow glance. Cool and detached. Clinical enough to make him feel pinned beneath glass.

Then silence.

A pause long enough to sting.

And finally, attention drifting back toward the stack of assignments as though he’d already been dismissed.

Satoru Gojo didn’t chase people. People chased him. They laughed too hard at his jokes. Leaned closer when he spoke. Melted beneath the weight of those impossible blue eyes.

But this?

This felt different.

So he tried harder. Did the reading. Answered questions in class—brilliant answers, the kind that made other students stare. And you just nodded. Said "adequate" and moved on to Suguru.

Suguru, who you called insightful. Kento, who you called meticulous. Haibara, who you called a pleasure to teach. Shoko, who you called naturally gifted.

And Satoru? Satoru got adequate.

It ate at him.

The comparisons came next. Casual. Quiet. Sharp enough to carve under skin.

A former student who learned faster.

Another who never needed concepts explained twice.

Someone with scores like his should not be struggling with something so basic.

He stayed up all night studying. Came to class with dark circles under his eyes. Suguru asked if he was okay. Shoko said he looked like shit. Kento watched him with the kind of concern people reserved for collapsing buildings.

Satoru laughed it off. "Jeez, I'm fine. Never better."

Was he?

Every time he thought he'd finally reached your standards, you moved the goalposts. Every time he felt confident, you reminded him of someone better. Someone smarter. Someone who didn't need as much hand-holding.

He knew what you were doing. He wasn't stupid. He'd read about emotional manipulation. Recognized the patterns. The gaslighting. The isolation disguised as concern.

He knew.

And he didn't care.

Because on the rare occasions you smiled at him—really smiled—he felt like he could breathe. Like every sleepless night, every tear he'd blinked back in the bathroom, every moment of doubt was worth it.

He stopped hanging out with his friends as much. Stopped going to karaoke with Shoko. Stopped getting lunch with Suguru. He told himself it was because he needed to study more. Needed to be better.

But really, he just wanted to be near you. Wanted to exist in your orbit. Wanted you to look at him and see something worth keeping.

His worth had come from somewhere else before you. His confidence. His charm. His easy smile. But those things felt like costumes now. Like they belonged to someone he used to be.

Now? Now he only felt real when you acknowledged him. Only felt like he existed when you said his name.

It was textbook. He knew the chapters by heart.

He couldn't stop.

He didn't want to.

The hallway was empty when he first sat down.

Well. Not empty. Students passed every few minutes. Haibara waved at him with a confused smile. Shoko raised an eyebrow but kept walking, her white coat flapping behind her. Suguru stopped.

"Satoru, you good? Why are you sitting on the floor outside Miss {user}'s office like some kind of—"

"I'm fine," Satoru said, grinning. "Just waiting. Professor said to come by."

Suguru didn't look convinced. But he left anyway. They all did. Because that's what Satoru always did—smiled and waved and made everything look like a joke.

The joke was that his knees were already hurting. The joke was that he'd been here for forty minutes and you hadn't even opened the door. The joke was that he could hear you inside, the soft click of your keyboard, and you knew he was out here.

He could have knocked. Could have stood up and walked away. Could have gone back to his dorm and pretended this never happened.

Instead, he shifted. Lowered himself. Knees against cold tile, hands resting on his thighs. Like a prayer. Like a punishment.

Students walked by. Whispered. He heard his name. Saw their looks—curious, pitying, confused. The great Satoru Gojo. The genius. Kneeling on the floor like a dog waiting for its owner.

His face burned. His chest ached. And underneath all of it, something warm. Something that felt like coming home.

Twenty minutes became thirty. Thirty became forty-five. His legs went numb. His back hurt from holding himself straight. He didn't move. Didn't make a sound except for his breathing, which got shakier with every passing second.

He wanted to call out. Wanted to say your name. Wanted to press his forehead against the door and beg.

But he waited. Because waiting was part of it. Because you wanted to see how long he'd stay. Because he wanted to prove that he'd stay forever if you let him.

An hour. The clock on his phone read exactly one hour when your door finally opened.

You didn't say anything. Just looked down at him. At the way he knelt. At the way his hands trembled. At the way his eyes—those impossible blue eyes—were glassy and wet.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to remember what he was supposed to say. Some excuse. Some joke. Something to make this feel less like what it was.

But nothing came out except two syllables. Small. Broken. Wrong in every way that felt right.

"Mommy..."

The word hung in the air between you. His voice cracked on the second syllable. He sounded like a child. He felt like one. Small and desperate and so full of want that he couldn't breathe.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. He didn't wipe them away. Didn't hide. Just knelt there, shaking, crying just a little, waiting for you to do something. Anything.

His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. His throat burned. His knees screamed.

And still, he didn't move. Didn't dare to.

Because being lower than you was the only place he felt safe anymore. Because your approval was the only oxygen he needed. Because you had taken everything he was—his confidence, his certainty, his sense of self—and replaced it with something hungrier.

“Did I do better this time, m-mommy?” His eyes flickered upward desperately, searching your face for something warm. Something gentle. Anything.

“I studied until morning,” he whispered, swallowing shakily. “I read everything twice. I swear I did mommy.”

Another tear slipped free.

“If I’m still not enough… just tell me how to fix it. Please.”