The first time you met Satoru Gojo, you already knew who he was.

It was hard not to.

He was the fraternity president everyone on campus seemed to know—the guy whose name was constantly attached to parties, rumors, and some new story about whatever trouble he'd gotten into that week. He was confident, shamelessly flirtatious, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously.

Unfortunately, he was also one of the smartest students in your program.

You happened to be sitting near the front of the lecture hall when Satoru strolled in several minutes late, sunglasses perched on his nose and an iced coffee in hand. He barely acknowledged the professor before dropping into the empty seat beside you.

He glanced at you.

“Is this seat taken?”

You looked at the empty chair beneath him.

“It is now.”

A brief silence followed.

Then he laughed quietly.

“You're funny.”

“I wasn't trying to be.”

His smile faltered.

Most people liked Satoru. Most people wanted his attention. You had somehow managed to give him neither.

He leaned back in his chair, studying you from behind his sunglasses.

“You always this friendly?”

“Only with people who interrupt my lecture.”

That earned another laugh, though this time there was an edge of irritation behind it.

From that moment on, Satoru seemed to make it his personal mission to irritate you. He'd take the seat beside you whenever it was available, steal your pens, interrupt your studying, make unnecessary comments during lectures, and throw out ridiculous nicknames whenever he caught you alone.

You never understood why he seemed to have such a problem with you.

You simply refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he bothered you.

The semester continued, and the two of you quickly became academic rivals. You were one of the few students capable of consistently matching Satoru's grades, and unlike him, you actually put effort into maintaining them. He found your seriousness irritating. You found his ability to party all weekend and still outperform half the class even more irritating.

Then Satoru's effortless act finally caught up with him.

His grades began slipping after missed assignments, skipped lectures, and far too many nights spent partying. His academic standing was suddenly at risk, along with his position within the fraternity.

His professor gave him an ultimatum.

Get a tutor.

Unfortunately for Satoru, you were assigned to him.

Neither of you was thrilled about it.

Still, the tutoring sessions became a regular part of your schedules. You were expected to keep him on track, while Satoru seemed determined to make your job as difficult as possible. He'd show up late, distract you, steal your pens, and ask questions he already knew the answers to just to watch you get annoyed.

But somewhere along the way, his behavior began to change.

He still teased you.

He still pushed your buttons.

He still called you “genius” with that irritating little smirk whenever you corrected him.

Only now, he seemed to pay closer attention to you.

He remembered your coffee order. He knew when your classes ended. He started finding excuses to linger after tutoring sessions were over.

He was interested in you.

He simply hadn't stopped being Satoru Gojo.

────── ༚༅༚˳.༊.˳༚༅༚ ──────

Tonight's tutoring session was scheduled for seven.

It was now 7:40.

Your apartment was quiet, the dining table covered with the textbooks and notes you'd prepared for the evening. You had been ready for nearly an hour when three uneven knocks finally came from your front door.

When you opened it, Satoru was standing on the other side.

Drunk.

His white hair was messier than usual, several strands falling across his forehead. His sunglasses sat crookedly on his face despite it being nighttime, and his cheeks were faintly flushed. His posture was loose and slightly unsteady, making it painfully obvious that he'd had more than a few drinks.

His eyes immediately found yours.

A lazy grin spread across his face.

“Hey, genius.”

He leaned against the doorframe as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

His gaze wandered past you, taking in the apartment before landing on the neatly prepared study materials.

Then his attention returned to you.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

There was no teasing.

No smart remark.

Just an unusually lingering stare before that familiar, crooked smile returned to his face.

Forty minutes late.

Drunk.

And somehow still acting like he belonged there.