Satoru Gojo

The first time you clocked Satoru Gojo, he was right there in the middle of the lecture hall like some teacher’s pet on steroids. Dead-center, notebook out, handwriting neat enough to be illegal, actually paying attention.

Who even does that?

Everyone else was either scrolling, half-asleep, or doodling little stick figures dying in their margins. Not him. Nope. He had his glasses perched on his nose and those weirdly bright eyes locked on the board like the professor was about to reveal the secret to eternal life.

At first, you didn’t really catch him. Your friends were being loud in the back row, the usual chaos—someone opening a bag of chips like they were diffusing a bomb, someone else whisper-yelling about weekend plans.

The normal campus crowd was what you expected: frat boys with their hats backwards, skater dudes who mysteriously showed up once every few weeks like groundhogs, gym bros who couldn’t go ten minutes without mentioning “protein intake.”

Satoru was none of that. Tall even while sitting, hoodie stretched over shoulders that definitely didn’t belong to a guy who stayed home playing chess. And when he leaned back for a second, his shirt tightened across his stomach in a way that said yeah, those abs? full attendance, no makeups.

The wild part? Nobody else seemed to notice him. Like he was sitting there in 4K, high-definition, and everyone else was running in potato graphics. You figured he had to be some kind of undercover nerd hero, the type to spend his nights tutoring struggling freshmen for free, then disappearing to play six-hour-long DnD campaigns. He had that whole mix of awkward-but-smug, glasses-but-pretty-boy thing going on. It didn’t add up, but it was working.

---

You made the mistake of staring a second too long, because at some point he looked up, caught your gaze, and blinked like you’d just unplugged him mid-software update. You only smirked, flicked your hair, and looked away. The boy fumbled his pen so hard it clattered onto the desk.

After that, it turned into a stupid little game.

Passing him in the library and dropping a wink when he buried his face in a textbook. Sitting a row behind him and stretching so your bra strap peeked, just to see if his ears would turn pink. They always did. Sometimes you swore he muttered “must’ve been the wind” when his papers slipped to the floor, and you’d have to bite your lip not to laugh out loud.

And then came the extras. The Almost-Kiss, where you leaned in close like you were going to taste him, only to whisper something dumb—“you’ve got rice on your cheek”—and pull back like nothing happened. The way his lips parted in betrayal was almost better than the real thing.

Or when he was trying to focus, talking about something serious, and you started playing with his hair, tugging on his sleeve until he snapped out a frustrated, “Are you done?” That was when you kissed him, quick and sharp, leaving him completely derailed.

Or that time you caught him staring, blue eyes locked on you like he’d forgotten how blinking worked. You didn’t say a word, just held his gaze until he squirmed, and then leaned in like you were claiming a victory.

Or when you “accidentally” bumped too close, leaning forward into his space until he stiffened. You’d hold it, smirking like you were in on a joke only you knew, before finally brushing your lips against his.

And the Smile Trap? Oh, that one was your favorite. He’d say something unintentionally sweet—so earnest it almost hurt—and you’d laugh, stop mid-giggle, and kiss him while he was still red-faced and stunned.

People started whispering, too. You were that girl—the one everyone assumed would end up with a jock or someone equally shiny—and here you were tormenting the smartest, most awkward boy in the room. No one got it. But you did. Hot awkward nerds were your kryptonite.

Thing was, Satoru wasn’t dumb. Top of the class, equations and theories memorized like cheat codes. He could run circles around anyone when it came to academics.

But when it came to you—loud, untouchable, the girl who turned heads without even trying—you short-circuited him. That was the soft spot, really. Not the guys who chased you down like eager puppies, but the ones who didn’t even know what to do with you once you leaned in. The panic was half the charm.

So naturally, you decided to corner him after a late study night. Empty hall, humming fluorescents, his bag slung over one shoulder like he thought he was escaping. One step, one lean, and suddenly his back was against the dorm wall, your lips pressing into his before he could overthink it.

His hands hovered at first, hesitant, before gripping your waist like he’d been waiting months for permission. You tugged him toward your room without a second thought, and he followed—stumbling, wide-eyed, but with the kind of hunger that looked a lot like surrender. Like he’d just signed his name on a deal he couldn’t wait to cash in.

---

The kissing was good—better than good. He was messy, eager, running on pure adrenaline, but there was something ridiculously hot about the way he kept trying to hold back, like his brain was still calculating the odds of not screwing this up. Then his hand slid up your side, and you knew exactly what was coming.

Click. Tug. Nothing.

His fingers fumbled at the clasp of your bra like he was cracking the Da Vinci code in the dark. He broke the kiss just long enough to mutter a very quiet “shit,” then dove back in like kissing harder might magically make the thing snap open.

Another try.

Still nothing.

And honestly? People would lose their minds if they knew. You—the girl everyone assumed would never settle for less than some rich athlete or a guy with a motorcycle—were in bed with him. The nerd with the perfectly sharpened pencils, the one who answered questions nobody else even understood. The same guy who was now sweating bullets like your bra was booby-trapped with tripwires.

But that was your secret weakness: hot, awkward nerds who fell apart at the seams the second they actually got their hands on you.

“Okay, okay, I got this,” he whispered to himself, jaw locked in pure nerd determination

Tug, twist—fail.

“Why is this thing built like Fort Knox? Who designed this? Satan?” His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, glasses slipping down his nose, abs flexing with every pointless attempt. For a guy who could explain quantum mechanics in his sleep, he was getting bodied by two tiny hooks.

You leaned back just enough to watch, smirking, lips still tingling from his. He looked like he was defusing a bomb. Actual beads of sweat were sliding down his temple as he wrestled with the clasp like it had a personal vendetta against him.

Then you let out the tiniest laugh—the kind that slipped out before you could stop it. His hands froze, dropping like he’d just been caught cheating on a test by God himself.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m serious,” he muttered, ears flaming red as he tried again with renewed focus. His thumb slipped. The clasp refused. He growled under his breath. “I’ve solved harder problems than this. No way I’m letting some evil fabric beat me. Just… give me—wait. No, that wasn’t it. Shit. Who builds these things? NASA?”