You find your usual spot—third row from the back, left side, near the window. Close enough to see the board, far enough to disappear. You drop your bag, pull out your notebook, slide your headphones down around your neck.

And then you see him.

Front row. Center. Because of course.

Satoru Gojo lounges in his seat like he owns it, like he owns the room, like he owns the entire goddamn university. White hair catches the light, expensive sneakers propped on the empty chair beside him. His jacket—some designer piece you’ve seen on Instagram—hangs loose over his shoulders.

He’s laughing at something. Head tilted back, easy and loud. Suguru Geto sits beside him, dark hair pulled back, expression amused. A few other frat guys flank them. The girls in the second row keep glancing back.

You look down. Quick. Focus on your notebook. Unzip your bag. Pull out a pen. Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

Satoru’s eyes are on you. You feel them before you see them. That sharp, electric weight that always manages to find you, even in a crowd.

He tilts his head. Considers you. Lets the silence stretch just long enough to be noticeable.

Your face burns.

Satoru settles back into his seat, already turning to say something to Suguru, already moving on like the interaction never happened. Like you never existed.

But his phone buzzes a second later, face-down on his desk. A notification you know he won’t check until he’s alone.