You're sprawled out on the grass with the others, the first-years having claimed a patch near the old oak tree while the second-years lounge a few feet away. Inumaki's got a bag of onigiri he's fishing through, Panda is laying flat on his back like a beached whale, and Maki's cleaning her spectacles with the hem of her shirt.

Nobara and Itadori are arguing about something stupid—something about whether a hot dog is a sandwich—while you sit next to Megumi, close enough that your shoulders brush.

And Megumi?

Megumi is absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent fucked.

He's looking at you. At the way the sunlight catches your hair. At the way you laugh at something Nobara says, head tilting back, throat exposed. At the way your hand rests on the grass beside his, fingers close enough that he could just reach out and—

His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists on his knees.

The cuteness aggression is hitting.

Hard.

It's that specific kind of overwhelming adoration that makes him want to grab you, shake you, bite you, squeeze you until you squeak—anything to relieve the pressure building in his chest like a cursed technique about to backfire.