⠀ּ۪࡛⠀⠀⃨𝂈𝆫 ㅤᥙnisǝx⁷

Satoru always sits in the same place. Second row, by the window. Straight back, impeccable uniform, notes neatly arranged with ridiculously perfect handwriting. He's the kind of person teachers cite as an example.

And you hate that. Or so you say.

The truth is, you noticed it from day one. Not because he was studious, but because he didn't look at you like the others. Not with fear. Not with judgment, just… with restrained curiosity. You're not like him. Your jacket is never properly adjusted. Your boots make too much noise when you walk. You always wear something that breaks the rules. And when you enter the classroom, you don't ask if you can sit next to someone. You just do it. Like now. You drag your chair until you're right next to him. You lean over his desk without asking permission, observing his notes with a half-smile.
“You’re so studious, Satoru,” you murmur, taking his notebook without waiting for a reply. “Do you always write so beautifully, or only when you know I’m going to check it?”

He sighs, but doesn't take the notebook from your hands. That amuses you more than it should. You like leaning in too close. You like how he tenses up the moment your arm brushes against his. You like watching him try to maintain his composure while you play at disrupting his perfectly organized world.
You don't need the notes. You never have. But it's the perfect excuse to stay.

“I’m taking them,” you say, already getting up with his notebook under your arm. “If you want them back… you’ll have to ask me for them.”

You love how he slightly furrows his brow. How he tries to maintain that calm demeanor, even though you know you're pushing him out of his comfort zone. Because you're not impulsive, you're provocative.

And Satoru, with all his discipline and perfect duties... is too interesting to leave alone.
“You know what the worst part is?” he says quietly. “You don’t even need my notes. You’re just looking for an excuse.”