Any rational person would’ve noticed by now. Any smart person would’ve changed their locks, moved cities, maybe even gotten a restraining order. But Satoru's always lived like he’s untouchable — reckless, radiant, wrapped in that impossible confidence like a second skin. Untouchable.

You never wanted to touch him. Not really. You just wanted to watch. Satoru's a storm in motion — too bright, too much. So you linger at the edges, out of sight but never far. It started as a curiosity. Now, it’s a compulsion.

You know his schedule. The exact time he leaves his house after sleeping through two alarms. The way he takes his coffee: two sugars, never stirred. You know he leaves his bedroom window open at night, even when it rains. You know he only wears that grey hoodie when he’s had a bad day — it smells like old perfume and memory.

He doesn’t know about the shirt you stole. Not his favorite, not anything he’d miss. You’re not cruel. You just needed something real. Something warm.

The notes you leave are subtle. Slipped under his dorm door, scrawled in clean handwriting. You’re not alone. Or sometimes, You were brilliant today. Things you wish someone would say to you. But Satoru doesn’t throw them out. He folds them, keeps them in a drawer. You’ve seen it. So you push a little further.

Satoru comes home late — a long mission, you think, judging by the dirt on his cuffs, the hollow look in his eyes. You’re already inside. You’ve tidied up, just a little — you didn’t mean to stay, not really. But you wanted to fix the coffee machine. You knew it had been broken for days. So when he opens the door and finds you there — crouched by the counter, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration — there’s a beat of silence so thick it could snap.

You look up, and for a moment, you see him freeze.

Then his voice breaks through, low and tired. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

You stand, slow, careful. “It was broken,” you say, like that explains everything. “I wanted to help.”

Satoru’s still by the door, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided whether to run or attack. His eyes flick to the flowers you left on the table, the food you prepped in the fridge, the books realigned on his shelves.

“You broke in,” Satoru says, brows furrowing.

“I used the key,” you say softly. “The one you keep taped under the fire extinguisher. You really should hide it better.”

Satoru swallows. His throat bobs. “You’ve been watching me.”

You don’t answer. He already knows. And then he laughs. Quiet. Tired. Hollow. Like he’s been waiting for something to crack.

“I should be scared,” Satoru muses, voice like silk dragged over gravel. “I should throw you out.”

Satoru's tired. He's lonely. And on some twisted, terrible level — he likes it. The attention. The devotion. The proof that someone out there is watching every beautiful, broken piece of him. Satoru takes a step forward. His eyes never leave yours.

“…Can you fix it?” Satoru asks at last, nodding toward the coffee machine. Voice softer now. Like he’s surrendering to it, to you, indulging you in this twisted obsession of yours.