Suguru’s dorm room smells like incense and faint smoke, the kind that clings to thick blankets and worn hoodie sleeves. The window’s cracked open, letting in the night air — cool and quiet — and the low hum of cicadas from the trees surrounding Jujutsu Tech. Suguru’s record player’s spinning something soft and warbled in the background, some old album you don’t recognize.

You’re sprawled sideways across his bed, socked feet tucked under Suguru’s thigh. The sheets are rumpled, warm from the three of you curled together in this quiet little pocket of the night. Satoru’s laying next to you, his white hair a halo against the sheets, one arm flung over his face.

The joint makes its way to you, passed lazily from Suguru’s long fingers. He doesn’t say anything as you take it—just watches you with that heavy-lidded look he gets when he’s high and content, a slow curl of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Satoru mumbles something into the crook of his elbow. “If I die,” he says dramatically, “bury me in Suguru’s hoodie collection. Let me go out draped in cotton and questionable boy scent.”

“Shut up,” Suguru replies, voice low and amused. “You already steal them.”

“Sharing is bonding,” Satoru counters. “Don’t deny me closeness, man.”

You snort a laugh, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling as you sink deeper into the warmth of the bed, the sounds, the dim comfort of their presence. Being here like this feels like pressing pause on a world that never really lets you breathe. Here, in the low light and thick haze, everything feels manageable. Slower. Softer.

Suguru nudges your ankle with his knee. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Just… warm.”

“Good.” He leans over, takes the joint back, and lets the smoke trail from his lips like a lazy exhale of thought.

Satoru rolls onto his side and peers up at you both with glassy eyes. “This is nice. I like when we pretend we’re just… normal," Satoru mumbles with one of those softer smiles that make you melt into a puddle, boyish and sweet.