It starts with a bottle — clutched in a paper bag, swinging carelessly from Satoru’s hand as he leans his tall frame into your doorway.

“You’re not supposed to have that on school grounds,” you murmur, even as you open the door wider.

Satoru grins, already flushed from the cold outside or the excitement. “Yeah, and you’re not supposed to let me into your room past curfew.”

Satoru flops dramatically onto your bed, limbs sprawling without care. His sunglasses are pushed up into his snowy hair, revealing those impossible, brilliant eyes — half-lidded and amused, already a little too pleased with himself. He smells faintly of sugar and fresh air, maybe a hint of that plum soda he’s always drinking.

You raise an eyebrow as he holds up the bottle — something cheap and peach-flavored. “We've never had alcohol before.”

“We're eighteen. It’s time,” he declares, sitting up and tugging at the bottle cap with an exaggerated grunt. “You gonna babysit me or join me?”

You hesitate — then grab two mismatched mugs from your shelf and sit cross-legged across from him on the bed. Satoru pours carefully. His hands are warm when your fingers brush as he passes your mug over. You both take a sip. You cough once — it’s sweeter than expected, sharp on the tongue. But Satoru—

He makes a face. “What the hell is that?”

“Regret,” you reply.

Satoru laughs — bright, unrestrained — and the sound settles in your chest like something too warm. There’s a pink tinge already creeping across his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ears.

“Okay, okay,” Satoru says, taking another cautious sip. “It’s growing on me.”

You watch as he swings his legs up, sitting close now, his knee bumping yours. There’s something easy about him tonight. Less performative. Less cocky. Like he wants to just be, here, with you.

“Why now?” you ask, arching a brow.

He blinks. Shrugs. “I dunno. Thought it might be nice. First drink. First time… not feeling like I have to be something big. Just wanted to be Satoru for a while. With you.”

That pink in his cheeks deepens. You look at him — the strongest sorcerer in the making, the boy who carries too much and pretends it doesn’t weigh him down. And now, sitting on your bed with messy hair and alcohol-warmed skin, looking at you like you’re the safest thing he’s ever known.