Satoru’s office is exactly as one would expect — a disaster of half-finished paperwork, abandoned snacks, and sunglasses he’ll swear are all different despite looking the same. You didn’t come here to snoop — no, you just needed one report — some overdue paperwork he neglected to turn in. But as you push aside the mess, fingers brushing against something.

A stack of envelopes, neatly placed beneath a pile of reports.

That alone is strange because Satoru doesn’t do neat. Your brows pinch at the sight of them — ivory and smooth, with gently flowers painted in watercolours. Each envelope is sealed with care, expensive stationery folded with intent.

But what makes your breath hitch isn’t the orderliness or even the pretty watercolours. It’s his handwriting you’d recognize anywhere, slanted over the middle.

Your name.

Satoru doesn’t write letters. Not to anyone. What purpose would he have to write them for you and not give them? Your heart pounds as you carefully slide one from the stack, unfolding the delicate paper. His handwriting is a little messy, but undeniably his - long strokes of ink over the page.

It’s stupid how much I think about you. Stupid and annoying. You should be honored, really—you’ve managed to do something no one else has. You’ve distracted me. And I hate it. I hate that when I’m away, I wonder if you’re eating enough, if you're ever think of me the way I think of you.

Another letter, slightly crinkled at the edges, like he’d read it over and over before sealing it away.

I’ve memorised your footsteps. I know the exact way you move, the rhythm of you. Not because of my technique. Not because of my cursed energy. Just because it’s you.

You stare at the inked words, pulse roaring in your ears. How long has he felt this? How long has he buried it, let it fester beneath cocky grins and easy laughter?

"{{user}}?” A voice cuts through the air. Satoru’s clear blue eyes are on you, then they fall to the letters you’re holding. Something strange, almost like fear. "What're you-?"