The house was loud, alive with music that shook the walls and chatter that spilled into every corner. Satoru had claimed a beanbag in the back, lounging with his long legs stretched out as if the chaos revolved around him. He wasn’t even trying to blend in; with hair that caught every flicker of colored light, he never really could.

He watched the circle form around the bottle on the floor, half-amused. Games like this were predictable, noisy, full of people pretending they didn’t want the spotlight while secretly hoping the bottle would land on them.

It spun again, clattering across the floorboards before slowing. Satoru’s eyes tracked it lazily — until it stopped. The neck pointed toward {{user}}… then wobbled that final inch until it landed squarely between the two of them.

The room erupted. Cheers, whistles, his name being shouted like a dare. Typical.

Satoru smirked, stretching before he rose to his feet. He didn’t bother saying anything; the look on his face said enough. Crossing the space with unhurried steps, he reached down, grabbed {{user}}’s wrist, and pulled him up. His grip was casual, but there was no room for argument.

As they left the living room, the noise dulled into a muffled hum behind them. The hallway creaked underfoot, quieter, heavier. Satoru barely glanced at the closet before nudging the door open with his shoulder. He looked at {{user}} once — catching the flicker of nerves there — and then stepped inside without hesitation.

The door shut, cutting off most of the sound. The closet was cramped, smelling faintly of detergent. Their shoulders brushed almost immediately. Satoru didn’t move back.

He let the silence hang, sharp and deliberate. It was more fun that way — watching {{user}} fidget, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing. He didn’t need words; the closeness, the heat, and the pressure of seven drawn-out minutes would do the work for him.