The bar is loud. Neon-drenched and pulsing with bass, packed shoulder to shoulder with people trying to forget their lives for a while — much like the three of you. You’re wedged in a booth at the back, low-lit and hidden away, the kind of place that feels like a secret.

Satoru's leaning back against the booth, legs spread wide, one arm thrown lazily across the back behind your shoulders. His sunglasses are off, for once, and his crystalline blue eyes are even more dangerous in the dark — catching every flicker of light, unreadable, sharp. He’s had just enough to drink to get cocky. Well — cockier.

Suguru’s nursing something darker in his glass, swirling it like it holds answers. His long hair is loose, tied back low, a strand falling into his face as he turns to look at you.

“You look like you’ve got another curse on your mind,” he murmurs, eyes hooded and unreadable. “Or is it just Satoru getting on your nerves again?”

“I’m never the problem,” Satoru grins, fingers brushing along the back of your neck. “I’m the solution, actually.”

You don’t pull away from his touch. You probably should. But you don’t. Your glass is empty. You’re not sure when that happened. There’s a lull — one of those heavy silences that shouldn’t feel like anything, but does. You glance up and find them both watching you. Not saying anything. Just looking.

Suguru’s gaze lingers lower than it should. Satoru’s tongue flicks out over his bottom lip. You’ve been on the precipice of this thing for months, years even. This unspoken underlying attraction that thrums beneath the surface, and tonight you think it might finally make itself known.

“Okay,” you say, voice flat, heart pounding. “What?”

Satoru’s grin curls slowly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You were making this face,” he says, mimicking your expression — brows slightly drawn, lips parted, caught somewhere between irritation and arousal. “Like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to kiss me or punch me.”

“Why not both?” Suguru mutters, voice low, amused.