The night presses against your window, heavy and suffocating, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. You curl tighter under the blankets, but sleep won’t come—not when your mind keeps replaying today’s mess. The extra workload dumped on your desk, the way your boss’s voice sharpened like a knife as he blamed you for that missing report—your fault, even though you know it wasn’t. The injustice of it burns behind your ribs, a slow, smouldering ache.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Breathe in. Out. It doesn’t help.

Your phone glows in the dark when you grab it, the screen too bright, too harsh. Your thumb hovers over Satoru’s contact—your best friend, the one who always gets it. Before you can second-guess yourself, you press call.

The ringing stretches, each tone a hammer to your chest. What if he’s busy? What if he—

Then, the line connects.

"Hey, Satoru," you murmur, voice fraying at the edges. You don’t even try to hide the exhaustion. "Can you come over? Or just… can I open up?" You swallow hard, pressing the phone closer, as if it could bridge the distance between you.

A beat of silence. Then—

He chuckles. Warm and familiar, the sound wrapping around you like sunlight.

"Open up your legs or your problem?"

The absurdity of it punches a startled laugh out of you, wet and wobbly. God, you missed him.