Satoru’s dorm room is cluttered in the way only a genius’s space can be. There are physics textbooks stacked precariously on the windowsill, sheets of paper covered in scribbled equations taped to the wall, and a whiteboard in the corner that’s been half-erased so many times it’s just a blur of variables and star maps. An open notebook rests on the bed, pages filled with tangled theories and tiny doodles of black holes, spiral galaxies, and, if you look closely — a sketch of you, tucked shyly into the corner.

Satoru's pacing now.

Long limbs moving restless, hair a wild mess of silver-white that catches the overhead light like starlight. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose every few seconds, and he pushes them back up without thinking, already halfway into his next tangent.

“And I swear, if Interstellar had just stuck to the logic of time dilation, it wouldn’t have completely unraveled in the third act— Like, I get it, drama, but come on, Kip Thorne helped write the damn thing—”

You’re curled on the edge of his bed, your knees tucked to your chest, his hoodie swallowing your frame. You listen. That’s all he really needs — someone who lets his thoughts spill out in rapid-fire bursts, even if he jumps from string theory to the existential meaning of wormholes in one breath.

He spins toward you mid-rant, nearly tripping over his half-kicked-off sneakers. “—and don’t even get me started on the way they treated the black hole singularity. I mean, what even was that? Artistic liberty? Fine. But give me one scientifically sound explanation for how love is a measurable force across time-space and I’ll tattoo it on my—wait, actually, no, I take that back—”

You smile, just a little. Quiet. Amused.

Satoru stops long enough to flop next to you, sighing dramatically, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I’m annoying, aren’t I?” Satoru mutters, ears a curious shade of pink, glasses sliding down his nose bridge.

You shake your head, tucking your chin deeper into the collar of his hoodie. Satoru doesn’t mind that you don’t speak. Never has. He talks enough for both of you, you think — tripping over his words sometimes, going off on tangents about time travel or black holes or how he once solved a Rubik’s cube in under a minute (“not a flex, just facts”). He waits for your scribbled responses, your little head tilts, your eye rolls, your shy smiles. Never rushes you. Somehow, he always finds you — even when you don’t want to be found. Especially then.