Satoru’s bedroom is a mess of soft light and glitter fallout, clothes tossed across the floor like they were shed mid-laughter, and the low pulse of leftover bass trembling faintly through the walls from the party still dragging on downstairs. The windows are cracked open, letting in a warm breeze thick with the smell of grass, smoke, and sweat-drenched summer.

Shoko’s perched near the headboard, legs draped lazily across Suguru’s lap. Her eyeliner is smudged to hell, but she looks effortlessly cool, like always. There’s a lit cigarette between her fingers and one of Suguru's hoodies swallowing her whole. Suguru’s half-reclined, shirt off, hair tied up messily, silver ring glinting on his finger as he exhales smoke out the window and lets Shoko tap ash into an empty Red Bull can between them.

Satoru’s on the floor with you, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out, hair a wild mess of product, glitter, and the faintest curl from humidity. His white silk shirt is unbuttoned, hanging off one shoulder, and there’s a cherry popsicle stain at the corner of his mouth. You’re curled beside him, his hand resting over your bare knee like it’s just instinct. You’re passing a bottle of warm peach schnapps between you, cheap and too sweet, but it feels right for the moment.

Outside the room, the party's still going—but it feels distant. In here, time slows. You can feel the stickiness of sweat beneath your collarbones, the scratch of someone’s glitter on your thigh, the low hum of Suguru talking again about something half-philosophical, half-insane. Someone laughs — probably Shoko — and the room fills with smoke and heat and something that smells like the end of summer.

Satoru leans in, his breath tickling your ear, his head resting on your shoulder, too soft in the mess of glitter and sharp smiles and slutty music, but you relax instinctively anyways.

"You're stayin' the night right?" Satoru mutters as his fingers slide through yours, tracing over the lines of your palm that's not holding your drink, an old habit he's never given up and you almost snort at the question because of how ridiculous it is.

You always stay over at Satoru's after parties; after good nights, after bad nights, after stormy nights because the thunder secretly freaks him out. You know his bed better than a friend should. Still the pointless question softens out your sharp edges and your fingers curl around his, squeezing on the rougher side just to feel Satoru exhale against your throat.