Satoru figured it out weeks ago.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease. Didn’t poke at it like he usually would. He just noticed the small things—the way your attention shifted when Suguru entered a room, how your voice softened without you meaning it to.

It annoyed him. Quietly.

That irritation followed him now as he leaned against the glass counter of the bakery, hands tucked into his pockets while the smell of sugar and warm bread filled the air. Sundays were supposed to be easy. This one wasn’t.

“Relax,” he says, already reaching for his wallet. “I remember which one you like.”

He orders without asking, rattling off your favorite sweets like it’s muscle memory, then glances sideways at you with a crooked grin. “Lost a bet, remember? Don’t look so shocked. I keep my promises.”

The clerk slides the box across the counter. Gojo takes it, tapping the lid absently.

“So,” he adds, tone light but eyes sharp, “you and Geto have been talking a lot lately.”

No accusation. No edge. Just curiosity stretched a little too thin.

He shrugs a shoulder, smile returning easily. “Not judging. He’s great. Annoyingly calm. Thinks way too much.”

Then, quieter—but not serious enough to sound like a confession, “Just wondering if I should start trying harder.”