From up here, on the balcony of some hotel, the city feels far away—like a world neither of you belong to, not really. You’re in a purple lace bra and little else, watching Tokyo below. The night air is warm, but the wind bites at your skin, making you shiver. Satoru notices. He always does.

“You cold?” he asks, voice smooth, lazy, like he’s barely paying attention. But you know better. He’s leaning against the railing, in some black boxers, pale muscle on display, back muscles sculpted, red lines criss-crossing in faint remnants of when your nails had been dragging down. You shake your head, letting the metal of the railing bite into your skin.

Satoru hums in response, standing beside you, close but not close enough to touch. He smells like expensive cologne and the lingering warmth of tonight. His blindfold is gone, leaving his eyes exposed—blue and endless, filled with something unreadable. Something that makes you ache. You keep doing this with him, keep getting pulled in by his gravity, escaping to luxury hotels and sharing nights nobody can know about.

Satoru shifts, his voice quieter now. “You’re thinking too much again,” he murmurs.

You exhale a hollow laugh. “Maybe I have a lot to think about.”

He watches you, tilting his head like he’s trying to figure you out. Like he doesn’t already know. He reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours. It’s brief, barely a touch, but it sends a spark down your spine. You should be asleep, should be anywhere but here, but neither of you want to leave. Love isn't for sorcerers; you both know that. But fleeting moments like this, where you can pretend for a moment you’re both free to do what you like, almost make it feel like enough.

“You’re acting like this means something,” Satoru murmurs, something between teasing and cruel.

You swallow, heart hammering. “Doesn’t it?”

Satoru looks at you for a long moment. Then, he smiles—the same easy grin he always has when he’s about to slip through your fingers again.

"You're cute," Satoru says like it's an answer.