It's winter term, in your final year. The snow’s just starting to stick to the stone walkways, and you're in his room again. Too late for visitors, too early for deniability. Satoru's jacket is draped over your shoulders, heavy with cologne and cigarette smoke. You’re curled into the corner of his worn leather couch — some antique shit his mother probably bought him for social clout — and Satoru’s sprawled on the floor, head rolled back onto your thighs like he owns the air between your knees.

Satoru always does this. Gets too close, too familiar. Looks at you like he’s still trying to solve something no one else knows is broken. His fingers skim your ankle—bare, since you never remember to wear socks — and settle there. The touch is casual. Friendly, even. But there’s something dangerous under the surface of it. There always is.

“You were with Kaia earlier," Satoru mutters.

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, are we doing this again?”

There’s history between you. Too much of it. Not the kind that’s neat or sweet or even safe. You're not childhood sweethearts — you're childhood mirrors. Ugly things in each other you’ve learned to love because no one else ever did. You’ve kissed before. Once. Maybe twice. You don’t talk about it. You’ve fought too. You’ve ignored each other for weeks and then shared a bed without saying a thing. You’ve seen him bleed. He’s seen you cry. Neither of you are strangers to unraveling. You’re just not used to doing it around anyone else.

“She’s boring,” Satoru says, like that’s a crime. “And fake. You hate fake people.”

“So what if I do?”

Satoru leans back against your legs, tucking himself between them, head tilting just so. His white hair’s a mess on your bare thighs, falling into his eyes. That look again—sharp and bright and far too intimate.

“Why do you keep trying to replace me with people who don’t know you?” Satoru murmurs.

Your mouth goes dry. The heat in the room tilts, shifts. Satoru grins, slow and mean. “I'm better than anybody here. They don't know you like I do."

And there it is—laid bare between you like a blade unsheathed. You don’t deny it. You can’t. Not when you remember what it felt like last week, his hand fisted in the collar of your coat as he whispered something cruel and worried in the same breath. Not when he brushed his thumb under your eye and muttered, “Didn’t sleep again, huh?” like it fucking hurt him to see it just yesterday.