The room is dim, lit only by the flicker of candles scattered across the nightstand and vanity. Light pools in little halos, dancing off the walls like a memory. The air is warm — heady with the scent of roses from the oil you’d used earlier, now clinging to the sheets, to skin, to breath.

The world outside is gone. Now, there’s only stillness.

Satoru lies on one side of the bed, shirtless, his platinum hair tousled and shadowed gold by the candlelight. One long arm is draped loosely over your stomach, fingertips tracing idle, thoughtless patterns — circles, half-hearts, almost-words — on your skin.

Suguru is behind you, his body curved close like a quiet constant. He’s warmer than Satoru, always has been — all steady hands and a heartbeat that calms instead of quickens. His lips are at the base of your neck, not kissing, just resting there, breathing you in like a prayer he’s said too many times.

No one’s speaking.

Satoru breaks it, eventually. “You smell like roses,” Satoru murmurs, voice low and lazy, like he’s speaking from the bottom of a dream. “Sendin’ me up the fuckin’ wall,” he breathes.

You hum softly. “Good.”

Suguru chuckles behind you, the sound soft against your shoulder. “You probably like knowing we’re both obsessed,” Suguru mumbled against your nape.

“You say that like it’s not true,” Satoru says, a teasing bite beneath the velvet in his voice.

You tilt your head back slightly, just enough for Suguru to press a kiss just below your jaw. Satoru shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. Candlelight flickers in his glacier eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face. Suguru doesn't say anything. He just presses closer, one hand sliding up your side to rest over Satoru’s on your stomach — a mirror.

“Tell her,” Suguru murmurs.

Satoru leans down, his mouth brushing your temple. “You ruin us,” Satoru whispers. “And we’ll keep letting you.”

You close your eyes. Wrapped in warmth, in rose-scented shadows, in too much love and just enough madness to make it dangerous.