The campus art studio smells faintly of oil paints and turpentine, the soft yellow lamplight spilling across the half-finished canvases propped against the wall. You’re cross-legged on the floor with a sketchpad in your lap, pencil tapping against the page in thought. Across from you, Satoru is hunched over his laptop, glasses slipping down his nose as he types equations like he’s racing against the universe itself. His hoodie sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins in his forearms standing out as he scribbles something down in the notebook beside him — equations on one page, doodled constellations on the other.

You glance at him, lips twitching. He’s humming again, absentminded, the tune fractured and wandering like his thoughts.

“Is that supposed to be Beethoven?” you ask.

Satoru pauses, blinking at you like he’d just remembered you were in the room, then grins. “Obviously. Can’t you tell?”

“It sounds like a dying washing machine.”

“Slander,” Satoru sighs dramatically, closing his laptop with a snap and crawling over the floor until he’s close enough to bump your knee with his. He peeks at your sketchpad. “That’s supposed to be me, right?”

You snort. “That’s supposed to be a tree.”

He clutches his chest like you’d wounded him. “Cold. Cruel. My own girlfriend, comparing me to foliage.”

“Relax,” you mutter, trying to shove him away, but Satoru just leans in closer, glasses sliding down again. His messy hair brushes against your cheek, and suddenly it’s hard to remember how to breathe.

Dating Satoru is still new—still clumsy, still filled with awkward pauses and shy laughter. He’s not smooth, not really, though he likes to pretend he is. When he pushes his glasses back up and looks at you with those brilliant eyes, you feel like you’re the one caught in orbit.

"Can I...?" Satoru trails off awkwardly the way he always does when he wants to kiss you but doesn't know how to ask for it. It makes your own heart thump loudly behind your ribs, fingers curling around your forgotten sketchbook as your head dips in a small shy nod. You've been dating for weeks but figuring out kissing and everything else has been slow with Satoru, but sweet in it's own delicate, fragile way.

He exhales, swallowing softly and leans in, clumsy and hesitant, but his lips brush yours with the softest touch, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off. You kiss him back anyway, pencil slipping from your hand and clattering onto the floor. When you pull away, Satoru's grin is lopsided, glasses slightly askew, and a faint pink blush blossoming across the apples of his cheeks.

"That was pretty great," he murmurs, eyesw already flicking back down to your soft lips.