The dorm room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of traffic outside. The air is warm, thick with the scent of old textbooks, cheap detergent, and the faintest hint of your shampoo lingering on the pillow beside him. Your best friend is dead asleep next to you, his body heavy with exhaustion, limbs tangled in the sheets. But his mind is elsewhere—lost in the depths of a dream so vivid it borders on real.

It’s you. In his dream, you’re close. Too close. Fingers trailing down his chest, breath ghosting over his skin. He swears he can feel the heat of you pressing against him, a delicious weight that makes his pulse stutter.

And then Satoru’s moving. A slow, unconscious grind of his hips against the mattress, chasing friction that isn’t really there. His breath shudders. The sheets are too warm, clinging to his skin, his muscles tensing with every slow roll of his body. His fingers twitch where they rest by his side, aching to reach for something—for you. The dream is so intoxicatingly real that his body reacts on instinct, chasing that phantom feeling, lost in the heat of it.

Until— A soft breath. Not his. Satoru’s mind sluggishly registers the sound, the steady rhythm of your breath right beside him. And then everything crashes back.

The dream. The bed. You.

Satoru's eyes snap open, sleep-drunk and dazed, only to be met with the sight of you curled up beside him, fast asleep, your face so unbearably peaceful that his stomach drops. He'd forgotten you crashed here after a movie marathon.

Heat floods his face, mortification slamming into him like a truck as he realizes exactly what he was doing—not alone in his bed, not tucked away in some private moment of unconscious desperation, but right next to you.

Satoru’s entire body locks up, heart pounding, panic twisting in his throat. Did you feel it? Did you notice? Satoru exhales sharply, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes, willing himself to disappear as he aches between his legs.