The afternoon air is thick with the scent of rain, the remnants of an earlier downpour still clinging to the earth. The Jujutsu Tech dorms are quiet at this hour — it’s quiet after training, the sunlight beginning to spill through the windows of Satoru’s messy dorm room, draping over you as he kisses you, arms braced on either side of your head.

This is the fifth time. Or maybe the tenth. You’ve lost count.

It always starts the same — long afternoons, conversations that get too quiet, too close. Satoru’s stupidly pretty eyes watching you in that lazy, half-lidded way that makes your pulse stumble. And then, as if it’s inevitable, his mouth finds yours, his hands trace over your skin, but never deeper than what he can excuse. Casual. Always casual with him.

Never deeper than what he can walk away from. You wonder why sometimes — if it’s a fear of abandonment, a fear of intimacy, a fear of god knows what which his clan have instilled into his veins and kept him drugged on that he can’t escape it.

Your fingers fist into the front of his uniform, to drag him closer, to keep him from running like he always does. He lets you. God, he always lets you. Somewhere along the line you started questioning how casual this way, how far this was truly two friends just messing around. Experimenting is what Satoru liked to call it. No harm in making eachother feel a little good, right?

Wrong. So fucking wrong because now he doesn’t just kiss you, now his fingers brush over your pulse delicately like he’s making sure you’re alive, now his lips find your jaw to press kisses to that small beauty mark hidden away. Small things keep piling up, small actions, small gestures — your legs thrown over his lap, a cheap arcade ring slipped onto your finger, and always, always sleeping in the same bed, regardless of if it’s one of those nights or not.

“Mm, you’re distracted,” Satoru mumbles against the hollow of your throat before finding his way back to your lips, always your mouth. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” he murmurs.