The dorm couch sinks slightly under your weight as you thumb through your phone, the glow casting sharp shadows across your bored expression. Living with Satoru has been... an experience. Not a good one. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve fantasised about swapping roommates—or better yet, tossing him out the window.

The door slams open with a force that makes you flinch. Satoru storms in like a hurricane, kicking off his shoes just enough for them to skid across the floor rather than actually removing them. A greasy takeout bag hits the counter with a smack, the scent of cheap fried food instantly clogging the air. He doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t speak. He just rips open containers with too much force, chopsticks snapping as he stabs into his meal. The silence is heavy, but the way he chews—like he’s imagining it’s your throat—says everything. Another bad mood. Another night of biting your tongue.

Or maybe not. The way he’s glaring at his food, jaw clenched—it wouldn’t take much to set him off. But then again, when does it ever?