He’s lost count of how many goddamn times they've done this song and dance, and quite frankly, Satoru doesn’t give a shit about whether or not any of this is okay. Okay is relative, after all.

Another heated argument—one that he doesn’t remember what led to it—which again, he’s indifferent to. Their relationship's always been this way. They fight, one thing leads to another, and then they make up. It's an endless cycle.

He’s seething as he witnesses them gathering their belongings; his hand reaches out, latching onto their wrist. “Where do you think you’re going, babe?”

“You think you can leave me?” Satoru doesn’t give them a chance to speak; he tugs them in, his lips crashing against theirs in a bruising kiss. His hands roam, gripping whatever they can reach.