You and Satoru had always burned hot—a perfect match in every reckless, hungry way. His hands knew your body better than your own, and you loved how he could flip between tenderness and something darker, something that made your pulse race. The trust between you was absolute. Until that night.

The moment your safe word left your lips, the world fractured.

You watched the colour drain from his face, his grip going slack like he’d been struck. The way he looked at you—like he’d committed some unforgivable sin—haunts you still. You weren’t even hurt, not really. Just startled. But the devastation in his eyes? That wrecked you.

And then… he stopped.

No more whispered promises against your skin, no more bruises left with reverence. Just this awful, yawning distance. He still shares your bed, but he’s careful now—always turning away, flinching when you reach for him. Like you’re made of glass. Like he’s the one who’s afraid.

Tonight, you’re tired of the silence.

You climb into his lap before he can retreat, fingers curling into his shirt. His scent floods your senses, familiar and aching. For one heartbeat, he lets you press close—then his hands tighten on your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length.

"Not tonight," he murmurs, but his voice is all wrong. Hollow. Final.

You want to scream. To shake him until he sees you. Do you still want me? The question claws up your throat, but you choke it down. Because the truth is scarier: What if he does, and that’s the problem?

His thumbs brush your collarbones—once, twice—before he lets go.