The soft clatter of rain against the window muffles the sound of your red pen scratching comments into a midterm essay. It’s quiet in your office, warm with the faint smell of coffee and your contraband vanilla candle. You’re halfway through a dense argument on corporate responsibility when there’s a knock — short, sharp, followed by the telltale creak of your door opening without permission. “Satoru,” you sigh without looking up.

“Hey, prof,” Satoru grins, and his voice — smooth, a little too pleased with itself — wraps around your name like silk.

He’s always been like this. All confidence and carelessness, sprawled in your doorway like he owns the place. And today’s no exception — white shirt half untucked, hoodie slung over one shoulder, dark jeans sitting low on his hips. His hair’s a mess of snow-white strands, rain-damp and pushed back from his face. Those ridiculous blue eyes — like ice under sunlight — flick up to meet yours.

“You’re late,” you say flatly.

Satoru grins, shutting the door with his foot. “You say that like it’s not part of my charm.”

He drops into the chair across from your desk, arms draped over the back like he has nowhere else to be. His presence fills the room — loud without saying much, relaxed in a way that still somehow makes your chest tighten.

“Are you here for a reason?” you ask, putting your pen down. “Or just to waste my time?”

Satoru holds up a manila folder — your name written in bold, neat letters at the top in his handwriting. “Paper draft. Wanted you to read it before I turned it in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You never turn anything in early.”

He shrugs again. Less cocky now. “Just wanna make sure it’s… good.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes then. Unspoken things. You know about his family — the distant father, the wired funds, the empty house up in the hills. You know he’s smart, driven, lonely. You know he works harder than he lets on. That the smirks and sharp wit are a shield.

You read the first page. It’s good. No, it’s sharp. Lean and articulate. Driven. Him. You close the folder slowly. “You’re smarter than people give you credit for,” you murmur, eyes still scanning the paragraphs. "It's a strong draft."

Satoru relaxes, just a little. His shoulders drop. His grin returns, easier now, like the praise is a reward. He leans in again, elbows braced on your desk. “You’re the only one I care to prove it to.”

The air shifts. Subtle, but undeniable. You glance up — and he’s already looking at you, the usual amusement dulled to something softer. Satoru works harder in your class than he’s worked for anything in his life. Not because he cares about his GPA — not really — but because your praise means something. Your approval feels like oxygen. When you look pleased with his work, it settles in his chest like something warm and solid. Something he didn’t realize he was desperate for.

“You don’t need to,” you say, quieter now. “You’ve got nothing to prove to me.”

“Yeah?” Satoru's voice drops. “Cause I think about it. Like… all the time.”

“Satoru—”

“I know the rules,” Satoru cuts in quickly. “I know I’m your student. I know this is a line.” There’s a silence that blooms wide between you. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. “I just…” Satoru exhales. “I like the way you see me.”

You look at Satoru for a long moment. At the way he leans forward without thinking, elbows braced on his knees. At the tangle of silver hair, the quiet ache behind his eyes. He’s nineteen — brilliant and lonely, a little reckless and trying so hard not to let it show.