The sky hangs low, a heavy sweep of navy blue smeared with clouds that crawl across the dimming moon. Streetlights buzz faintly, casting pale halos over cracked pavement, glow soft and hollow like the inside of a dream.

Satoru’s phone flickers again, the glow sharp against his fingers in the dark. No new messages. The phone disappears back into his coat pocket with a practiced, impatient shove, his jaw tight as he stands under the shallow porchlight of your house. Wind tugs at the loose ends of his jacket, silver-white hair wind-tossed and slightly damp from the mist in the air. He looks tired—soft in a way he rarely lets himself be seen.

The door finally creaks open. Your mom looks tense, brows drawn at the sight of him.

“They went out,” she mutters, not unkindly, but with a clipped edge. “Couple hours ago. After some… words. Wouldn’t say where.”

He just nods. No follow-up questions. No reassurances. He doesn't need the details — he knows you. That's enough.

Moments later, his footsteps echoes down the sidewalk, steady and fast, the sound of sneakers on wet concrete weaving through the hush of sleeping houses. Street after street, row after row of fences and closed windows passed by in a blur, but Satoru doesn't slow down.

The air sharpens as he nears the edge of the neighborhood. Streetlights thin out. The fencing appears ahead — familiar, rusted through in places, the kind of place kids grow up skating until the world told them to grow out of it.

And there you are.

Alone on the edge of a slide set, your legs swinging gently over the side. A hoodie swallowing your frame, the hem brushing your thighs, hood drawn up like armor. You don't move. Don't flinch when he approaches.

The orange glow from a nearby lamp spills across your face, catching in your lashes, painting your skin in quiet tones of amber and shadow. You look still, calm on the surface, but Satoru can read the tension in the set of your shoulders, the way your fingers curl into the sleeves of your hoodie like you're holding yourself together one thread at a time.

Satoru climbs up beside you without a word. No quips. No teasing. Just the sound of his weight settling beside yours, one knee bent, the other leg dangling over the side of the pipe. The two of you sit like that for a while. The city distant and hushed around you, the world reduced to wind and wheels and breath.

He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't need to. The silence says enough. Your head turns slightly, eyes flicking toward him — not quite meeting his, but close. A glance, soft and fleeting, and then back to the horizon.

You always like to run when it gets too much. Not far. Just enough to feel like you could breathe again. Just far enough to see if anyone would follow. Satoru always did.

"You always know where to find me," you mutter quietly, and Satoru hums softly, legs dangling over the edge with yours, his foot gently nudging yours.

"I know where to look," Satoru murmurs back, feeling you lean into him slightly.