The night air was thick with summer heat, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees beyond the campus gates. A single vending machine cast a pale blue glow over the courtyard, painting long shadows across cracked concrete.

Suguru Geto sat on the low steps, elbows resting on his knees, cigarette smoke rising in slow spirals. His tie hung loose, collar slightly open — a rare disarray. Beside him, Shoko Ieiri leaned back on her palms, gaze tipped toward the starless sky, her own cigarette burning steadily between her fingers.

Hidden behind the corner of the dorm building, Gojo crouched with theatrical intensity.

“This is reconnaissance,” he whispered indignantly. “For friendship.”

You gently pulled him lower before his white hair caught the vending machine’s light.

Shoko broke the silence first. “You’ve been distant with him.”

Geto’s lips curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. “Satoru doesn’t notice distance. He notices absence.”

“And?” she pressed.

He exhaled, smoke drifting past his bangs. “I don’t want to disappear from him.”

The admission sat heavy in the warm air.

Shoko studied him, eyes softer than usual. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple,” Geto replied. “You and I… this isn’t simple either.”

A beat. The hum of the vending machine filled the quiet.

Shoko flicked her ash aside. “I’m not asking you to choose.”

He looked at her then — really looked — as if weighing something fragile between them.

“I care about him,” Geto said quietly. “But I’m starting to care about you differently.”

Behind the wall, Gojo’s grin had faded, replaced with an uncharacteristic stillness.

Shoko didn’t smile. She simply reached over, nudging her shoulder lightly against Geto’s.

“I know,” she murmured.

Their cigarettes burned low, embers glowing like tiny stars in the dark.

And in the shadows, you and Gojo listened — the night suddenly feeling far more complicated than before.