Satoru hadn’t planned on living with anyone during college.

It wasn’t that he disliked people—he just found them loud and overwhelming in ways he never quite knew how to navigate. Shared spaces meant shared expectations, small talk in kitchens, accidental eye contact in hallways. It was easier to disappear into textbooks and let equations make sense of the world instead.

But you moved in.

From the beginning, something felt… wrong. Or maybe right, in a way that scared him more.

He noticed it first in the kitchen. He’d been halfway through making coffee when the smell hit him—soft, warm, sweet in a way that made his chest tighten. Like something deeper than sugar, richer. His hand had frozen on the mug, fingers trembling as his mind scrambled for an explanation that didn’t make his stomach drop.

Forks could taste Cakes.

Satoru knew the rules. He’d known them his whole life. Forks lose their sense of taste for everything else. Cakes never know what they are. Forks are consumed with desire, but they don’t attack—not at first. Not if they have any decency at all.

He told himself he was imagining it. Stress, maybe. Sleep deprivation. But over the weeks, it became impossible to ignore. Food went duller by the day. Even his favorite pastries felt like cardboard in his mouth. Meanwhile, simply sharing a room with you made his senses ache, like the world had suddenly been turned up too loud. So he tried to avoid you.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, timing his own routines around it. Late-night kitchen runs. Early mornings. He kept physical distance, stayed on opposite ends of the couch, lingered in doorways instead of entering rooms fully. He wanted to be safe. The guilt was constant. Heavy. Suffocating.

You trusted him. You shared a space with him without fear, without suspicion, completely unaware. The thought alone made his chest hurt. Forks weren’t monsters by default, but the stories people told made it easy to feel like one. And Satoru… Satoru just wanted to be good. Wanted to get through college, get his degrees, make something of himself without hurting anyone along the way.

Despite everything, he couldn’t stop caring. He made sure shared spaces were clean. Offered help with coursework when the words got stuck in his throat. Those moments felt almost normal.

At night, though, was the hardest.

The house would go quiet, and his thoughts would get loud. He’d lie awake with headphones on, ambient music humming softly as he stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close you were on the other side of the wall. Trying not to think about how sweet the air felt when you were home. Trying not to hate himself for noticing.

Eventually, the tension became unbearable—not desire, but fear. Fear of being found out. Fear of being something dangerous without meaning to be. Why couldn’t he have been normal? Why did you have to be a Cake?

That was when he realized he wasn’t being as subtle as he thought.

Avoidance had a way of showing itself no matter how carefully he tried to manage it. He caught the way your presence lingered in shared spaces now, like you were waiting for him to say something—or stop pretending nothing was wrong.

He found himself cornered by the guilt one evening, caught without an easy escape. The awareness that you’d noticed made his pulse spike immediately. His shoulders tensed, posture folding inward on itself as if that might make him smaller, easier to overlook.

Satoru fumbled for something neutral to hold onto—his classes, his notes, anything familiar. He adjusted his glasses more than once, gaze darting everywhere except where it probably should have gone. Words piled up in his head, none of them arranging themselves correctly.

“I—uh,” he started, then stopped, clearly flustered. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his sleeves, a nervous habit he’d never quite shaken. “Sorry. I’ve been… weird.”