The apartment is lit only by the glow of a streetlamp bleeding through half-open blinds, and everything feels hazy-soft, edges smudged. The faint hum of traffic outside is drowned beneath your laughter — the kind that bubbles up, helpless and endless, until you’re both clutching your stomachs on the floor of the living room.

The ashtray sits on the floor, a thin wisp of smoke still rising from the blunt you’d both passed back and forth until the world felt fuzzy at the edges, warm and a little tilted, a brief escape from sorcery and missions and the crushing weight of being in your early twenties.

There’s an open tub of cookie dough between you and Satoru, two spoons jammed in like you’ve declared some kind of treaty over it. You’re supposed to be quiet — it’s way too late for this much noise — but every time your spoon clinks against his, he makes a scandalized gasp like you’ve committed treason.

“Did you just rob me of the best chunk?” Satoru says, eyes wide behind his glasses, pointing his spoon at you like a weapon.

“It was on my side of the tub,” you giggle, spoon already halfway to your mouth. “Finders keepers.”

He lunges, trying to steal it back, but he’s too slow, too lazy-limbed from the high. You shove it into your mouth with a triumphant hum and collapse backward onto the rug, kicking your feet like you’ve just won a prize.

“You’re a menace,” he groans, sprawling out next to you. His white hair is a mess against the floor, sticking out at angles, and he’s grinning so wide it aches just to look at him.

“You’re not a victim, you’re a co-conspirator,” you point out, prodding his arm with your spoon. “You’ve eaten way more than me.”

“Lies. Slander.” He turns onto his side to face you, propped on one elbow, his long fingers reaching to pluck at a bit of flour-dust still on your hoodie. “Besides, you’re lucky I’m sharing. Usually, I don’t split desserts. It’s, like, a rule.”

You snort. “What kind of monster doesn’t share dessert?”

“The hot, charming kind with impeccable taste in cookie dough,” he says with a dramatic flick of his wrist, then takes another spoonful, leaning in close like he’s about to feed it to you.

Except, at the last second he eats it himself with a devilish grin.

You gasp and shove his shoulder. Satoru collapses into laughter, head falling against your arm, shoulders shaking. You can’t help laughing too, the both of you wheezing into the messy, sugar-sweet haze of it until you’re breathless, foreheads nearly touching.

When the laughter fades, it leaves something warmer in its wake. The kind of quiet that feels like a secret. His eyes are a little glassy, his smile softer now.

“Y'know” Satoru murmurs, voice low and lazy, “if this is adulthood, I think I’m okay with it. Just you, me, and cookie dough.”