Satoru ghosts you during one of the biggest party weeks of the semester. No texts. No calls. Just Instagram stories full of flashing lights and girls too close to him. You try not to look. You look anyway.

Three nights later, there’s a knock at your dorm at 3:07am.

He’s standing there in a black compression shirt, hair messy, holding your favorite overpriced takeout like a peace offering.

“You’re still awake, right?” he smirks.

You’re mad. You planned to be mad. You practiced what you’d say. Then he steps closer.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs softly. “You know you’re my favorite.”