The apartment is dark, save for the faint glow of the city outside. You step inside quietly, toeing off your shoes, breathing out softly. You're bone-tired after work, a migraine building in your temples, throbbing every so often. Your feet carry you down the hall, toward your room, ready to crash in bed. Then you pause at the sound of Satoru's breathing coming from the room next to yours.

His door is cracked open, and you'd thought he was asleep. Clearly your roommate is awake and you sigh as you gently push open the door. “Hey, you still—”

The words die on your tongue.

Satoru's sat in bed, moonlight spilling over the dips and the curves of his muscles, his plush lips parted, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. His hand is between his thighs, fingers curling slightly, in a movement you can barely make out in the dark. But what you can see is the flicker of his phone in his hand, and a picture of you. A selfie you'd sent him the other day from work, bright and clear, clutched in his hand.

A low whine erupting from the back of Satoru's throat rips you back into the moment. A heat stirs low in your gut. Your roommate, the one you'd shared shitty wine and watched terrible romcoms with.

"Satoru-" you breathe out and watch his back muscles jump as he fumbles with his phone, head whipping back to stare at you half in his doorway.

Satoru's heart stutters, and something sharp coils tight in his gut. Fuck, he's caught.

For a second, he just sits there, staring. His chest rises and falls, his pupil dilate as they drag down your face, the exposed skin of your collarbones, swallowing thickly, shame colouring his cheeks in a pinkish hue.

“{{user}}…” Satoru breathes, ashamed, humiliated, caught. Needy.

“I didn’t know you were back,” he breathes, voice thin. Fuck, he thought you were going to come home later, not catch him with the sight of a blurry selfie of you on his phone.