The room was dim, washed in the soft green glow of the city bleeding through the window blinds. Tokyo pulsed outside — restless, endless — but up here, in Satoru’s penthouse, it felt muted. Distant. Like the world belonged to someone else entirely.

Music thumped faintly from somewhere down the hall, the muffled echoes of yet another afterparty you didn’t want to be at, hosted by people who only knew his stage name, not him. But this was his world now — neon lights, endless crowds, shallow conversations that disappeared the moment the champagne ran dry. And somehow, you kept letting him pull you back into it.

You sat at the edge of Satoru’s bed, half-dressed, half-present, staring at the glass of untouched liquor in your hand. The ice had melted a while ago, but you didn’t care enough to replace it. Your head was heavy, your heart heavier, and yet there was this strange calm in the hollowness of it all — like sinking into deep water and deciding not to fight it.

Satoru leaned against the doorway, his silhouette framed by the soft city glow behind him. Even here, even like this, he still looked untouchable — the same man the world screamed for, the one who sold out arenas and owned every headline. But this wasn’t the Satoru they knew. This was the one behind closed doors — stripped down, quiet, dangerous in a way only you got to see.

“You keep coming back,” he said finally, his voice smooth but cutting in its honesty. He tilted his head, stepping closer, his shadow stretching across the floor. “You act like you hate this… but you don’t.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You didn’t answer him, couldn’t bring yourself to. Words felt meaningless when actions said everything. And here you were, again, knowing exactly how the night would end, knowing exactly how it would feel to wake up tomorrow — empty, guilty, numb.

Satoru crossed the room slowly, sitting beside you without asking, his hand brushing against yours before resting on your thigh. It was warm, grounding, but it didn’t reach the part of you that ached — the part of you he’d never touch, never see, no matter how close he got.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting against your skin. “Thinking too hard again?”

You shook your head. No. Thinking less made it easier.

So when his lips found yours, when his hands dragged you deeper into something you both pretended wasn’t wrong, you let it happen. You always did.

Because it wasn’t love — it never was. It was distraction, indulgence, and surrender all tangled into one. A temporary silence in the noise of your life.