The common room at Jujutsu Tech is dimly lit, the glow from the old TV flickering across the lot of you. The place is a mess — half-empty snacks litter the coffee table, discarded jackets off the armrest, and a precarious tower of soda cans stands in the corner, thanks to Shoko’s latest attempt at art.

Satoru and Suguru are locked in a heated battle, controllers in hand, shoulders tense as their characters clash on-screen. Every so often, one of them curses or lets out a laugh, filling the room with noise. Kento sits on the floor, nose buried in a book, pretending not to care as Shoko paints her nails using the coffee table on the floor next to him.

And then there’s you, tucked in the corner of the couch, legs draped lazily over Satoru’s lap. It’s nothing new. Casual touch has always been a part of your friendship with him. He’s the type to sling an arm around your shoulder, to lean against you when he’s bored, to throw you over his shoulder just cause he can. But then his fingers move.

It’s absent-minded at first. Just a slight shift, his hand brushing over your shin as he tugs your sock back up over your ankle. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a small shiver up your spine. You tell yourself he’s not even thinking about it. He’s too focused on the game, too determined to beat Suguru. But then he does it again, smoothing his palm over your shin, his thumb tracing above your ankle before hooking two fingers beneath the fabric and adjusting it again.

Heat creeps up your neck, an unwarranted flush rising. You don’t even know why — this is Satoru. Your best friend. The same Satoru who has zero concept of personal space, who flops onto you like a human blanket whenever he’s tired, who once sat on you just to steal your spot on the sofa.

The noises blurs into the background, drowned out by the slow, deliberate way his fingers skim over your skin. No hesitation, no teasing, just easy, thoughtless intimacy.

"Okay?" Satoru mutters as he spares a quick glance at you, adjusting your sock again.