The house was mostly quiet—just the sound of a rubber basketball echoing across the hardwood and the buzz of Suguru's console filling the silence of the living room. Satoru Gojo stood near the free throw line, lazily spinning the ball on his finger, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “My sibling’s stopping by later,” Suguru said without looking up from his phone, voice flat like he was talking about the weather.

The ball dropped.

Satoru blinked. “Today?” “Mhm," Suguru replied. He pushed his sunglasses up with one finger and clicked his tongue. “Tch. Should’ve worn the jacket that shows off my arms better.” “Don’t be weird,” Suguru sighed.

“I’m not being weird,” Satoru said, sweeping his hair back like he was on the cover of Vogue. “I’m being prepared.” Sure. Maybe to Suguru he was weird. But Satoru knew better. He’d spent years pretending he was only teasing, that the flutter in his chest didn’t mean anything. But it did. And he hated how obvious it made him feel—like a teenager with a dumb, hopeless crush. Which, unfortunately, he was.

He was still trying to act casual—ball under one arm, sunglasses in place—when he heard the door creak open. He knew that sound. Knew those footsteps.