The hotel room feels like a second home by now. Three years of stolen moments, whispered names, and promises you both know you’ll never keep. You should be ashamed—maybe you were, at first—but now, it’s just routine. A dangerous, exhilarating, addictive routine.

Satoru is already waiting, leaning lazily against the window, the city lights casting shadows across his sharp features. His wedding ring glints when he raises a hand, gesturing you closer like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows you’ll always come.

"You’re late," he says, voice smooth, teasing.

"You say that every time."

He smirks, but there’s something darker in his gaze, something possessive. His fingers graze your wrist, then slide lower, tracing over your own ring. "Three years, and you still wear this."

"So do you," you counter, but you don’t stop him when he lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles like he’s done a thousand times before. Like it means something.

You should walk away. You should have walked away years ago. But then he pulls you in, mouth ghosting over yours, and the truth is undeniable.

You never will.