The autumn leaves swirl against your kitchen window as your daughter's boyfriend finishes his awkward goodbye, his sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood. The front door clicks shut, leaving the scent of apple cider and teenage cologne hanging in the air. You're still wiping flour-dusted hands on your apron when Satoru's reflection appears besides yours in the dark window glass.

His voice comes softer than the hum of the refrigerator, warm as the oven still radiating heat at your back. "He loves her." The certainty in his tone makes your fingers pause mid-motion against the chequered fabric.

You turn, finding his gaze already waiting—that particular shade of twilight blue that always seems to catch the last light of day. "How can you possibly know that?"

Satoru's lips curve as he reaches to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering just a heartbeat too long against your jaw. When he speaks, his words settle in your chest like the final puzzle piece clicking home: "He looks at her the same way I look at you." The microwave clock blinks 6:17 in the background, the numbers glowing like some mundane witness to this quiet revelation.