You and Satoru only ever met in the quiet hours: the dead of night or the fragile moments before dawn. Always in private. The arrangement was necessary, though unspoken—no public outings in your city, and if you dared to venture out together, it was always far from home. Even then, a lingering anxiety hung in the air, praying no one would recognize either of you.

It was an unconventional setup for two people who couldn’t seem to stay apart. But it had to be this way. After all, you were both tethered to someone else.

So when two familiar knocks rapped on your door in the middle of the night, you already knew who it was. Opening the door, you found Satoru leaning against the frame, hands buried in the pockets of a navy windbreaker zipped up to his chin. His platinum hair glinted faintly under the hallway lights, his cerulean eyes half-hidden but still piercing. Though his mouth was obscured, you didn’t need to see his smirk—you could feel it.

You stepped aside to let him in, and the night unfolded the way it always did between the two of you: with shared whispers and stolen moments that felt both electric and devastating.

Later, tangled in your sheets, your bodies intertwined, Satoru propped himself up on one elbow, his hand lazily tracing patterns along your side. His voice was light, almost teasing, but his words cut through the air.

“When are you going to leave him? I want you all to myself.”

He said it so casually, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if the world would bend to his will, the way it always seemed to.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you countered, “When are you going to leave her?”

A soft laugh escaped his lips, full of amusement, but his expression shifted as silence settled between you. He turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Guess we both ain’t shit, huh?” he said finally, his tone lighter than the weight of the truth hanging between you.