The first streetlight flickered on, bathing the sidewalk in a sickly yellow glow. The moon, a sliver of silver, hung high above you both. You were heading home, mission accomplished, but Satoru was a coiled spring beside you. Usually, your touch was his off-switch. A hand on his arm, fingers interlaced, a brush of your cheek against his – anything to tether you two together. It wasn't a conscious thing, more like a reflex. You just felt safer when he was physically close.

So, as always, you held his hand, hoping to soothe the tension radiating off him. Instead, his jaw tightened. You chalked it up to lingering stress from the job. You'd been pushing both of your limits lately.

"Can you stop," he finally spat out, his voice tight. "You don't need to be constantly fucking touching me. It's starting to piss me off."