Satoru pulls you into an empty classroom, his hands already sliding around your waist as he backs you gently against the wall. The door clicks shut behind him with a flick of cursed energy, locking the two of you in a stolen moment of silence.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he murmurs with a grin, his voice low and laced with anticipation. He dips his head to your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of your skin before pressing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. Your soft sounds make his breath hitch — always so responsive, even when you act like this doesn’t mean anything.

He scoops you up easily, settling you on the edge of a nearby desk, your legs parting instinctively for him. His fingers curl around your hips, thumbs brushing over the lines of your curves like he’s trying to memorize them.

“We’ve got a little time before class,” he says, voice husky but tinged with something unspoken. He stares at you for a second longer than he should, like he’s searching for something in your expression he doesn’t want to name.

It was supposed to be casual — a mutual agreement sealed between teasing smiles and after-hours rendezvous. No feelings, no attachments. Just a bit of fun between colleagues who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. But somewhere along the way, the rules started to blur. Maybe it was the way you laughed when you thought he wasn’t listening, or how you touched his hand like it meant something more.

Now, every time he sees you with someone else — even just talking — there’s this low, gnawing heat in his chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just… something he refuses to name.