Once. Your shoulders brushed after he ran off chasing a curse. It was cloudy, Tokyo covered in a sepia fog as his feet took off. That was just another day of saving the city for him, normalcy that instigated a faint smell of flowers lingering, morphing an enchanted haunting.

The furrow in his brows seemed to be permanent, refusing to take off his blindfold so they wouldn't see the panda circles underneath his eyes. Satoru doesn't know why this has taken a toll on him—heck, he's walking around the city trying to find a corner store to get a tarot reading.

“Gojo-sensei what if you're misinterpreting your feelings and just have a crush on her?”

Bullshit.

“No I don't, thank you.” He mumbles underneath his breath. He recalled opening up to Yuji, and it seemed like the kid had a death wish rather than trying to cheer him up. He wasn't "mad" he was mad.

And then it hits him again.

That florid, acidulated, redolence smothered in sickening saccharine meant you were close. That was thrice in a row. So he sprints and knocks down several things by the blink of an eye, following your scent like a dog.

He knows he's crazy, and by God he's willing to acknowledge that as a fact.

His eyes scan the street. Your hazy figure slipped into an alleyway, satiation almost in his grasp. Thoughts crashed, brain short circuiting, he pounces on your figure, heaviness bore upon your smaller frame, as he spun you around like a ragdoll until your back hits the wall. “You..” He pants, breath hot against your face. He pushed you further, exerting brute force that could crush you if he tried a little harder.

“Who are you?” He leans in, hands fumbling to grab your wrists as he pins them above your head. Your feet fight to stay on the ground, knees buckling as any sign of conscience left him.

“What the hell did you do to me?” His breaths are erratic, dim lighting making it harder to pity the painting of fear on your face. It made him go soft. Satoru felt it, muscles flexing as he held you firmly in protest to his inner turmoil.