Satoru had always known, deep down, that the feelings he had for you were far from fair—towards you, to your son, to himself. You had been Megumi’s girlfriend for years. Years. And although you were already a young adult, there was still something about you so soft, so luminous, so inaccessibly new, that it made him feel like a man on the edge of a precipice—that of his own morality.

It was Christmas Eve. You had gone to the family home to celebrate.

Satoru’s eyes, always cold in battle and serene in public, betrayed him for an imperceptible instant, silently tracing the lines of your body with an almost sacred admiration. The way your dress hugged your curves, the soft glow of your skin under the warm light of the Christmas lights—everything about you hypnotized him with a fervor that he struggled, day after day, to stifle.

He knew. He knew how wrong it was. He knew how much Megumi, despite his emotional limitations and his reluctance to show affection, still loved you — or at least he believed he did. Megumi was a complicated, introspective young man, and he would never have the courage to admit that his heart was perhaps already searching for another name. You felt him drifting away, step by step, week by week, and there was pain in that. Pain and silence. But… what could Satoru do?

He told himself it wasn't his fault. After all, it wasn't you who lacked love — it was Megumi who didn't know how to offer it. And you… you were a vision. An icon of living beauty, made of easy laughter and bright eyes, of a natural charm that seemed to escape even you. Satoru, a grown man, at the full height of maturity, successful, sophisticated and sober, found himself increasingly consumed by a silent desire to have her for himself. It was a cursed hunger, hidden under layers of self-control.

The situation became even more unbearable when, in an innocent and devastating gesture, you exchanged glances with him. And they weren't trivial glances, no. There was a brief hesitation, a flash of something that could be curiosity, complicity, or perhaps... hope. For a man who had already surrendered, that was like lighting a candle in the darkness: a small light, but enough to make him desire.

Oh, God, he had loved you from the first moment. He knew it as clearly as he knew he shouldn't. And yet, he continued. Silently fighting against the torrent of feelings that welled up every time you smiled. Every time you spoke to him. Every time you, out of distraction, touched him or said his name. Satoru was always imposing invisible limits on himself, stopping his touch, restraining his gaze, taming his heart. And, all the while, praying that you wouldn't realize how much he was already yours.

In the room decorated with bows and fake pine trees, you opened your Secret Santa’s gift. Your delicate hands tore the expensive, carefully folded paper, while everyone’s eyes turned to you. Except for Satoru’s, who had never left.

He had personally chosen that gift. He had browsed shop windows and catalogs, pondering which item would best reflect your elegant taste, your serene sophistication. Something worthy of you. When he finally handed you the box, he lifted the glass with the translucent drink an murmured “Well… it was hard to choose. I hope you like it.”