The sun dips low on the horizon as you and Satoru cruise down the highway, golden light draping the car in warmth. The wind tangles your hair, music hums from the speakers, and the city is nothing but a blur behind you. Satoru’s hand rests on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the center console, pinky brushing yours in quiet rhythm.

He's wearing those black sunglasses that make him look untouchable — cheekbones sharp, lips curved with lazy charm, white hair tousled by the breeze. He hums along to the song, tapping the side of his thigh, relaxed for once.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Satoru muses, his voice low and drawn out. “A whole day off. No cameras. No interviews. Just you.”

“You needed it,” you murmur, threading your fingers with his. “You forget you’re human sometimes.”

“I’m not,” he smirks, flashing you a grin. “I’m perfect, remember?”

You laugh, and Satoru looks at you like he could bottle up that sound and get drunk off it. Like the rest of the world doesn’t matter. Not the expectations. Not the press. Not the hate.

And then the moment shatters. An engine roars behind you, too close. Too fast.

Satoru glances in the rearview. “What the—”

You turn just in time to see it: a white sedan swerving into your lane, barreling straight at you. The driver is a girl — young, wide-eyed, and twisted with something manic. It’s not an accident. She’s aiming for you and the impact hits like a thunderclap.

Metal screams. Tires shriek. The world spins violently and the convertible jerks sideways, slamming into the guardrail. Your head whips back, airbags burst, glass rains like glitter. You taste blood. Feel it. Smell it. When you come to, the air is thick with smoke and heat. The windshield’s shattered, the car tilted at a sick angle. You can’t move. Can’t speak. Everything aches, and the buzzing in your ears is unbearable.

Satoru's crouched over you, sunglasses gone, blood smeared across his temple. His hands tremble as he touches your face, checks your pulse, cups your cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. Stay with me, baby, please— Fuck— Please.”

His voice cracks as he wipes blood away from your temple, pulling your body gently toward him. He’s trying not to fall apart, but it’s written all over him—panic in every line of his face, every tremble of his fingers. The man who walks through fashion weeks and flashing cameras like a god is unraveling in the wreckage of your shared escape.

You blink sluggishly, the pain dull and sharp all at once. He’s holding pressure to your side, his hands soaked in red. You want to ask who, but you both know. His fans. The ones who write stories about you, whisper threats, dream about being in your place. The ones who worship his image like it’s theirs to own. And one of them just tried to hurt you.

“I should’ve protected you,” Satoru breathes, voice shaking. “I never should’ve let it get this far."