It starts with a cheap bottle of rosé, your friends sprawled across your flat, limbs tangled and feet tucked under throw pillows, the hum of early 2000s R&B playing low from your speaker. There’s glitter on the coffee table. Someone’s pulled out a dusty photo album. And inside?

Your prom picture with Satoru Gojo. And your wedding. The one with his hair messily pinned back and your lipstick smeared on his cheek.

“You have to do it,” your best friend says, half-laughing, half-serious. “Come on, you were married. That’s premium content.”

You roll your eyes. “You lot just want to see me get humiliated.”

Another friend leans in, topping off your glass with a conspiratorial grin. “Please. He still answers your calls. Bet you anything he picks up on the first ring.”

You laugh, but your fingers tighten around your glass. It’s stupid. You haven’t talked to Satoru in months — not since the separation. Not since everything imploded between missions and misunderstandings and a hundred things that were never said. Not since you left the key on the kitchen counter of your shared Tokyo apartment and walked out into the rain.

Still… your phone is already in your hand. One ring.

And then—

“Yo,” Satoru answers. Just like that. Like it’s still you and him. Like nothing ever broke.

You freeze. Satoru's voice is the same — smooth and infuriatingly casual, a little rough from sleep. You picture him shirtless on the couch, or worse, someone else’s bed, white hair sticking up and glasses abandoned on the nightstand. But then you hear it — the shuffle of fabric, the soft exhale through his nose, and you know he’s rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye like he always did.

“…Satoru?” you manage.

There’s a pause. Then: “You good?”

You close your eyes. God. He still sounds like safety.

“Yeah, no — I mean, yes. I just…” You glance at your friends, who are now practically hiding behind the couch cushions, stifling screams. “I wanted to say goodnight.”

Another pause. This one longer. Tighter. “You wanted to say goodnight?” he echoes. “What is this — some kinda test?”

You swallow. “It’s a TikTok thing. Peer pressure. Drunk girls. I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

That low, familiar scoff. “You think I don’t answer your calls?”

You say nothing. Because you know the answer. Because Satoru always has.

In the silence, you hear the creak of his bed, the soft clink of his ring against the back of his phone. “You drinking wine?” he asks, quieter now. “You always get like this on wine.”

“Only had a glass,” you lie.

You can practically hear the tired smirk in his voice. “You always were a lightweight," Satoru murmurs, all warmth and ache.

You bite your lip. Your friends are wide-eyed, frozen. Your heart feels like it’s trying to crawl out of your throat. You smile, stupidly, privately. “Still remember how I take my drinks?”

“I was married to you. Not an intern.” Satoru pauses. “You alright'? Like actually?” The question lingers. Too familiar. And the truth is — you do still think about him. Not in the way you used to. Not with the same ache in your chest and salt in your throat. But in quiet moments. When it storms. When you’re peeling oranges. When a song comes on that sounds like cold nights and old promises.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m alright.”

You go to hang up — but his voice comes again, a touch softer: “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” The line goes dead. And you sit there, phone in your lap, heart somewhere in your throat, as your friends erupt behind you.