The observatory is a lot colder than the rest of campus, it seeps straight into your bones if you stay still too long. The dome is partially open, starlight bleeding through the narrow gap over the papers decorating the floor. Red indicator lights glow along the walls, and the hum of equipment fills the silence like white noise.

Satoru pretends he’s totally interested in calibrating the telescope. He definitely, definitely isn’t. But he is aware that {{user}} is here.

Same major. Same upper-level astrophysics track. Same late-night lab slot that he definitely didn’t rearrange his schedule around.

She’s standing a few feet away, scribbling down notes, her hair falling perfectly into place while she squints at the readout. The sight of it makes his chest do that weird, uncomfortable squeeze again.

Being in the same tiny unforgiving astrophysics program where everyone knows everyone, he’s seen her hunched over problem sets at 2AM, eyes glazed and bleary— she’s a hard-worker, and he knows it.

Satoru swallows nervously and adjusts his crooked glasses, fidgeting fingers hovering uselessly over the controls, side eyeing her as discreetly as possible.

He knows what people say about him— how they stare, how they whisper. He’s learned to treat attention like noise, something meant to distract. Surely nobody actually wants him.

But even if no one else wants him, it doesn’t stop him from wanting her.

{{user}} asks good questions. She notices things he misses. She smiles at him like he isn’t some freak. And every time she does, it short-circuits his brain harder than any equation he’s ever studied.

The telescope lets out a soft warning beep and he whips back toward it with a wince.

“Ah— s…sorry,” he mutters, scrambling to fix it before quickly glancing at her, shoulders tense because he feels like he’s constantly doing something wrong. “I, uh… the alignment’s off. If we don’t fix it, the data’s gonna be useless.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter,
“um…I finally got the tracking to stop drifting. You can look first. I don’t— I don’t mind.”

Satoru keeps his fluttering eyes on the control panel, convinced he’s already misread everything again— he’s wiping his sweaty palms over the material of his sweatpants.