Satoru’s quiet. Not the calm, arrogant quiet he wears like a crown — the kind that says he’s already ten steps ahead. This is different. Still. Measured. Careful. He's leaning against the vanity, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind the curtain of his white hair like he’s afraid of what you might see in them. Or what he might give away.

“I’ve been thinking,” Satoru says.

And just like that, your heart starts to plummet. You stand frozen near the dresser, a half-folded shirt in your hands, your blood thudding in your ears. “Don’t.”

Satoru’s brows arch up slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Say it,” you snap, sharper than you intend. “Whatever excuse you’ve prepped in that beautiful, smug little brain. Don’t say it.”

Satoru just stares, like you’ve skipped ten pages ahead in a conversation he hasn’t even started. “I wasn’t—” he begins.

“You were. You are.” You drop the shirt, your voice rising with the frantic pulse in your throat. “You’ve been off for days, Satoru. You don’t text back, you leave before I wake up—what am I supposed to think?”

He blinks slowly, unreadable.

And you panic.

“I’m pregnant.”

You say it so fast it almost sounds like a reflex. Like an incantation to hold him still. Satoru’s head tilts. Just barely.

The silence drags.

“You’re what?” he says, voice flat. No disbelief. Just slow.

“I’m pregnant,” you repeat the lie, softer this time, like maybe gentleness will sell it better. “A few weeks. I—I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

A full beat passes. Then two.

Then he laughs. Short. Hollow. “Shit.”

You take a step toward him, but he raises a hand — not to push you away, just to keep the air between you from collapsing.

“You really thought I was breaking up with you,” Satoru murmurs.

You say nothing as your heart thumps.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to leave the city for a while,” Satoru continues, voice dangerously calm. “Just us. Maybe disappear. Because you’ve been spiraling, and I thought it might help to take you somewhere quiet.”

Your stomach drops.

“But instead,” he says, slowly stepping forward, “you lied to me. You thought I was pulling away, so you shackled me with a child that doesn’t exist.”

Satoru laughs under his breath — not joyful, but something darker. Almost pleased. “You’re sick in the head, you know that?”

“So are you,” you whisper as your fingers brush over his jaw and despite the lie, he leans into it like always.

And it’s true. You’re both far gone. This was never going to be normal. Never going to be healthy. It’s obsession wearing the skin of love, devotion threaded with control. And neither of you would leave if the house was on fire. Satoru leans in, forehead pressed to yours.

“You thought it would make me stay?” Satoru mutters, voice tight with emotion. You don’t answer.

Satoru lets the silence stretch. Then his hand cups the back of your neck, firm. “You don’t need to baby trap me. I’m chained to you with or without a kid,” Satoru murmurs.