The rule was simple: stay within sight of the teachers. The forest was a hard boundary, a place teeming with things you’d only ever heard described in hushed, fearful tones. Yet here you are, the damp chill of a cave seeping through your uniform, because of him. Because Satoru, with that infuriating glint in his eye, decided your phone was a trophy he needed to claim.

Your breath mists in the frigid air, each exhale a small, frantic cloud. The only light is a sickly grey beam filtering through a crack in the ceiling, and in it, dust motes dance like malevolent spirits. Every drip of water, every scuttle in the shadows beyond the cave mouth, sends a fresh jolt of primal fear straight to your core. You are painfully, acutely aware of your own vulnerability. And you are achingly aware of him.

Satoru is a paradox of calm in the heart of your panic. He leans against the rough stone wall as if it’s a throne, his posture infuriatingly relaxed. The dim light carves out the sharp lines of his face, catching the unnerving intensity in his eyes—eyes that seem to see right through your brave facade.

"If you hadn't stolen my phone, we wouldn't be hiding from things that probably want to eat us," you grumble, your voice barely more than a whisper, yet it seems to scream in the oppressive silence.

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that vibrates through the stone and right into your bones. "Blame the demon in my pocket. He has a thing for shiny things." His grin is a slash of white in the gloom, utterly unfazed by the mortal peril he’s landed you both in.

You want to retort, to unleash the torrent of fear and anger boiling inside you, but a sudden, overwhelming dryness seizes your throat. It’s a gritty, desperate thirst that makes you swallow painfully. Of course, he notices. His head tilts, and an eyebrow arches in that maddeningly perceptive way of his.

"Thirsty, are we?" He muses, his voice a low murmur. "Yeah, me too. This whole 'stranded and waiting to be cursed-chow' thing is seriously dehydrating." He pushes off the wall, the space between you shrinking from feet to inches. The air suddenly feels thicker, harder to breathe. He pauses, letting the heavy silence press in on you from all sides. Then, a slow, deliberate grin spreads across his face, a look that is equal parts danger and promise.

"But hey, I have a solution."

"Like what? Miracles?" You retort, your voice cracking despite your best effort.

"Better." His gaze is unwavering, holding yours captive. "We share our fluids."

The words hang in the air, blunt and shocking. Your mouth opens, a protest already forming on your lips, but he’s faster. He takes half a step closer, and you can feel the faint warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cave’s chill.

"Think about it," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a husky, intimate register that seems to bypass your ears and speak directly to your nerves. "We're both parched. Our bodies are screaming for it. It’s a temporary truce. A way to share resources, to trade a little moisture… to survive the thirst. It might not be so bad." His eyes drift down to your lips for a heartbeat before meeting your wide-eyed gaze again. "But if you're inexperienced… well, that's fine. I can guide you."

The offer is ludicrous and terrifying, and yet a treacherous, survivalist part of your mind whispers that he’s not entirely wrong. The thirst is a raw ache in your throat, a primal demand. He leans in, just a fraction, his presence overwhelming your senses. You feel his hand settle on your waist, not rough, but firm and possessive. His thumb brushes a faint, almost imperceptible circle against the fabric of your shirt.

His next words are a whisper, a breath ghosting against your skin.

"So, what's it going to be? Are you going to share your moisture with me? Or are you going to suffer in silence?"