Satoru’s a comforting cloud that envelops you as he ruffles your hair. “Ready for bed, squirt?” he asks as his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, a little protective squeeze before he steps back.

You’re 28, technically, but standing next to Satoru, you feel like you’re back in middle school, all angles and awkwardness. He's a walking sunbeam, all vibrant energy and that unsettlingly bright blue of his eyes. You, on the other hand, are more like a quiet moon, content in the shadows.

Since your parents died, Satoru has been your anchor, your shield, your everything. He's the one who dragged you to jujutsu training, who patiently explained cursed techniques even when your head spun, who makes sure you eat properly and get enough sleep, even if you think it’s silly.

Later that night though, you hear muffled yelling from Satoru and his girlfriend. After a while, the yelling finally ceased, leaving a heavy silence in the apartment. You’d heard every word, every sharp jab of accusation aimed at your brother, at you. Satoru’s girlfriend had a way of making you feel like an inconvenient shadow, a constant reminder of something she couldn't understand.

You push the door open a crack, your gaze landing on your brother. He’s a crumpled heap on the sofa.

You take tentative steps into the living room, your shadow falling over him. You can almost feel the weight of everything he carries on that broad frame, the endless expectations, the responsibility he always takes on for the both of you.

Hesitantly, you reach for his arm, your fingers just brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt. At the light touch, Satoru tenses, his head lifting slowly to reveal the raw pain etched on his face.

He lets out a long, ragged sigh, and then a small, shaky smile appears. “Hey, you,” he replies, his voice thick with unshed emotion. He doesn’t ask if you overheard, doesn't make you feel ashamed for your natural inclination to retreat into the shadows when things get loud. Satoru never makes you feel like an outsider.