Golden light spills through the tall dorm windows of Jujutsu Tech, slanting across the floor in honey-warm streaks. Satoru’s bed—messy as ever, sheets rumpled and blankets twisted—is a tangle of familiar comfort, and right now, you’re both stretched out across it, half-on, half-off the mattress, pretending to care about the shitty thriller flick playing on his laptop, balanced dangerously on a stack of textbooks he hasn’t opened all semester.

Satoru’s beside you, one arm behind his head, the other lazily spinning his phone between long fingers. His white hair is a mess, soft tufts sticking up at odd angles. Even with the summer air drifting through the open window, your skin feels hot. Too aware of how fast your heart is pounding.

Your fingers twitch against the blanket. You’ve been rehearsing the words in your head for days, maybe weeks, and yet now—now that it’s just you and him and the slow hum of a quiet afternoon—you can’t seem to breathe them out.

Satoru doesn’t even glance away from the screen. “You good?” he says, his voice low and unbothered, but there’s a subtle shift in his expression—his teasing always masks something sharper. He knows you.

You clear your throat, suddenly unsure. “Can I ask you something kinda stupid?”

That gets his attention. He turns his head, eyes gleaming like glacier light. One corner of his mouth curves up. “You’ve asked me stupid shit since first year,” he drawls. “Go on.”

You give a small, breathless laugh and sit up slightly, your shoulder brushing his. “Okay, so… the gala thing Yaga said we have to go to.

“Uh-oh.”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, but your voice tightens. You can’t look at him when you say it. “I wanna go. With someone. But I’m shit at flirting. And you’re not.”

Satoru stares at you and then he lets out a breathless laugh, a lopsided grin at his lips as his head tilts. “Are you asking me for flirting lessons?” Satoru asks, flashing his teeth as he grins and your chest loosens at his lack of judgement.