You always wore long sleeves, even when it was hot. You hid the smell of burnt skin with perfume and tried not to wince when your own skin stung.

Satoru noticed the faint smell one day. “You smell like smoke,” he said casually, raising an eyebrow.

You froze. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t push but kept watching you, noticing how you sometimes flinched when your sleeves rubbed against your arms.

One afternoon, he sat beside you. “You alright? You look like you’re in pain.”

You forced a smile. “Just stressed.”

Satoru didn’t say more. He knew better than to pry.

Later, you touched the faint, rough patches on your skin—tiny burns you tried to hide.

Satoru didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he knew something was wrong. And he was ready to help, if you ever wanted.

“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he said quietly one day.

You nodded, unsure if you were ready to explain. But somehow, that was enough.