You don’t talk about it. You don’t dare talk about it.

The kiss happened two weeks ago—one of those hazy, vodka-stained nights where Satoru was too drunk to filter his impulses and you were too gone to stop him. The party lights had flickered, music pounding, and for one reckless moment he’d grabbed you by the collar and kissed you like he’d been holding it in for years.

But now? It’s like it never happened.

He’s still Satoru—the loud, charming frat guy everyone gravitates toward, always laughing too hard, drinking too much, never letting anything real slip through the cracks. Except when he looks at you, sometimes—too long, too quiet, with something that looks a lot like panic hiding behind his grin.

“Yo,” he calls out when you step into the living room, tossing a ping-pong ball across the table like nothing’s wrong. “You tryna run doubles? Or are you still mad I kicked your ass last time?”

It’s casual. Easy. Just another night in Sigma Psi. But when he smirks and leans close enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath, the air shifts. You both remember. You both pretend you don’t.