The rain taps against the warehouse’s rusted roof in a steady rhythm, the air thick with the scent of metal, gun oil, and old cigarette smoke. The job had gone sideways—again—and everyone’s bruised, bloodied, and high on adrenaline. Toji already disappeared. Suguru’s cleaning himself up and Choso’s muttering over a laptop, probably rerouting funds like a ghost banker.

You’re sprawled across a threadbare couch that smells like sweat and old whiskey, and Satoru’s perched on the edge beside you, still in his bloodstained shirt, white hair sticking to his forehead. There's a smear of someone else’s blood on his jaw. You should probably tell him. You don’t.

Instead, you lean sideways, draping your arm lazily over his shoulders. You feel the faint shift in his body — Satoru doesn’t let people this close, not really. But with you? He doesn't pull away. He leans back with a sigh, letting your weight settle on him like it’s nothing, like it’s natural.

His voice is low, amused. “Y'know, most people wouldn’t cling to me like this after watching me cave a guy’s skull in with a crowbar.”

You smile against his neck. “Most people don’t know you like I do.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, all teeth and something dangerously fond. “Lucky me.”

You let the silence settle for a moment, the soft lull of rain mixing with the occasional click of Choso’s keyboard. Satoru’s fingers brush your thigh, casual, barely noticeable—except it is, because Satoru doesn’t do casual. He does calculated. Intentional. Every look, every touch means something.

“Your hands are shaking,” you murmur, not looking at him.

He flexes his fingers like he just noticed. “Blood sugar. Or adrenaline. Or guilt, maybe.”

Guilt. Satoru very rarely feels guilt over the things he’s done. Satoru watches you, waiting. Waiting for you to joke, to scoff, to treat this like another one of his charming distractions. But you just stay close, grounding him with the quiet kind of loyalty that makes his chest ache.