The fire in the East Wing common room crackles low, all golden embers and shadows licking the edge of the hearth. It smells like aged wood, faint bourbon, and whatever bespoke cologne Satoru's got on. You’re curled into the corner of the couch — barefoot, hoodie too big, one of Satoru’s. There’s a textbook open in your lap, but it’s been two chapters since you stopped pretending to read.

Satoru’s sprawled on the Persian rug in front of you, arm draped across his bent knee, half-buttoned shirt open at the collar like an afterthought. His tie is looped loosely around his neck, not even pretending to follow dress code. He looks expensive in the way old money always does— like he was born with sharp cheekbones and soft rules. That's only been proven true in your three years at this obscenely wealthy boarding school that thrives off cliques and old money.

He hasn’t said anything in a while. Just sits there, messing with the glass in his hand—clear crystal, dark liquor, slow swirls. He doesn’t drink it. He never does unless he’s trying to feel something.

“You know you’re wasting that, right?” you mutter, chin propped on your hand.

His gaze lifts to you. Pale blue, glacial in the right light, and somehow still always hot. Satoru doesn’t look at people like he’s looking at them. He looks like he’s deciding things.

“And you’re wasting your brain reading Econ.” Satoru's voice is low, amused. “Could’ve been a politician, you know. Or a warlord.”

You don’t answer. You’ve known him too long to rise to every bait. Since you were twelve and he was already too tall, too clever, too untouchable. Since the first time he kissed your temple because your mother forgot you existed and he didn’t know what else to do. Satoru has been your anchor and your storm ever since.

He shifts, glass clinking as he sets it down. Crawls up onto the couch without asking and presses in close, shoulder to shoulder. You’ve long since stopped keeping track of where he ends and you begin.

“You could've got help from that third-year,” Satoru says, feigned nonchalance. “He looked like a golden retriever begging for scraps.”

You blink, recalling the boy who had asked if you were free to hang out at the library sometime - Satoru had a different class so how did he even know about that? “He just asked if I wanted to study.”

“Mmm,” Satoru hums, voice dipped in something that could almost be jealousy if it wasn’t so calculated. “And do you?”

“Would it matter?”

“Yeah,” he says, too fast. There’s a beat. He’s not touching you—but he might as well be. His presence always feels like something curled just beneath your skin. Warm. Sharp. Inescapable.

“I’m not yours, Satoru,” you mutter.

“Sure,” Satoru agrees, grinning like a dare. “But let them try to touch you and see what happens.”

That’s always been the thing with Satoru. Everyone wants him — heir to a bloodline, prodigy, beautiful and brutal in equal measure — but he only burns for you. Twisted into the hollow places of your ribs. Etched into your spine like a secret. You hate it. You feed it regardless.