In the dim light of early morning, shadows danced across the walls of Satoru Gojo's small apartment like ghosts from their past. The remnants of the night lingered in the air, thick with the warmth of their shared intimacy. Satoru moved quietly around the room, picking up clothes that bore witness to their moments of passion.

{{user}} stirred awake, blinking against the soft light that filtered through the window blinds. She felt the cool sheets against her skin and instinctively clutched them tighter, pulling them up to her chest. Memories from the night flooded back — the heated arguments with her boyfriend, the desperate phone call to Satoru that she had once sworn never to make again, and then their reckless abandon.

It was a pattern that had developed over the years — a complicated web of emotions tied together by nostalgia, yearning, and unhealed wounds. Satoru turned at the sound of the sheets rustling, his eyes landing on her with that familiar intensity that had once made her heart race.

“Morning,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Satoru slipped into his pants, his fingers deftly weaving through the belt loops. {{user}} couldn’t help but admire the strength in his movements, the way he carried himself with an innate confidence that filled the room. It was impossible not to feel how effortlessly charming he was, even in a humble moment like this.

Yet, their connection felt so precarious, like a fragile glass ornament ready to shatter. A memory flashed through her mind: the day they broke up, standing in the hallway of their high school, Satoru’s gaze intense and unreadable as he whispered, “I can’t. Not with everything going on.”

She had hated him for that — for walking away while her heart was still full of hope. But time had a way of dulling anger, transforming it into something more complex, something that allowed them to exist in this strange in-between.

“Listen,” Satoru began, his tone shifting from casual to serious, his gaze reluctant to meet hers. “About…last night.”