At first, the arrangement between you had always been too simple to go wrong. Friends, shared comfort, no promises — Satoru could come and go, and so could you. He never hid the fact that he saw other women, and you never asked for explanations. But somewhere along the way, at a point neither of you could clearly identify, something started to slip. It wasn’t their fault, and it wasn’t a lack of opportunity. It was as if every time he was about to cross that line with someone who wasn’t you, the interest simply vanished, leaving behind an irritating, hollow absence. The charm was still there, the flirting still worked, but the desire faded before it could become real.

Now he was there, stretched out on the couch in your apartment, taking up space as if it had always belonged to him. His head rested against your shoulder, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his body far too relaxed for someone who once lived in constant motion. You scrolled through your phone absentmindedly, aware of the familiar weight of him beside you, a presence that felt natural — because it had become routine. He used to show up twice a week, always with stories, plans, somewhere else to be. Lately, all it took was opening the door to find that lazy smile, as if there was nowhere else he would rather be.

The change had been subtle, almost treacherous. It started with questions that didn’t sound like him — asking if you’d mind if he went out that night, if it was okay to go to a certain place, casually mentioning where he’d be and with whom. Then came the smaller things: holding up a shirt before leaving and asking if it looked good; turning down parties he would have accepted without hesitation; staying longer, talking less, watching more. The version of Satoru that filled rooms still existed, but it seemed reserved almost entirely for you now.

Other women had slowly slipped out of his focus. Messages left unanswered, invitations postponed indefinitely. And whenever you mentioned some random guy — a coworker, a name dropped casually into conversation — something shifted in the air. It wasn’t anger or control. It was a silence that lingered too long, a comment edged just enough to notice, a mood that closed in on itself without warning. He never said anything outright, but the jealousy was there, quiet and poorly hidden, contradicting everything you had never agreed to.

Satoru exhaled softly, adjusting his head against your shoulder, as if that were the most natural place in the world. He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t explain himself. But his body, the consistency of his presence, the small choices he kept making day after day said what he still couldn’t bring himself to say out loud: the arrangement might not have had rules, but his heart had already written its own.