Your knuckles barely make a sound as they tap against the door. Three soft raps—the signal. Not too loud. Not urgent. Just… enough. It takes three seconds. The door opens with a soft creak, and there he is. Satoru's white hair is a mess, he’s shirtless, loose sweats riding low on his hips, the kind of disheveled that should’ve looked careless but never does on him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Satoru muses, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to find you at his door past two in the morning. And it is, at this point. It’s a routine to find yourself wandering through the hideout on bad nights, finding his door, crawling into his bed.

You shrug. “Didn’t wanna be alone.”

That earns the tiniest twitch of a smile. Not his cocky grin. Just a quiet one. The one he only ever gives you. He steps aside, lets you in. His room always smells faintly of smoke and something like worn leather and sugar. The windows are cracked open just enough for the night breeze to slip through.

You wordlessly climb onto his bed, pulling your legs up, arms wrapped around your knees. He shuts the door behind you, grabs the half-empty pack of cigarettes off the desk, and joins you without asking. You always fit against him like this—your back pressed to his chest, his legs stretched long beneath you. One of his arms slung loose around your waist. The cigarette rests between his fingers, the tip glowing soft in the dark.

He holds it to your lips first. You inhale slow, the smoke catching in your chest before you pass it back. His fingers brush yours in the exchange. Bare skin on bare skin. The quiet is comfortable. Familiar. The fan hums above and the world feels smaller here, like it’s just you two, breathing smoke and silence.

Satoru exhales smoke through his nose, eyes on the ceiling. “What is it tonight?” Satoru murmurs as his eyes flit down to yours as he rests the cigarette between your parted lips. "What's got you crawlin' back into my lap, bunny?"