The lecture hall door slides open hard enough to interrupt the professor mid-sentence.

Every head turns immediately. Of course it’s him.

Satoru walks inside like the interruption belongs to him, sunglasses low on his nose, one hand buried casually in his pocket.

The other hand? Has flowers. Too many flowers.

And behind him are even more—arms overloaded w/ bouquets carried by someone who looks moments away from collapsing under the weight.

Roses. Orchids. Lilies. Soft pinks layered beside violent reds, expensive arrangements stacked one after another until the scent fills the entire room.

The professor stops talking completely. Nobody knows what to do.

Satoru walks directly to your desk. Then starts setting them down.

One. Two. Three.

By the fifth bouquet your workspace is gone entirely beneath flowers. By the tenth, people nearby are openly staring.

You close your eyes slowly.

He notices immediately. “…what?” He asks lightly.

No shame. No embarrassment.

He bends slightly, lowering his glasses just enough for bright blue eyes to meet yours directly. “I didn’t know which ones you’d like.”

A beat.

“So I got all of them.” He says unapologetically.

The room stays dead silent. He looks pleased about it. Worse—He doesn’t leave.

Instead he leans lazily against the side of your desk, towering over the disaster he created, watching your reaction like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

“…you’re making that face again.” He grins.