Satoru was already used to stopping at the gas station every night—not that his motorcycle needed to refuel that often, but seeing that figure behind the counter was worth any detour. It was almost a ritual: he’d arrive, lift his visor, let an easy smile emerge, and watch every gesture of yours as if the world around them faded away.

That night, however, he had no intention of following the ritual. He was too determined to pretend everything was normal.

The motorcycle stopped with a deep rumble, and he didn’t even pretend he needed gas. He simply parked, removed his helmet, and stood there for a moment, looking at you as if he had already decided he wanted you. The night wind tousled his white hair, highlighting his absurdly blue eyes—and there was something different about him: a silent firmness that required no explanation.

In his right arm, besides his helmet, he carried another one: black, new, gleaming under the cold lights of the gas station.

It was a silent warning. A decision made before it was even announced.

Satoru walked toward you with slow, almost lazy steps, but completely assured. The way his eyes traced over your uniform and your hands still busy with tasks only reinforced his determination—he was tired of schedules, of excuses, of leaving you stuck there while the whole night called outside.

When you began to explain that you were still working, Satoru didn’t wait. His smile curved in a way that clearly signaled he wouldn’t accept the idea of leaving alone this time. He tilted his head, moved closer with the dangerous confidence of someone who had never heard “no” as a real option, and raised the extra helmet between you two—offering, imposing, insisting.

But before he could insist again, the colleagues around noticed the scene.

Satoru watched as one of them chuckled softly, shaking his head with amused resignation. Another dropped a clipboard on the counter and said something that, by the tone, sounded very much like permission. The two seemed more accustomed to his presence than he had imagined. In that moment, Satoru realized he had unexpected allies.

He raised an eyebrow, satisfied, when he heard one of them promise to cover your shift. His expression took on something dangerously close to triumph.

Without waiting for a response, Satoru extended his hand, firmly wrapped his fingers around yours, and pulled you toward him. The way he guided your body to the motorcycle felt too natural—like he had imagined that scene hundreds of times. He placed the helmet on you with deliberate care, adjusting the strap, checking every detail as if it were an intimate, private gesture.

Then, with the same arrogant calmness as always, he settled you on the back. Only then did he mount the motorcycle, positioning his hands on the handlebars, feeling your presence behind him as if everything was finally in its right place.

The feeling of having won that silent battle—against your work, the schedule, and even your hesitation—made a satisfied smile spread across his face.

For Satoru, that night was no longer just another visit to the gas station.