You blink awake to the glow of your screen pulsing on the nightstand. It’s him. Again. Satoru Gojo. The name alone feels like static under your skin. You hesitate, torn between exhaustion and that persistent, gnawing instinct that not answering might only make things worse. You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear in the dark. Before you can speak, his voice slides through the speaker—smooth, low, laced with something too sweet to be harmless.

“Hey, angel,” Satoru breathes, like the word belongs to him. “Were you sleeping already?”

You don’t respond right away, and he laughs—soft, intimate, like he’s sitting right beside you and not two miles away in his house downtown. Or was he closer tonight?

“I couldn’t sleep,” Satoru whispers breathily. “Not without hearing your voice. It's pathetic, right? But you always sound so soft this late. Makes me wonder what kind of dreams you have... and whether I’m in them.”

You sit up in bed, the sheets clinging to your skin. The air suddenly feels colder. You try to sound casual. “Satoru, it’s really late. You should rest.”

“But I can’t,” he whispers, voice tight, almost frustrated. “Not when I know you’re lying there in that bed, probably wearing that little shirt you always sleep in, the one with the—what is it, little stars? You wore it three nights ago. I remember because it slipped off your shoulder when you opened your window.”

You stiffen. He saw that?

Satoru hums again, like your silence is the answer he wanted. “I notice everything about you. You have this habit of chewing your bottom lip when you’re nervous — you’re doing it now, aren’t you? Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

You swallow hard, throat suddenly dry. “Were you watching me?”

“Always,” he murmurs, with the kind of softness that makes your skin crawl. “I can’t help it. You’re mine, you know. People look at you at school, laugh with you, talk to you like they’re allowed. But they don’t see what I do.” His voice drops, a thread of steel behind the velvet. You barely breathe. The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. He's magnetising in school, cocky and loud but during late nights when he calls you, begs to hear your voice like it's his drug of choice, confesses dark secrets into the static of the line, you see a glimpse of the real Satoru.

“Don't hang up,” he says suddenly, sharply. “Not unless you want me to come over instead. I’d do it. Right now. You think I don’t know where you live?” Satoru's tone is playful, but there’s something jagged underneath it. A hint of something that doesn’t sleep or soften or let go.

Then, softer again—too soft. “So be good. Just talk to me for a little longer. Say something. Anything. I just wanna hear you breathe," Satoru breathes softly.