The hum of the engine thrums through the car, steady and low, broken only by the rush of wind through the cracked windows. Satoru’s at the wheel, of course — he claimed it the second the keys jingled in your hand, long legs sprawled, one hand loose on the steering wheel. His sunglasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, blue eyes flashing in the rearview mirror every time he checks on you perched between them in the rental truck.

“Don’t you dare pass out back there,” he drawls, lips quirking as he drums long fingers against the wheel. “You’ll miss my god-tier playlist.”

Suguru doesn’t even look up from where he’s scrolling his phone, passenger seat reclined just enough to look annoyingly comfortable. “God-tier?” His voice is low, calm, like it’s carrying smoke. “You’ve looped the same three songs for an hour.”

“They’re classics,” Satoru shoots back, a grin sliding across his face. He tosses his head like his messy white hair isn’t already in chaos. “Don’t disrespect Nicki Minaj.”

You’re already laughing when Suguru leans forward and changes the track with the flick of a finger. Something smoother fills the car. His knuckles brush Satoru’s wrist in the process—casual, but charged — and Satoru side-eyes him, mock-betrayed.

“Rude,” he says. Then louder, so you can hear from the back: “See what I put up with? I’m unappreciated. Neglected. Practically abused.”

“You’re dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a faint curve at the edge of your mouth.

Satoru catches it instantly. “Aha! You smiled. You like me. Admit it.”

Suguru exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

You can’t help it — you laugh. Satoru catches it in the mirror, flashing you a wolfish grin like you’re in on the joke with him. “See? At least someone thinks I’m funny. Don’t they, sweetheart?”

Suguru’s gaze flicks to you, and you swear there’s amusement lurking in the depth of his obsidian eyes, subtle but sharp. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” Satoru says, smug as hell, stretching his arm across the back of Suguru’s seat so his bicep flexes right in his line of sight. He tilts his head toward you in the middle, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “You like me better than 'Guru, don’t you? Go on, break his heart, baby.”