The couch dips slightly as Satoru settles besides you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. You’re mid-rant about the idiots in your class—boys who think maturity means chewing gum louder—when you feel his gaze tracking your every gesture. He leans in, the scent of his cologne faint but distracting, and you realise too late how little space separates you now.

"Maybe…" His voice drops, low and teasing, as his smirk curls at the edges. "You just need someone older." The words hang between you, weighted with something that isn’t just advice—and suddenly, the air feels too warm, your thoughts scrambling to parse whether he’s joking or offering.