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The blue light of your phone screen was the only thing illuminating your bedroom as you stared at the Winter trip! RSVP list for the tenth time. It was a minimalist app Nanami had insisted on using, and it was currently the bane of your existence.

Everyone was marked in green. Nanami, Geto, Shoko, and Haibara. They had all confirmed their rides and their grocery contributions. But there was the final name at the bottom of the list.

Gojo Satoru. Status: Undecided.

You bit your lip, thumb hovering over the screen. It had been seven months. Seven months of untangling your life from his, of learning how to sleep in the middle of the bed again, of ignoring the headlines when his firm made another billion. You were doing fine. You swear. But your hands said differently.

They scrambled to open your messages with Shoko.

you: hey is satoru gonna go on the trip? the stupid app says he’s still undecided

shoko-pie: honestly? no clue. he’s been in london for meetings & he hasn’t replied to us in days. knowing him he probably forgot the password to the app

you: i really dont want to ruin the trip if he’s going… i can just sit this one out

shoko-pie: don’t be boring >:( he’s probably 4,000 miles away & even if he does decide to come, he’ll be late and probably stay at a hotel because he’s a snob and u know it. just come!!! i need someone to help me drink this case of wine

You took a breath. He hasn’t decided. In Satoru-speak, that usually meant he had something better to do. After an eternity, you tapped the green check mark and deleted the app, desperate for some relief from the stress.

The drive to the mountains was supposed to be relieving. But as the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks and the snow began to smear the windshield into a blurry mess of white, the drive felt more like an isolation ward. The GPS led you deeper into the woods, down a gravel driveway that ended at a sprawling, cabin-style house that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.

You parked, grabbed your bags, and ran for the porch to escape the snowstorm. Inside, the house was alive. The smell of steak and expensive wine hit you first. You heard Haibara’s boisterous laughter and the rhythmic thrum of a playlist.

"I made it!" you called out, kicking your shoes off by the door. "And I brought the good vodka."

"In the kitchen!" Shoko’s voice drifted out.

You rounded the corner, a smile already forming on your face, ready to drop your bags and melt into the safety of your friends. But the smile died before it could fully form. Standing at the kitchen island, a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass of water in the other, was Satoru.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in a black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows; his hair was a mess, white strands sticking up in every direction, like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked up as you entered. For the first time in your life, you saw Satoru look utterly blindsided.

He choked on his water, coughing as he slammed the glass onto the marble counter.

"You’re here?" he gasped, his blue eyes wide and darting toward Shoko, then back to you. 

"You’re here? You didn’t even RSVP!" you snapped, the shock finally giving way to a prickling flare of anger. You turned to Shoko, who was leaning against the fridge, looking entirely too relaxed. "Shoko. You said he was going to be in London."

"He was," Shoko said, tilting her head toward Satoru. "Then he took a private jet because he missed the mountain air. He showed up like thirty minutes ago. Don't look at me, I didn’t know either."

"I checked the app before I boarded!" Satoru defended, his voice hitting that defensive pitch that always came out when he was caught off guard. "It didn't update. I thought I was safe."

"Safe?" You dropped your bag with a heavy thud.

"Well, you're both here now," Nanami’s voice cut through the tension as he walked in, looking exhausted. "And unfortunately, because you both were the last to arrive and everyone else has already unpacked, you’re the only ones left for the loft."

Your heart did a painful somersault. "The loft?"

"The house is overbooked," Nanami said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There are four bedrooms. Three are taken. Shoko has the fourth. But, there’s a finished loft upstairs with a king bed. It was supposed to be for one of you. Now, apparently, it’s for both of you."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Satoru looked at the ceiling, then at you, then at his beer.

"I can sleep on the couch," Satoru muttered. He didn’t look at you when he said it. He was focused on the label of his beer, picking at the corner with his thumb. It was a classic Satoru move, offering a sacrifice that sounded noble but was practically a dare. He wanted you to tell him no.

"Good," you said immediately, your voice clipping the end of his sentence. "Because I'm taking the bed."

Satoru finally looked up, his eyebrows arching. He’d expected a fight, or at least a polite are you sure?

"Right," he said, a slightly forced smirk spreading across his face. "The couch it is. I'll just… You know… Fold myself into a crane or something. It'll be a fun challenge."

"Satoru," Nanami interrupted, his voice like a cold splash of logic. "The couch in the loft is a mid-century loveseat. It’s barely five feet long. Your legs are basically the length of the entire thing."

"I'm very flexible, Nanami," Satoru chirped, though the bravado felt a little thinner than usual. He glanced at you, his blue eyes searching yours for a hint of softening. "Unless you're worried I'll get a cramp and have to scream for help in the middle of the night?"

"I’m worried you're going to spend the whole weekend sighing loudly so everyone knows how uncomfortable you are," you countered, crossing your arms. "But that's your problem. I’m not sharing a bed with you."

Shoko cleared her throat.

"Well, now that the seating chart is settled," she said dryly, "let's eat. I didn't spend three hours on this spread to watch it get cold while you two play chicken."

The dining table was a polished slab of oak that seemed to stretch for miles, even though Satoru was sitting directly across from you. The air in the cabin was warm, smelling of roasted garlic and the expensive wine Shoko had been pouring with a heavy hand, but to you, the air had felt thin. Oxygen was hard to come by when every breath felt like it was being shared with him.

You kept your eyes on your plate, tracing the ceramic pattern with your fork. You didn't trust yourself to speak. If you opened your mouth, you weren't sure if a sob or a scream would come out, so you settled for a practiced silence.

"So, Satoru," Geto chirped, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting beneath the table. "How was the London trip? Did you actually do any work, or did you just spend the whole time playing tourist?"

"Work, unfortunately," Satoru replied. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its typical theatricality. "Meetings, contracts, the usual boring stuff."

"It couldn't have been that boring," Nanami interjected, his voice calm and clinical as he cut a piece of steak. "You seemed fairly distracted when we had dinner last month. I assume it was that woman you were seeing? The architect?"

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

The architect. The words echoed in your mind, loud and distorted. You felt a cold, prickling sensation crawl up the back of your neck. You didn't look up, but you could feel Satoru’s gaze snap to you, then away, his silhouette tensing in your peripheral vision.

Of course, he’s seeing someone. You were exes; he’s allowed to see other people. It’s been months. He’s Satoru Gojo. He doesn't sit in empty apartments and wonder why the silence is so loud. He fills the space. He moves on. He finds an architect. You pictured her, someone with clean lines and a logical mind. Someone who didn't fight him about how he pushed people away. 

"It was just a few dinners, Nanami," Satoru said, and you could hear the subtle edge of a warning in his tone. "Nothing worth mentioning."

"You mentioned her plenty at the time," Nanami said, entirely without malice. He was just stating facts, his mind already moving on to the next topic. "You said it was nice to be with someone who didn't know your history. You know, a fresh start."

A fresh start. You wished the wine in your glass were poison, but when you lifted it to your lips, it betrayed you by tasting like nothing more than wine. You felt Shoko’s eyes on the side of your face, the perceptive gaze that saw through every one of your defenses, but you refused to crumble. You stared at a small knot in the wood of the table, memorizing its shape, its grain, anything to keep from looking at him.

You wondered if he took the architect to that Italian place. The one with the dim lighting where he’d first told you he loved you. Or maybe he was smarter than that. Maybe he was building a whole new world where you didn't exist as a ghost, or even as a mere memory.

"The food is great, Shoko," you finally said, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. It was the first thing you’d said in ten minutes.

"Glad you like it," Shoko replied, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She knew. They all knew. The silence that followed was heavy with the collective realization that a wound reopened without anyone meaning to touch it.

You fled upstairs under the guise of exhaustion, the wooden steps creaking under your feet like a countdown. After you got ready for bed, the loft settled into a silence that felt unbearable. The skylight showed a world of black and gray, snow falling against the glass in a frantic pulse.

You heard him coming up the stairs a few minutes later. You didn't turn around. You stood by the sliding door, watching a single snowflake race down the glass. Satoru entered the room, and the space immediately felt half its size. He didn't say anything. He went straight to the small loveseat in the corner. You heard the rustle of his bag, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor.

"You're not going to fit on that," you said, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

"I'll manage," he said. He sounded tired. Not the tiredness that comes after a long flight, but the bone-deep weariness of a man who was tired of his own skin.

You finally turned. He was sitting on the tiny sofa, his knees nearly hitting his chest, his long arms draped awkwardly over the sides. He looked absurd. He looked like a giant calico critter in a minuscule dollhouse. You climbed into the bed, the sheets cold against your skin. You rolled onto your side, facing the glass door, putting your back to him. The silence was so thick you could almost hear the thoughts racing in his head. Or maybe they were yours.

Creak. He shifted his weight. Thud. His heels hit the floor as he tried to find a place for his legs. Sigh. A shaky exhale that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the mattress. You gripped the edge of the duvet, your knuckles white. You wanted to tell him to shut up. You wanted to tell him to sleep in his car. But mostly, you wanted to ask him if that damn architect made him laugh.

"The snow’s really coming down," Satoru said. His voice was thin, stripped of its usual richness. It wasn't an opening for a conversation; it wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It was just a hollow observation, a way to puncture the suffocating silence before it choked him.

"I can see that," you whispered. You didn't turn around. You didn't want him to see the way your eyes were stinging. Another long, agonizing stretch of time passed. You heard him stand up, the floorboards groaning under his height. You tensed, your fingers curling into the fabric of the duvet. You expected him to walk toward the bed, to explain, to lie, to say anything about the architect that would make it hurt less.

But he didn't.

He walked to the sliding glass door and pushed it open just a few inches. A sudden, sharp blade of mountain air sliced into the room, smelling of ice and dead pine. It was cold, but it was better than the recycled air of the loft. He stood there, a towering silhouette against the ghostly white of the storm outside. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. 

He looks lonely, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow. You wanted to hate him for the fresh start. You wanted to be disgusted that he’d tried to replace you with someone logical. But as you watched him stand there, looking out into a white-out that offered no answers, all you felt was the echoing grief of two people who had forgotten how to exist in the same space.

The draft from the balcony vanished as Satoru slid the glass door shut. The click of the lock felt final, echoing through the muffled silence of the snowy night. You watched his silhouette move, a dark shape against the pale moonlight reflecting off the drifts outside.

He didn't even look at the loveseat. He didn't try to make it work a second time. Instead, he walked past the foot of the bed toward the linen closet in the corner. You heard the door creak, the rustle of him pulling out one of those complimentary, cheap, scratchy wool blankets, the kind that were meant for decoration, not for comfort.

Then, the sound of him sinking.

It wasn't a graceful movement. It was the heavy, thudding weight of a man who had reached his limit. You heard the rustle of the wool as he spread it out on the hardwood floor, right next to the bed. The floor. Your heart twisted. Satoru Gojo, a man who spent his life surrounded by the finest things, who slept on silk sheets and lived in penthouses, was lying on a dusty wooden floor because the air between you was too toxic to breathe.

You lay perfectly still, your eyes wide in the dark. You could hear everything. The soft friction of his hoodie against the floor. The sharp, chilly exhale as he tried to find a position that didn't hurt. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a rhythmic protest.

You wanted to tell him to get up. You wanted to tell him that you weren't that heartless, that the king-sized bed was big enough for two people who stayed on their own sides. But the words were stuck in your throat, choked by the memory of Nanami’s voice. A fresh start. If Satoru wants a fresh start, you’ll let him have it. Let him feel the cold. Let him feel the hardness of the floor, just like you’d felt the hardness of the silence he’d left you with seven months ago.

But as the minutes ticked by, the silence of the snow outside seemed to seep into the room. The house was dead quiet. And then, you heard it.

A shiver.

It was faint, the involuntary rattle of his teeth, the sharp intake of breath as his body tried to generate heat. The loft was poorly insulated, and with the heater struggling against the mountain storm, the floor was likely ice-cold. 

Don't look, you commanded yourself. He’s a grown man. He made his choice. But you knew Satoru. You knew that even when he was freezing, even when he was miserable, he would never admit it. He would stay on that floor until his bones turned to ice just to prove that he could. He was stubborn, arrogant, and currently, he was shivering three feet away from you.

You rolled onto your stomach, staring at the dark heap of him beside the bed. He was curled on his side, his long legs tucked in, the thin blanket barely covering his shoulders. He looked like a shadow of himself.

"Satoru," you whispered.

The shivering stopped instantly. He didn't move. "Go to sleep."

"You're going to catch pneumonia."

"I'm fine," he said, his voice tight and vibrating with the cold he was trying to hide. "The floor is... solid. Good for the back."

"You're a bad liar," you said, your voice cracking just a little. "You're freezing."

He finally shifted, rolling onto his back to look up at the dark ceiling. In the faint light, you could see the glint of his eyes. He looked exhausted. "Even if I am, it’s better than the couch. And it’s better than..." He trailed off, the rest of the sentence, better than being near you and knowing I can't touch you, hanging in the air between you, heavy and unspoken.

"Satoru," you said, your voice louder this time.

The shivering stopped, but he didn't answer. 

"Get up," you commanded, sitting up and pushing the heavy duvet aside. The cold air of the loft immediately bit at your shoulders, giving you a taste of what he’d been enduring for the last half hour. "Get off the floor. Now."

"I told you, I'm-"

"If you say you're fine one more time, I will actually kick you," you snapped. You reached down, grabbing the corner of the scratchy wool blanket he was huddled under and yanking it. "Get in the bed. It’s a king, Satoru. Stay on your side and don't say a word. Just get up before you get sick."

A long silence followed. Then, the agonizing sound of him unfolding his cramped limbs. He stood up, his tall frame a wavering shadow in the moonlight. He looked unsteady, his shoulders pulled up to his ears as he shook.

He didn't argue. He walked to the empty side of the bed and climbed in, moving with a cautiousness that was entirely uncharacteristic. He stayed right on the edge, his back to you, leaving an empty expanse of white linen between your bodies. As he settled, the mattress dipped under his weight. The heat radiating off him was immediate, even through the distance. He was like a furnace that had been left out in the snow.

"Thank you," he whispered. His voice was raw, the bravado finally extinguished by the cold.

"Don't thank me," you said, pulling the duvet up to your chin and rolling onto your side, facing away from him. "I just don't want to explain to Shoko why there’s a frozen corpse in the room tomorrow morning."

Logically, the problem was solved. He was warm; you were safe. But the physical proximity was torture of its own. You were acutely aware of him. You knew exactly where his heels were resting, the way his shoulders took up too much space, the rhythmic puff of air against the pillowcase.

For seven months, you had practiced the art of not thinking about his scent, that mix of expensive laundry soap and something uniquely him. Now, it was filling your lungs, digging up memories you had worked so hard to bury.

You thought about the architect again. Did he hold her the way he held you? Did he pull the covers over her shoulders in the middle of the night? The fresh start Nanami mentioned felt like a physical wall between you, thicker than the two feet of mattress separating your spines.

Satoru shifted. The bed creaked.

"You're still awake," he murmured. It wasn't a question. He always knew, after months, he still had a sensory map of you that he’d never quite be able to forget.

"It's hard to sleep when there's a giant in the bed," you replied, your voice flat.

"I'm staying on my side."

"I know."

"I really didn't know you were coming." He spoke to the ceiling, his voice low and vibrating through the mattress. "If I had known, I wouldn't have put you in this position."

"It doesn't matter," you said instead. “We’ll be out of here in a few days, and we can go back to pretending we don’t exist to each other.”

A heavy silence followed. You expected him to agree, crack a joke, or fall asleep. But he didn't.

"Is that what you've been doing?" he asked softly. "Pretending I don't exist?"

"It’s the only way to move on, Satoru. Some of us don't find architects to fill the gaps."

You regretted it the second it left your mouth. It was too revealing; it showed him exactly where the wound was. You heard him turn over, the mattress groaning as he shifted to face your back. You didn't move, but your heart began to hammer against your ribs.

"So that's what this is," he said, and you could hear the realization in his voice. "Nanami and his big mouth."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"There is no architect."

"Well, no- there was an architect," Satoru said, his voice flat, echoing against the slanted wooden ceiling. "I went on dates. I sat through dinners."

You waited for the punchline. You waited for him to say he missed you, or that it was a mistake. But the silence stretched, filled only by the muffled thud of snow sliding off the roof.

"And?" you finally prompted, your voice barely a whisper.

"And nothing," he said. He let out a heavy breath that sounded like a tire losing air. "I didn't like her. Not like that. Not even a little bit, really. She was perfectly fine, but we had nothing to talk about once we got past the what do you do for a living part. I sat there for two hours checking my watch and wondering if I had enough milk in the fridge for coffee the next morning."

A strange, bitter knot formed in your stomach. You should have felt relieved. You should have felt a sense of victory that the architect hadn't won. But instead, you felt worse. He tried to find a way out, but he just found a wall. But what if he had broken through the wall and discovered there was still something worth saving on the other side?

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you asked, turning your head to look at him. The moonlight reflected off the white snow outside, casting a pale light over his features. 

"No," Satoru said, turning his head to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dull in the shadows. "It wasn't for you. It was for me. I wanted it to work. I wanted to be that guy who goes on a date with a professional woman and has a nice, professional life. I wanted to be someone who doesn't come to a cabin in the mountains and spend the whole night staring at the ceiling."

He shifted, his arm brushing against the duvet.

"But I’m not that guy," he continued, a hint of his usual edge returning, though it was tinged with self-loathing. "I’m just me. And she was just her. It was a chore. Everything feels like a chore lately."

You looked back at the ceiling. Everything feels like a chore. You understood that feeling. Since the breakup, your own life has felt like a series of boxes to check. Wake up. Go to work. Eat something that doesn't require much cleaning. Call Shoko. Sleep. Repeat. You hadn't gone on dates with architects, but you had spent plenty of nights staring at your phone, wondering if you should download dating apps, only to realize the thought of explaining your favorite movie to a stranger felt like climbing a mountain.

The architect wasn't a threat because she was better than you. She was a threat because she was proof that Satoru was trying to be done with you. But it still upset you, because the fact that he failed didn't mean he was yours again. It just meant you were both stuck in this liminal space, unable to move forward and unable to go back. Seven months of thinking he was off living some grand, redesigned life, only to find out he’s just as stagnant as you are.

"Why did you come, Satoru?" you asked. "If you had any doubt, why didn't you just stay in London?"

"I told you," he said, and for the first time, he sounded defensive. "I wanted the mountain air. I wanted to see Shoko, Geto, and you know, everyone. I’m allowed to have friends."

"You didn't come for the air."

"Fine," he snapped. His presence was suddenly a physical heat. "I came because I was tired of the silence. I was tired of feeling alone. I thought seeing everyone would make me feel like a person again. I didn't think you’d be the one assigned to the loft. I thought I’d be drinking with Geto until 4:00 am and sleeping on a rug."

"Instead, I'm here," he whispered. "With you."

With the windows cleared of the night’s heavy snow by a sudden gust of wind, the loft was instantly flooded with a light so white and aggressive it felt like a physical weight. You squinted, the back of your eyes throbbing with the remains of a restless sleep.

For a second, you forgot. You reached out to pull the duvet higher, your hand sweeping across the vast expanse of the king-sized mattress, until it hit something warm and solid.

You froze.

Satoru was still there. He had drifted during the night; now he was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his white hair a chaotic halo against the pillowcase. He looked younger when he was asleep, the cynical lines of his face smoothed out by the sheer exhaustion of the night.

You watched him for a moment, your heart doing a painful roll in your chest. Even in sleep, he looked like he was bracing for something. You pulled your hand back, sliding out of the bed with the stealth of a thief. But every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot. You grabbed your bag and ducked into the bathroom, the click of the lock the only thing that made you feel like you could breathe again.

The bathroom was freezing, the tiles like ice under your bare feet. You stared at yourself in the mirror. You looked exactly how you felt. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were puffy, and there was a faint, lingering scent of sandalwood on your skin, Satoru’s cologne. You dress in layers, anything to create a barrier between your skin and the world. When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bed.

He was awake, staring at the floor where he’d tried to sleep just a few hours earlier.

"Morning," he said. His voice was a gravelly wreck, a remnant of the cold and the late-night talking.

"Morning." You didn't look at him. You focused on zipping your bag. "Shoko's probably making coffee. We should go down before she starts screaming."

"Right." Satoru stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his hoodie lifted, revealing the lean strength of his torso, a sight that used to be as familiar to you as your own reflection. He caught you looking. "You okay?"

The house was full of the domestic sounds of people who hadn't spent the night wrestling with the ghosts of their exes, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the air.

"Look who’s alive!" Haibara shouted from the stove, waving around a spatula. "We thought we might have to send a search party into the loft."

Shoko was at the kitchen island, leaning on her elbows and holding a mug. Her eyes flicked from you to Satoru, then back at you again. She didn't miss the way you were standing three feet apart, or the way Satoru was unusually subdued.

"How was the couch, Satoru?" she asked, her voice dripping with dry amusement.

"The loveseat is a war crime," Satoru said, sliding into a chair at the far end of the island. He reached for the coffee pot, his movements slow. "I’m pretty sure my spine is permanently shaped like a question mark."

"I told you to take the bed," Nanami said, not looking up from his newspaper. "But you always were a fan of unnecessary drama."

You sat next to Shoko, clutching your cup like a lifeline, “Ready to snowboard, ‘Ko?”

The group moved like a bright, noisy wave down the ridge, but Satoru remained hushed. He didn't speak. He didn't offer the hand you’d expected. He simply adjusted his goggles, the reflective surface hiding his eyes, and kicked off his board.

You followed. The sound of the mountain was dominated by the sound of steel edges carving through the crusty top layer of snow. In the silence, every other sound was magnified: the wind whistling through the vents of your helmet, the rhythmic puff of your own breath, and the confident thud of Satoru’s board landing a jump a few yards ahead of you.

He’s not even trying, watching the fluid way his body shifts. You remembered a time when he would have been doing spins just to make you laugh, or spraying you with a wall of snow as he skidded to a stop. Now, he was just a black silhouette against the blinding white, a memory in high-end gear. You hated how much you still knew about him. You knew by the way he was standing that his left knee was probably aching from the cold. You knew that he was thirsty but was too stubborn to ask for the water bottle tucked in your side pocket. 

He looked back then, his goggles catching the sun. For a second, you thought he was going to say something. The air felt heavy, expectant. You prepared your "fine" and your "I’m okay," ready to shut him down before he could start.

But he didn't speak. He just gave a single, curt nod, a "you good?" translated into a movement, and then he dropped over the edge of the next steep incline, disappearing into a cloud of white powder.

The slopes stretched ahead, sun glinting off untouched powder and jagged edges, trails weaving through the forest like ribbons of white. Shadows from the pines cut across the snow in sharp lines, and the crisp mountain air carried the faint scent of pine and ice. Every incline and drop seemed alive, waiting silently for someone to carve through it. Riders streaked down the slopes, leaving trails of powder in their wake. A blur of neon jackets and helmets darted between trees, carving tight turns and launching off hidden lips. Laughter and shouts bounced off the cliffs, mingling with the hiss of boards on snow and the occasional thud of a wipeout.

The teenager in front of you had been a blur of fluorescent neon and bad judgment for the last three runs. He was doing 180-degree flat-ground spins on a crowded trail, catching edges and laughing with a group of friends who were filming him on their phones.

You saw him a split second before the world turned upside down.

He tried a trick he didn't have the balance for, caught the front edge of his board, and became a human projectile. He slammed into your side with a sickening thud, the weight of his momentum sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the hard-packed snow shoulder-first, your helmet bouncing off the ground with a hollow crack that echoed inside your skull.

For a few seconds, the world was just white noise and the smell of churned-up ice.

"Hey! Watch where you’re going!" the kid yelled, his voice cracking with the defensive adrenaline of someone who knew they were wrong. He was already scrambling up, more worried about his GoPro than the person he’d just attacked.

Then, the air in the valley seemed to drop ten degrees.

Satoru decelerated with a violence that sprayed a wall of ice over the teenager. He was off his board before the mist had even settled. He didn't look at you first; he looked at the kid.

"Hey," Satoru said.

It wasn't his playful voice. It wasn't the voice he used in boardrooms or the one he used to tease Shoko. It was a vibrating growl that made the teenager freeze mid-sentence. Satoru stepped into the kid's personal space, his towering height casting a predatory shadow over the neon jacket.

The kid went pale, his mouth hanging open. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't see her!" the kid stammered, his eyes darting to you where you lay in the snow.

Satoru didn't acknowledge the apology. Not even a second later, he was on the ground beside you.

"What the hell happened?" Shoko and Geto slid to a halt beside you, their boards throwing up twin sprays of snow. Shoko was off her gear in an instant, her medical instincts overriding the vacation haze.

"Kid was being a moron," Satoru snapped, not looking up from you. "Check her shoulder, Shoko. She hit the ice hard."

Shoko knelt on your other side, her cold fingers expertly feeling along your collarbone. "Deep breaths," she muttered to you, her eyes flicking to Satoru. "Relax, Satoru. You’re vibrating so hard the snow is melting under her."

Geto stood over the group, his arms crossed as he watched the teenager and his friends scurry away down the mountain. He looked back at Satoru with a heavy expression.

"I'll go talk to the patrol. Satoru, let Shoko work. You’re crowding her."

"She’s fine," Shoko announced after a moment, though her face remained serious. "Strained joint, maybe some bruising. But we’re done for the day. Let’s get her back to the house and get some ice on this."

"I'll carry her," Satoru said immediately.

"I can walk," you protested, trying to sit up, but the world did a slow, nauseating tilt.

"You're not walking," Satoru said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. He looked at Shoko, then at Geto, a silent communication passing between the three of them. Satoru slid his arms under you, lifting you with an ease that made you feel small. He didn't look at the mountains. He just looked at you, his jaw set in a line of unadulterated terror that he was trying and failing to hide.

The cabin was warm, smelling of cedar and the leftover coffee from the morning, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Satoru had carried you through the front door as if you were made of glass, ignoring your protests and Geto’s quiet suggestions that he let you sit on the chair. Instead, he deposited you directly onto the kitchen island counter, his hands lingering on your waist a second too long before he stepped back, pacing the length of the tiles like a caged animal.

"Ice," Satoru muttered, his movements jerky. He started opening cupboards at random. "Where is the—?"

"Bottom drawer of the freezer, Satoru. Same place it’s been since we got here," Geto said, leaning against the doorframe. He looked at you with a knowing exhaustion. He knew Satoru was spiraling; he’d seen this version of his best friend before, usually right before something, or someone, broke.

Shoko walked in, having already shed her snow gear. She dropped a medical kit on the marble counter next to your hip and pointed a finger at Satoru.

"Out," she said simply.

Satoru froze, a bag of frozen peas in one hand and a dish towel in the other. "I’m helping."

"Go pace on the porch. Go anywhere that isn't here while I check on her.

 "I'm staying," Satoru said, his voice dropping into that stubborn pitch. He didn't look at Shoko; he looked at you. 

"Satoru," you said softly, your first words since entering the house. "I'm okay. Just let Shoko work."

He flinched at the sound of your voice. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders was so high you thought he might actually snap. Then, with a sharp, frustrated exhale, he slammed the peas onto the counter and walked out, his boots thudding heavily as he retreated toward the living room. Geto gave you a small nod and followed him, likely to keep him from putting a fist through a wall.

The silence that followed was heavy. Shoko began to gently peel back the layers of your sweater, her hands cool and steady. You hissed as she manipulated your shoulder, the pain sharp and hot.

"Deep breaths," Shoko murmured. "Nothing’s broken. Just a nasty strain. You’re going to be colorful tomorrow."

You watched Shoko work, your mind drifting back to the mountain, the way Satoru had looked.

"He hasn't slept, you know," Shoko said suddenly, not looking up as she taped a cold compress to your skin.

"What?"

"Since the breakup. He acts like he’s fine, better than fine, actually. The dates, the London trips." Shoko finally looked at you, her dark eyes tired. "But I’ve seen him when the lights go down."

"Everything is a chore for him right now," Shoko said, packing her kit. "He’s never learned how to be alone. Seeing you hit the snow today, I think it broke the last bit of his resolve. He’s in the other room trying to figure out how to be your ex when he clearly still feels like your boyfriend."

She patted your knee and stood up. "Don't let him back in here until you're ready to deal with him."

The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled voices of Geto and Haibara out on the porch, discussing the snow chains for the tires. Satoru didn't barge back in. He lingered in the doorway first, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He had taken off his heavy outer gear, standing now in just his black t-shirt. 

"Shoko says you'll be fine," he said. His voice was casual, but there was a softness to it that hadn't been there all weekend. He walked over to the counter, not standing too close, and picked up the bag of frozen peas he’d discarded earlier.

"I heard her," you said, shifting slightly on the counter. The pain in your shoulder had settled into a manageable throb. "It’s just a bruise. I’ve had worse."

"Yeah," he murmured. He reached out and gently nudged the ice pack Shoko had taped to you, making sure it was centered. It was a small gesture. "You always were a bit of a magnet for trouble on the slopes. Remember that time in Switzerland?"

A ghost of a smile pulled at your lips despite yourself. "I hit a tree, Satoru. A very large and stationary tree."

"And you tried to apologize to the tree," he added, a genuine huff of laughter escaping him.

The silence that followed wasn't the sharp, jagged one from the night before. It was comfortable.

"Nanami’s a gossip," Satoru said suddenly, leaning his elbows on the marble island beside you. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking at his own hands. "He makes it sound like I’m out there building a new life. I wasn't. I was just... bored. And lonely, I guess."

"I know," you said quietly. "I think we both are."

"She didn't get my jokes," he said, tilting his head to look at you. His blue eyes were clear, the frantic energy from the mountain gone. "I’d say something, and she’d just look at me like- I don’t even know."

You looked at him and saw the man you’d left. He hadn't changed, but the space between you had. "I'm going to drive your car back when we go home," he said, shifting back to that helpful tone. "Your shoulder is going to be too stiff to handle the gear by the time we hit the highway. Geto can drive my car."

"Satoru, you really don't have to-"

"I want to," he interrupted, pushing off the counter. He reached out and briefly, almost tentatively, squeezed your hand. It was a quick touch, gone before it could become something, but the heat of it lingered on your skin. 

He walked out, his steps light on the wooden floor.

The next morning arrived with a stillness that only exists in the mountains after a storm. Because of your shoulder, the planned hike for today was scrapped, and the group fell into a lazy, unhurried rhythm that felt like a throwback to your university days.

The afternoon dissolved into a haze of board games and competitive bickering. You were glued to the sofa, propped up by a mountain of wool pillows, watching as Geto and Satoru nearly came to blows over a game of Monopoly. It was a sight you’d seen a thousand times, Satoru leaning back with a smug, infuriating grin as he bought up every utility on the board, and Geto methodically counting his remaining cash with a dangerous, quiet focus.

"You're cheating," Geto said, his voice a calm contrast to the way he was crushing a small plastic hotel between his fingers. "There is no physical way you rolled three doubles in a row with those dice."

"It's not cheating, Suguru, it's destiny," Satoru chirped, though he didn't look at the board. His eyes flicked to you every few minutes, checking the height of your ice pack or the way you were shifting your weight.

Later, the games were pushed aside for a makeshift lunch. Shoko sat on the floor by your feet, peeling oranges and passing the slices up to you without a word. There was a comfort in the silence, the kind that only comes from people who have seen each other at their worst and decided to stay anyway. You watched Haibara try to teach Satoru how to knit with a pair of pencils and some spare twine, a disastrous endeavor that ended with Satoru accidentally tangling himself in a limitless knot of yarn.

You realized then that while Satoru had been looking for a fresh start in London, he had left the only people who actually knew how to handle his edges right here in this room. You caught his eye as he struggled with the yarn, and for the first time all weekend, he didn't look away. He just gave you a small, sheepish shrug; the most powerful businessman in the country was defeated by six feet of cheap acrylic wool.

The next day, you welcomed your last night at the cabin. The snow had stopped, leaving the mountain in crystalline perfection. In the fire pit behind the house, Suguru had built a blaze that roared against the freezing night air, the orange light dancing off the snowbanks like flickers of gold.

Everyone was gathered around. Shoko was wrapped in three blankets, nursing a glass of whiskey, Haibara was trying to roast a marshmallow to a perfect golden brown, and Nanami was staring into the flames with the profound exhaustion of a man who knew he had to be back at his desk in thirty-six hours.

You were tucked into a low porch chair, your injured shoulder propped up by a cushion. And Satoru, in his typical fashion, wasn't sitting in a chair. He was perched on the stone rim of the fire pit itself, the heat of the flames at his back, his face half-hidden in the shadows.

"I don't want to go back," Haibara sighed, his marshmallow finally catching fire. "I think I could live here. Just me, the snow, and enough cocoa to drown in."

"You'd last three days before you missed the city's noise," Shoko deadpanned. She flicked an ash toward the fire and looked at you. "How’s the shoulder holding up?"

"It’s fine," you said, the word feeling familiar now. "Just stiff."

You felt Satoru’s eyes on you. He didn't say anything, but he reached into the cooler at his feet, pulled out a fresh bottle of water, and leaned over to set it on the small table next to your good arm. It was a silent, casual check-in, the kind that didn't require a thank you.

You watched the sparks fly upward, disappearing into the black void of the mountain sky. This was always the part of the trip where the real world started to bleed back in. Tomorrow, you’ll be in your apartment. Satoru will be in his. You won’t be sharing a loft or a kitchen island. You looked at Satoru. He was poking at a log with a stick, his expression unreadable. 

"I think I'm moving," Geto said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

The group shifted. Even Satoru looked up, his interest piqued. "Moving where?"

"Further downtown. Closer to the park," Geto shrugged. "New start. The old place has too many ghosts."

He didn't look at anyone when he said it, but the implication was heavy. Everyone at this fire had ghosts. You all were untangling yourselves from the lives you've lived together for a decade.

"Ghosts are fine," Satoru said, his voice surprisingly soft. He tossed the stick into the heart of the fire. "They remind you that you actually lived somewhere. The new places are just empty. No matter how much logic you put into the blueprint." He wasn't looking for a fresh start. He was just trying to find a way to live with the ghosts he already had.

"I like my apartment," you said, finding your voice. "Even the ghosts. They make it less quiet."

Satoru’s head tilted toward you. For a second, the rest of the group seemed to fade into the background. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, the slight curve of a smile that wasn't arrogant.

"Yeah," he whispered. "The quiet is the worst part."

The loft was colder on this final night, the heater downstairs finally giving up against the sub-zero mountain air. The skylight was a dark window into a universe that felt much too big, and the only sound was the heavy thump of snow sliding off the roof.

You were already under the covers, your back to the empty side of the bed. Your shoulder was throbbing in a way that made sleep feel like a distant country.

The floorboards groaned.

You didn't turn around, but you felt the mattress dip as Satoru climbed in. He didn't hesitate tonight. He simply slid under the duvet, his movements slow and careful, mindful of the invisible line that still ran down the center of the bed. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just lay there in the dark, two silhouettes in a house full of sleeping friends.

"I'm not going to pretend I didn't see you hit the snow the other day," Satoru said suddenly. His voice was low, vibrating through the mattress and into your spine, cutting through the heavy silence of the loft. The incident had happened days ago. The board games, the shared meals, and the quiet afternoons on the sofa had happened since, but hearing him say it days after made the pain in your shoulder flare up again.

"And I'm not going to pretend," he continued, his tone dropping into a jagged tone, "that seeing you hurt hasn't been the only thing I've thought about every second since. It made me want to level the entire mountain just for being under your feet."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Satoru, it was just an accident."

"It wasn't just an accident to me," he murmured, and you felt him shift in the dark, his heat drawing closer to you. "It was a reminder that I’m not there anymore. And I haven’t been able to breathe right since."

"I'm not asking for anything," he whispered, and for once, his voice lacked any hint of his usual arrogance. "I know we’re where we are for a reason. And I know I’m a lot to handle."

You rolled onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. "It wasn't just you. It was both of us. We just… ran out of room."

"Yeah," he murmured, propping his head up on his hand. He wasn't crossing to your side of the bed, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "But this room feels pretty big tonight."

You looked at him in the shadows. His eyes looked softer, more vulnerable without a veil. You wanted to say it. You wanted to tell him that you’d spent the last seven months looking for his face in every crowd, or waiting for him to call your phone again. You wanted to tell him that hearing about him trying to move on had felt like a physical wound.

But you didn't.

Because a confession wouldn't fix the reasons why he’d left. It wouldn't fix the way his life tended to swallow yours whole, or the way the silence between you sometimes felt like an abyss. Instead, you just let the air exist between you.

This is enough. Being able to breathe in the same room is enough.

"We're leaving early tomorrow," you said, your voice finally steady. “We need to leave before the next snowfall hits.”

"I'll have the car warmed up," Satoru replied. He reached out, his hand hovering over the sheets between you. He didn't grab your hand; he just let his fingers rest on the mattress, an inch away from yours.

"Thank you."

The morning was a blur of frantic packing and the smell of exhaust fumes in the freezing air. 

You were in the passenger seat of your car, your arm in a sling, watching Satoru load the last of the bags into the trunk. He moved with that same effortless grace, his white hair bright against the morning sun. He looked back at the cabin one last time, then hopped into the driver's seat beside you.

"Ready?" he asked, his hand on the gear shift.

"Ready," you said.

As the car pulled out of the gravel driveway, you looked in the side mirror. You saw Shoko and Geto standing on the porch, waving as the house got smaller and smaller. Satoru didn't look at you as he drove, but he reached over and turned on the seat heater for you without being asked. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, navigating the winding mountain curves with a focus that felt like a promise.

The highway was a grey ribbon cutting through enclosures of white powder. Inside the car, it was warm, almost too warm. Satoru drove with a relaxed precision, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. The silence was comfortable until his phone, currently mounted on the dashboard, buzzed with a persistent vibration.

He glanced at it, a flicker of that familiar, high-stakes focus crossing his face.

"Don't," you said softly, staring at the passing trees. "It's Sunday, Satoru."

"It's the Tokyo-Hong Kong merger," he muttered, though he didn't reach for the phone. "They’ve been trying to close the logistics gap for six months. If I don't answer, they’ll lose the window for the spring quarter."

The words hit you like a physical weight. The spring quarter. The logistics gap. It was the same language, the same tone, the same relentless urgency that had been the background noise of your entire relationship.

"It sounds just like the Singapore deal," you said, your voice sounding flat even to your own ears.

Satoru’s grip on the wheel tightened. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Singapore deal had been the beginning of the end. It was the night of your third anniversary, the night he’d left you at a table for two for five hours because the so-called window was closing. By the time he’d come home, exhilarated by the win, you’d already packed half your clothes.

"I remember," he said quietly.

"You came home at 3:00 am," you continued, "you were so high on the adrenaline of the deal that you didn't even notice I was sitting in the dark. You started telling me about the contract terms before you even asked why I wasn't in bed."

"I was doing it for us," he said, but even he sounded like he didn't believe the lie anymore. "I thought if I just finished that one, if I just secured that last bit of the market, I could finally stop."

"But you never stop, Satoru. That’s the problem. There’s always another window, another quarter, another merger.” He hasn't changed, you realized. He still hears the buzz of the phone like a siren call. You thought about the months after the breakup, how the silence of your apartment had been terrifying at first, but then it had become a relief. You didn't have to check your watch. You didn't have to wonder if a meeting was more important than your dinner plans.

But seeing him now, driving your car, caring for your injured shoulder... It was a reminder that the man who forgot your anniversary was also the only man who knew how you liked your seat heater set. It was a cruel, complicated thing.

"I didn't take the Hong Kong call last night," Satoru said suddenly.

You turned your head to look at him. "What?"

"In the loft. My phone buzzed three times while you were asleep. I didn't answer it. I didn't even check the preview." He glanced at you, his eyes honest. "It’s not much, I know." But it's a start. I’m trying to learn how to separate work and my life."

You noticed the way his thumb traced a small arc on the steering wheel, a restless habit he only had when he was truly present. You felt a strange, flickering sense of safety in the shared space of your car. Satoru was quiet, his profile sharp against the passing streetlamps, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The highway had slowed to a crawl, a sea of red brake lights reflecting off the slushy pavement. Inside the car, the heater hummed a steady note that made the world outside feel distant and unimportant. It was a fragile peace, but it was enough to make you want to offer him a piece of the life you had built in his absence.

"I’ve started going to the supermarket on Sunday mornings," you said. The statement was so mundane it almost felt like a challenge to the air in the car. Satoru didn't jump in with a joke; he simply tilted his head, eyes still on the car in front of him, letting the silence open up to receive the words.

"At 8:00 am," you continued, watching the rhythmic arc of the windshield wipers. "The city is dead then. I spend twenty minutes picking out the right kind of apples. I stand in the aisle and read the labels on things I don't even plan to buy. It’s calm, and it’s slow."

Satoru let the car roll forward a few inches as the traffic breathed. "That sounds... peaceful."

"It is," you said, turning your head to look at him. "I used to think I needed a lot of noise and a lot of movement to feel like I was getting somewhere. But lately, I’ve found that I’m perfectly fine just being the person who knows which grocery store has the best light in the morning."

You didn't mention the mornings you used to spend with him. You didn't mention the late dinners or the missed calls. You just gave him a glimpse of the person you had become while he was away.

"I think I’ve forgotten how to do that," Satoru said softly. "Everything I do has a deadline. I don't think I’ve looked at an apple in three years. I just eat whatever someone puts in front of me between meetings."

"You should try it," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips. "But find your own store. I like having mine to myself."

Satoru let out a real, bright laugh, “fair enough."

He watched the reflection of the red brake lights in the rearview mirror and felt the jagged edges of his own restlessness finally begin to blunt. For the first time since he’d packed his bags for London, he wasn't thinking about the next quarter; he was just thinking about the way your voice sounded when you talked about something as simple as apples. It was a terrifyingly quiet realization, but it gave him the courage to offer up a piece of his own clumsy attempt at a life without you, a small, unpolished truth that he hadn’t even told Shoko.

"I tried to buy a plant last month," he said.

"A plant?" you repeated, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on your shoulder. "You don't even have a watering can, Satoru. You’re never home long enough to even keep a cactus alive."

"I know," he said, and for the first time, there was no defensive edge to his voice. "I stood in the shop for like forty-five minutes. The guy kept asking if I needed help."

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, a restless motion. "I ended up leaving with nothing. I realized I didn't know if the windows in my new place even got enough light. I’ve lived there for like six months, and I couldn't tell you which direction the living room faces."

You watched a single snowflake melt against the side mirror. In the past, you would have filled that silence. You would have told him which plants were easiest, or offered to go back to the shop with him. You would have managed his life for him, because that’s what you did; you were the anchor.

But now, you just listened.

He’s realizing he doesn't know how to live. It wasn't a satisfying realization; it was just sad. He was the most powerful man in his field, a person who could move markets with a phone call, and he was defeated by the orientation of his own windows. It showed how much of his life had been a carefully constructed stage: work, you, and nothing else. Take away his work, and he feels empty. Take away you, he’s not only empty, but he doesn’t even know where to begin with a plant.

"My apartment has south-facing windows," you said, your voice quiet. "The light is great for ferns. But they’re finicky. You’d have to mist them every morning."

"Every morning," he repeated, as if memorizing a mantra. "That sounds very consistent."

The car crawled another few feet, the wipers clearing away a fresh layer of sleet. The city felt closer now, the air was getting thicker with the hum of sirens and the smell of wet asphalt.

"How was London?" you asked. It was a neutral question, the kind you’d ask a distant colleague.

"Gray," he said after a moment. "It was mostly just gray."

"The city or the meetings?"

"Both." He let out a dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "I stayed in a hotel for three weeks. Five stars. Floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see the entire skyline, but I spent most of the time staring at the minibar and wondering why the television had so many channels."

"Nanami said you were doing great," you said, looking at his profile.

"Nanami sees what he wants to see," Satoru replied. He looked at the red brake lights ahead. "I did the work. I met the people. I went to dinners at those places where the plates are too big, and the portions are too small. I even went to museums on my off days because I thought I was supposed to be expanding my horizons." He paused, his jaw setting.

"I stood in front of a massive oil painting in a museum for forty minutes. I tried to feel something, inspiration, awe, even just boredom. But all I could think about was that the room was too cold and I didn't have anyone to tell about the weird brushstrokes in the left corner of the canvas."

You could almost hear your own voice in that cold museum air, whispering a joke about the artist’s messy technique just to see the corner of Satoru’s mouth twitch. He was lonely, you can tell. The kind where you have all the money and power in the world, but no one to share a mediocre museum trip with. You thought about the London trip you both went on years ago, how you’d dragged him to a tiny bookstore in the rain, and he’d complained the whole time until you bought him a hot chocolate. Back then, the gray didn't matter because you were the color in his world.

"Did you find what you were looking for there?" you asked softly. "In the museums? Or the dinners?"

"No," he said, and the finality in his voice was absolute. "I was still me. I was still the guy who works too much and forgets to eat. London didn't change the architecture of my head. It just taught me a different view of my life."

The traffic finally broke, the red river of brake lights dissolving into the familiar, flickering lights of your neighborhood. The transition felt jarring; the mountain’s muffled white world had been replaced by the metallic screech of the subway and the smell of exhaust and damp concrete.

Satoru pulled the car up to your parking spot in your apartment building. He didn’t kill the engine immediately; he let it idle, the vibrations of the car a low hum between you. In the harsh, yellow glow of the parking structure, he looked exhausted.

"We're here," he said softly.

"We're here," you repeated.

He stepped out of the car and walked around to the trunk. You watched him through the side mirror, his tall frame cutting through the parking garage’s shadows. He moved with quiet efficiency as he lifted your bag. He met you at the passenger door, holding it open as you navigated the parking lot with your stiff shoulder. He didn't reach out to grab you, but he stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body.

"I'll walk you to the elevator," he said.

The lobby was bright and smelled of floor wax. The doorman gave you a professional nod of recognition, a sign that your life here had continued without interruption while you were away. Satoru sets your bag down by the elevator bank. He looked out of place in the lobby, too large and too vivid for the beige walls and the quiet atmosphere.

"Take the ice pack Shoko gave you," he said, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. "And don't try to unpack tonight. It’s just clothes. They can wait."

"Right."

He nodded, his eyes lingering on the bandage visible at the collar of your sweater. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something about London, or the grocery store, or the months of silence, but he caught himself. He wasn't going to break the peace.

"I'm gonna call my Uber now. I’ll also see if I can find that supermarket of mine."

"Good luck," you said, and for the first time, the smile you gave him was entirely real. "Try green apples first. They’re harder to mess up."

He let out a short, genuine huff of laughter. "I'll keep that in mind."

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open with a mechanical sigh. You stepped inside and turned around. Satoru was still standing there. He didn't wave, and he didn't wait for the doors to close. He just gave you that same, curt nod from the mountain, a silent acknowledgment that the space between you was still there, but at least it was peaceful.

As the elevator rose, you watched the floor numbers climb in the silence. You walked into your apartment, dropped your bags, dropped your keys on the bowl by the door, and listened. It was empty. It was calm. You moved through the rooms in a daze, turning on lamps that cast long, lonely shadows and adjusting a stack of mail you didn't care about, trying to reclaim the space that had felt so vital to your independence just a few days ago. To fill the calm you claimed was so healing, you found yourself chasing the low hum of the kitchen lights and throwing the windows wide, desperate to let the frantic honks of the city traffic drown out a quiet that had become far too loud.

You had only been home for twenty minutes. The radiator was still clanking as it struggled to wake up while you stood in the kitchen staring at the kettle on the stove. Yet, even with the artificial buzz of the apartment and the outside, it was still too quiet; the world couldn't compete with the deafening roar of your own mind, replaying every look Satoru gave you and every word you’d left unsaid.

But then, the knock came.

It wasn't the measured tap of a neighbor. It was heavy, hurried, and persistent. Your heart did a slow, painful thud against your ribs.

When you pulled the door open, Satoru was standing there, still in his coat, his hair tousled by the wind. His eyes were wide, bright, and terrifyingly bloodshot, as though he hadn’t spent his time waiting for his Uber at all, but fighting a silent war with himself and losing instead.

"I can't do it," he said, his voice raw. He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into your space, forcing you to back up into the hallway. "I took one step outside, and I realized I was just going back to an empty box of an apartment. I’m tired of being alone, I’m tired of the silence."

"Satoru, we talked about this-"

"No, you talked. I listened. And I tried to be the guy who could just let you leave." He let out a frustrated breath, his hands shaking as he reached out, not to touch you, but as if he were trying to grab the tension between you. "But I’m not that guy. I sat in London for weeks thinking about how to be better, how to be less, how to be someone who doesn't leave you at the table."

He moved closer, his height suddenly overwhelming in the small confines of your apartment. He looked smaller than he ever had, in the way that his shoulders were hunched, the way his gaze was searching yours with a terrifying vulnerability.

"Please," he whispered. The word was a wreck. "Don't make me go back to where I don't even know which way the windows face. I don't want a fresh start with anyone. I don't want a fresh start at all. I want the mess we had. I want to try again, but actually try this time."

You wanted to tell him that he was too late, seven months too late. But as you looked at him, you saw the man who had stayed awake in a freezing loft just to make sure you were comfortable. You saw the man who had watched you hit the snow and looked like his soul had left his body.

"It won't be different just because you want it to be," you said, your voice trembling. "Work is still there."

"I'll give it up," he said instantly, an irrational edge to his voice. "I'll give the mergers to Nanami. I’ll quit the firm. I’ll go to the supermarket at 8:00 am every single Sunday for the rest of my life if it means I get to come home to you."

He took a step forward, finally closing the gap. He dropped his forehead against your good shoulder, his weight leaning into you, his hands clutching the fabric of your sweater like a lifeline.

"Just a second chance," he choked out against your skin. "A real one. Please. I’m dying out here."

You didn't say yes. You didn't throw yourself into his arms. Instead, you reached up, your fingers grazing the damp strands of his white hair.

"Go sit on the sofa," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "The tea is almost done."

The kettle whistles in the kitchen, a domestic scream that cuts through the raw tension of the hallway. Satoru didn't move. He stayed hunched over, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breathing ragged. He was waiting for a verdict.

"Go sit down, Satoru," you said again, your voice firmer this time.

He obeyed, though he moved like a man in a trance. He walked into your living room and sank onto your couch, the one he’d helped pick out years ago, the one that still held the faint indentation of where he used to sit. When you walked in with the mugs, the air was different. In his place was just a man in a damp hoodie, looking at your bookshelves as if they were a foreign language he was desperate to relearn. You set his sweet tea on a coaster and sat in the armchair opposite him. You needed the distance to think.

"You can't give it all up, Satoru," you said, cutting through the silence. "Don't lie to me. You’d be miserable in a week if you didn't have a market to move. I’d have to watch you fade away."

"I don't care about work anymore," he argued, his voice cracking. "I told you, London was gray. Everything is gray."

“Because you think it’s all or nothing. You think you’re either the most powerful guy in business or you’re just a guy buying apples. The reality is, I wanted a partner. I wanted someone who understood that the meetings weren’t more important than the person sitting across from him at dinner."

"If we do this," you said, your voice dropping an octave, "there are no more windows to close. There are no more midnight mergers that I find out about in news articles. You don’t get to be Mr. Gojo in this apartment. You just get to be Satoru. And Satoru has to show up."

Satoru looked at you, the blue of his eyes finally focusing, sharp and clear. "I’ll show up. I’ll show up every day until you’re sick of me. I’ll pass the Hong Kong deal. I’ll pass all of them if I have to. I just... I just need you. Please."

You looked at the space on the sofa next to him, the space you’d kept clear for months, even when you told yourself you were moving on.

"Come here," you whispered.

He didn't hesitate. He set the mug down with a clatter and was across the room in a heartbeat, but he didn't grab you. He knelt on the floor by your chair, his hands resting on the armrests, looking up at you with a hope so fragile it made your chest ache. You reached out, your fingers sinking into the white shock of his hair. It was soft, cool from the city air, and so incredibly familiar that it felt like a physical homecoming.

"We aren't fixed," you warned him, even as you leaned down to press your forehead against his. "It’s going to be hard. You’re going to mess up, I’m going to mess up and be angry, and the world is still going to try to pull you away."

"Let it try," he breathed, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. "I’m not going anywhere again." He stood up then, pulling you with him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He was heavy, solid, and warm, a stark contrast to the cold gray of the mountain. You held him back, your good arm hooked around his neck, finally letting the weight of the last seven months drop.

The radiator in your bedroom was clicking a rhythmic pulse, and the city outside was a muffled hum of distant sirens and falling sleet.

Satoru was asleep. Truly asleep. Not the guarded rest he’d been having the last few months. He was sprawled across the mattress, his heavy limbs taking up nearly three-quarters of the space. You lie on your side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your shoulder was still stiff, a dull reminder of the collision, but the ache in your chest had finally quieted.

Then, the nightstand vibrated.

The sound was sharp and intrusive, the aggressive, persistent buzz of a high-priority work alert. In the silence of the room, it sounded like a siren. You didn't move, but you felt Satoru’s body tingle beside you. His eyes didn't snap open, but he shifted, his hand moving instinctively toward the noise.

The screen of his phone lit up the room in a cold glow. You could see the preview from where you lay: Tokyo Logistics – Final Confirmation Required. Urgent. It was the window. The one he had told you about in the car. The one that used to be more important than your sleep, your dinners, and your life together.

Satoru’s fingers brushed the phone. He squinted at the screen, the blue light reflecting in the iris of his eyes. You held your breath, the old fear, the one about the Singapore deal and the three years of being second best, rushing back into your throat.

He’s going to take it, you thought. He’s going to slip out of bed, go into the kitchen, and be Mr. Gojo again.

But Satoru didn't take the call.

He didn't even unlock the phone. He looked at the notification for a split second, his jaw tightening, and then he did something he had never done in the three years you were together. He swiped the notification away, pressed the button to silence the ringer entirely, and flipped the phone face-down on the wood of your nightstand.

The blue light vanished. The room returned to the heavy darkness. He turned over, his large frame shifting toward you. He didn’t say anything; he just buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

The sunlight hit the kitchen tiles in a sharp, geometric slant, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was 7:45 am on a Sunday. Three months ago, this hour would have been a hollow victory, a quiet apartment, and a solo trip to the store. Now, it was a negotiation.

Satoru was leaning against the counter, still in his sleep-muddled state, his white hair a mess of static and gravity. He was staring at the grocery list you’d stuck to the fridge with the intensity of a man deciphering a high-level security code.

"We don't need the organic apples," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "I checked the ones in the bowl last night. They’re still crisp. It’s the milk we’re low on. And that specific granola you like that always sells out by nine."

You leaned against the doorway, a mug of that tea in your hands, watching him. He was just Satoru, the man who now knew exactly which shelf held your favorite snacks and which burner on the stove was the finicky one.

"You’re over-optimizing the grocery run again," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"I’m not over-optimizing," he countered, finally looking at you. The blue of his eyes was soft. "I'm applying logistics to the most important deal of the week. If we miss that granola, the whole morning ecosystem collapses."

It wasn't always this light. There were still nights where the phone vibrated at 11:00 pm, and you saw that familiar and sharp hunger for the win flash in his eyes. There were days when your shoulder ached from a long day at work, and you found yourself snapping at him just because he took up too much space in a room. Last Tuesday, he stayed late at the office. You’d sat at the dining table, the food getting cold, and felt the familiar bile of the Singapore deal rising in your throat. You’d almost packed a bag. You’d almost called Shoko to tell her it was a mistake.

But then, at 8:30 pm, the door had opened. He hadn't come in with excuses about the workload. He had walked straight to you, dropped his bag, and sat on the floor at your feet.

"I'm late," he had said, resting his head on your knee. "I let the meeting run over. I’m sorry. I'm learning."

And that was the difference. He was a man who was willing to be seen failing, as long as he was failing in your direction.

"Ready to go?" Satoru asked, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door after you both got ready for your usual Sunday routine. He’d added a small keychain of a tiny mountain, a silent ode to the winter trip mistake that had started it all.

"Ready," you said, reaching for your coat.

As you walked to the elevator, he reached out and took your hand. It was a firm, grounding weight. It was an anchor. The city was waking up below, the same gray, frantic world he had tried to outrun. But as the elevator doors opened and you stepped out into the 8 am light, you realized that in the end, Satoru didn’t have to quit his job or dismantle the parts of himself that made him, him. You also didn't have to be perfectly okay with every late dinner or missed phone call.

The work meetings still ran over, and the phone still buzzed at dinner, but you stopped looking at those moments as reasons to leave. He learned to stop treating his life like a series of winnable contracts, and you stopped trying to make yourself small enough to fit into the gaps of his schedule. You just learned how to exist alongside the parts of each other that were simply always going to be there. It wasn't a perfect fix, but it was finally enough to just be home.

( you’re not sure if you’re anticipating the breakfast satoru’s making or just the excuse to be near him again. it’s probably the latter. it’s always the latter )

the kitchen is quiet — too quiet — for a sunday morning. satoru’s usually humming to himself while he cooks. but no chords or melodic notes carry to your ears as you pad towards him.

he’s standing at the stove, his back to you. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to register your presence despite the floorboards creaking as you approach him. the easy smile that was forming on your lips freezes, then slowly melts away.

“morning ‘toru,” you murmur, it sounds more like a hesitant question than a greeting.

he flips a pancake with a sharp flick of his wrist. it lands perfectly in the pan, a flawless golden circle. “hey,” he replies, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. a single, clipped word. no ‘mornin’ sleeping beauty’, no teasing about your hangover. nothing. . .

a cold knot forms in your stomach, completely unrelated to your nausea. you lean against the kitchen island, suddenly feeling unsteady on your feet. “smells good,” you offer.

“pancakes,” he says, still not turning. he gestures with his spatula towards the bowl of fruit on the counter. you don’t want them. not really. you want him to turn around. to look at you with those ridiculously blue eyes, to crack a joke, to do anything normal. he’s too quiet

“‘toru,” you start, his name feeling foreign on your tongue. “are you okay ?”

he finally turns, and the sight of his face makes your breath hitch. his expression is unreadable. his eyes, usually so bright and full of light, are a dull blue. they don’t crinkle at the corners. they don’t hold any of their usual mischief. it feels like they’re looking right through you.

“i’m fine,” he says, a lie so blatant it’s insulting. “just tired. . . how did you sleep ?”

“okay,” you murmur, rubbing your arms, feeling suddenly exposed in just your t-shirt and shorts. “thanks for. . . picking me up again and taking care of me.”

“what are friends for ?” he hums, and the words shock you. it’s a phrase he’s never used before. he’d usually say : he’d do it all over again. and that someone has to save you from the assholes you seem to attract. he’d ruffle your hair and you’d squirm and play fight until his cheeks are flushed and your chest is heaving.

but today he just slides the ceramic bowl across the counter towards you without a word.

it’s a work of art. tangerine segments with all the bitter white pith carefully peeled away, crisp apple slices, glistening with a sheen of freshly squeezed lemon juice to prevent them from turning brown. ripe mango chunks, impossibly orange and sweet, and plump strawberries, all the green leaves meticulously plucked off. you can’t help but grin.

( he really does know you like the back of his hand )

your smile soon wavers because for once satoru’s not talking to you as he fries the pancakes. no prodding about the date, no gentle teasing about your terrible taste in men. you’re genuinely confused because he’s usually so loquacious in the mornings, a running commentary of bad jokes and complaints about the economical and political state of the world. but he seems to be so far away, lost in a world you can’t see

“these are perfect,” you murmur, popping a strawberry into your mouth. the saccharine juices explode on your tongue. “you’re the best ‘toru”

“i try,” he responds, his voice clipped. not ‘of course i am’. not ‘you’re lucky i love you so much, prepping your fruit is a pain in the ass.’ none of your usual banter.

( it’s like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world instead of being here in your kitchen. anywhere else in the world instead of here with you )

you’re thrown off kilter by it, the typical rhythm of your friendship is suddenly syncopated and strange. it’s like hearing a song you know by heart being played in a minor key.

he serves you a stack of perfect pancakes, golden brown and fluffy, their edges crisp. and immediately starts cleaning up. he’s scraping leftover batter into the sink, loading your dishwasher. washing his hands, drying them on a dishtowel. all the while his back is still to you.

he doesn’t set down a plate for himself. there’s nothing for himself today. he usually sits right beside you — his thigh brushing against yours, thumb smoothing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as he hangs on to your every word and you tell him about your date in detail — but today he seems hellbent on keeping his distance from you. on keeping his voice to himself.

( he never cleans up this quickly. never talks this little. never avoids your gaze as if you’re the last person on earth he wants to look at. why is he being so weird ??? )

“gotta head out,” he says, finally looking at you. “sorry. suguru and i are going to the gym.”

your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. you look so disappointed it almost kills him. he swears he can feel the chambers of his heart caving in because your lip is quivering and you look so confused. he has half a mind to sit down and kiss you until the crease in your brow disappears. to sit down and tell you how he feels. but he’s positive he doesn’t stand a chance. and it’s fucking killing him.

“it’s sunday,” you frown. he never goes to the gym on sundays. sundays are for pancakes and bad movies on the couch. sundays are for you. plus, he’d said he was tired. none of this is adding up.

“the grind never stops,” he shrugs. you’re in disbelief as he leans over and gives you a side hug, a brief, awkward press of bodies before he’s inching towards your front door. you’re still frozen, fork suspended in mid-air, a perfect pancake suddenly looking like cardboard in front of you.

“satoru,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks, the sound pathetic and thin in the suffocating silence of your apartment.

his hand freezes on the doorknob. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body goes rigid. but he doesn’t turn around. he just stands there, a silhouette against the light filtering in from the hallway, a stranger in your home.

“i have to go,” he says, his voice strained. and then he’s gone. the door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. you’re left alone in your kitchen, with a stack of perfect pancakes growing cold on your plate. the scent of melted butter and sweet batter, once so comforting, is now, suffocating. what. the. actual. fuck ???

the question echoes in your mind, in the silent kitchen, but there’s no one here to answer it. you slowly lower your fork, the clink of it against the ceramic plate unnaturally loud. your appetite is gone. the plate of pancakes sits untouched, golden-brown circles slowly turning cold, their edges losing their crispness. beside them, the bowl of fruit look like a still life painting. you push the dishes away. you can’t eat. the thought of putting any of that meticulously prepared food into your churning stomach is unbearable. because he’s not here to eat with you.

you stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing back open, for him to reappear with a sheepish grin and tell you he’s pranking you. for him to pull up a chair beside you and steal some of your pancakes. but the front door remains closed.

you wrap your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold yourself together. your mind is a chaotic mess, replaying the last twenty-four hours on a relentless loop. satoru’s arms around you at the restaurant, the low murmur of his voice in your ear as he helped you into bed, wiped off your makeup. the warmth of his body beside yours as you drifted off to sleep. you’d slept so deeply, so peacefully, nestled against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your ear. in your drunken haze, you’d dared to hope, just for a little while, that maybe this was it. maybe this was the turning point. maybe he’d feel the same way and you could finally be something more.

but now your hope has curdled into confusion, into a deep, gnawing ache. what had you done ? what had you said ? was it the dress ? the stupid, overpriced dress you’d worn for a date that ended in tears and a five-word text message to satoru ? was it the way you’d clung to him ? the way you’d cried ?

your brain spirals, searching for the mistake, the single misstep that triggered this sudden change in him. and the person you’d usually call to unravel this mess with you , the one person who could always make sense of the chaos in your head, is the very person creating it.

you don’t hear from him for the rest of sunday. the day passes in a blur of hollow silence. you don’t leave your apartment. you don’t even drift to shoko’s room. you try to read, but the words swim before your eyes. you tried to watch a movie on the couch, but the familiar dialogue sounds like a foreign language. you pick up your phone a dozen times, thumb hovering over his name, heart pounding with a mixture of desperation and dread.

what would you say ? ‘are you okay ?’ he’d already answered that, with a lie.

‘why did you leave ?’ you’re not sure you want to know the answer.

‘i miss you ‘toru’ ? that feels too vulnerable, too raw.

so you just stare at his name, and wait as the silence grows, filling every corner of your apartment until you can barely breathe. seeping into your bones until you feel like you’re made of nothing but emptiness.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

monday is humiliating. you wake up alone, again. your bed is cold unsurprisingly. the weak light filtering through your curtains does little to chase away the chill that’s beginning to settle deep into your bones. you lay there for a moment too long, your mind replaying the memories of saturday night and sunday morning.

sleepovers with satoru are nothing new. you’ve shared a little over a decade of tangled limbs, stolen tubs of häagen-dazs from the fridge at midnight and whispers in the dark until the moon gave way to the sun.

( you remember the tantrums you’d both throw when your parents dared to try and separate you, to take you back to your respective homes. your shared fits of rage always ended the same way: hastily packed overnight bags, staying up talking until your voices were hoarse and the sun was kissing your cheeks.

you’d spent countless nights falling asleep beside satoru, and you’ve spent countless mornings waking up beside him, his face soft and peaceful in the morning light.

the sleepovers evolved during those awkward teenage years, when your mom decided to waltz around the topic of puberty and drill it into both of you that you weren’t kids anymore and sharing beds was no longer an option. even then, he’d just migrate to your couch, long limbs comically cramped in the small space, his presence comforting despite him being in a completely different room. sleepovers with satoru are the norm, even though you hadn’t actually slept beside each other intentionally in years. )

saturday was reminiscent of simpler times. saturday, he’d actually slept in your bed. not out of necessity, not out of convenience, but because you’d asked him to.

you’d fallen asleep tangled up in the soft sheets, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you to him.

and although your heartbeat was erratic and your breathing was heavy and shaky — because satoru is without a doubt the most attractive man on the planet, and the gentlest, and the weirdest and most annoying and an asshole too, everything all at once, and you’re still that girl with a crush on him despite him treating you like one of the guys — you’d slept like a baby.

in his arms, you’d dreamt of him being the one to take you out on a date, of him loving you the way you love him. and now, you’re laying in bed alone.

for the first time since he’d pushed you off the swings on the playground and you’d demanded a hello kitty bandaid for the scrape on your knee, satoru isn’t talking to you. and you don’t know why.

there’s a void where his voice used to be. and your brain is still searching for the mistake you’re certain you must’ve made.

did you say something in your sleep ? did you do something wrong ? you can’t think of anything.

you go about your day in a fog of confusion and hurt. you expect to see satoru on campus, expect him to fall into step beside you on the quad, to sling an arm around your shoulders, carry your ridiculously heavy tote bag on his own shoulder and complain about his eight a.m. physics lecture. but he doesn’t.

nor does he text you to ask how your international political relations class went.

( hell, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in relations with you at all. )

you finally see him at a little past noon. he’s sitting under a giant oak tree with your friends. laughing at something shoko’s saying, head thrown back, the sound carrying on the crisp air. and then his eyes sweep across your approaching figure on the lawn, and for a split second, they meet yours. then his smile vanishes, wiped clean away, as if it never existed.

despite the sinking feeling in your guy, you walk over, forcing cheerfulness into your voice as you greet your friends and plop down near him. he gives you a curt, almost imperceptible nod, then turns back to shoko, and continues his conversation without properly acknowledging you.

shoko raises a brow but doesn’t comment in fear of making things even more awkward. suguru avoids your gaze as he gives you an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. yeah, satoru is definitely avoiding you. like the plague.

usually, he’d flop over your lap, demanding you play with his hair, his eyes fixed on yours as you’d swipe his sunglasses off his nose and wear them. usually, he’d tell corny jokes until you were breathless with laughter. but now ? nothing. he doesn’t even lean towards you. doesn’t even look at you. you’re practically staring at him, brows furrowed as you try to figure him out. he’s not happy. he’s not sad. he just looks numb, hollow.

satoru doesn’t go off with you when the group splits off for your next classes. he trails after suguru. shoko comes with you, and the first thing she asks is if something happened with you and satoru. you can only say you don’t know as hot, tears threaten to slip down your cheeks and your throat closes up.

despite feeling like an absolute idiot for sitting by him. despite being humiliated by the way he’d blatantly ignored you, you try to get through the rest of the day. your heart feels like it’s splitting in two. satoru is such a core part of your day — your life — that having him flat out ignore you makes you feel physically ill.

you cross paths again after your last class. you’re heading to the cafe to grab a passion fruit refresher, and he’s coming from the opposite direction. your paths are set to intersect. your heart hammers against your ribs, a burst of hope.

maybe he’ll talk to you now. maybe he was just in a weird mood earlier. something with his parents ? his basketball coach ? but he doesn’t even look at you. he just smoothly veers away, leaving a wide, empty berth of space between you, and you’re left standing there, feeling like the world is ending.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

tuesday feels suffocating. you feel like you can barely breathe as you go about your day. this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to satoru. even when you had petty fights over who got to be player one and whose turn it was to choose a game on the play station, you’d never ignored each other.

( okay, maybe once or twice you’d given him the silent treatment for a couple hours. but you’d never gone this long without making up. )

you want to fix this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. you’re willing to go out of your way to bridge the gap between you. you buy him a sticky sweet cinnamon roll and a perfect red velvet cupcake from the cafe that’s twenty minutes away from campus. the one that’s overpriced but has the best pastries. the one he loves and frequents often.

satoru’s a sucker for sweet treats. he always has been. he’s got the biggest sweet tooth ever. you know he won’t be able to ignore you when you’ve got so much as a jolly rancher in your palm. talk-less of two fresh pastries. you’re certain you’ll be best friends again as soon as he sees the crisp boxes.

thankfully, you still share locations with each other so it’s pretty easy to track him down. you find him in the engineering building’s computer lab, hunched over his laptop. you approach him cautiously, your hand trembling slightly as you hold out the pastries.

“peace offering?” you try, aiming for a light, airy tone.

he glances up, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before darting back to his screen. “oh,” he says, his cadence a neutral tone that’s somehow worse than anger. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to,” you say, your voice sounding smaller than you’d like. “i know you like these.”

“yeah, they’re my favorite,” he says, but he doesn’t make a move to take them. he just keeps typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “i’m just in the middle of something right now. a project. it’s due soon.”

“oh,” you sound like a deflated balloon. “okay. well, i’ll just. . .leave them here.”

“thanks,” he says, his eyes still glued to the screen. “appreciate it.”

you stand there for a moment longer, before you turn and leave, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

by wednesday, the sad plasma coursing in your veins starts to bubble into searing rage. who does he think he is ? to just. . . erase you ? ignore you ? to discard years of friendship without a single explanation ? it’s condescending and inconsiderate and you’re so over it. you’re not a toy he can put back on the shelf when he gets bored of playing with it. you resolve to corner him and confront him after your history lecture, your patience worn thin to the point of nonexistence.

“satoru,” you say, your voice low and shaking with fury. “we need to talk.”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and his eyes are ice cold. “i can’t talk now,” he says, his voice quiet. “i have to meet with suguru. we’re working on a presentation.”

“be so fucking for real suguru can wait, you two live together. . ” you shoot back, your fists clenched at your sides. “you’ve been ignoring me for three days, satoru. three whole days. you barely look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’re acting like i don’t even exist and i want to know why so don’t you dare stand there and give me another excuse.”

he sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to drain the last of the energy from his body. “it’s not an excuse,” he says, his voice rough. “i really do have to go. i’m sorry.”

( he doesn’t deny any of your former accusations. and that infuriates you even more )

then he walks away, leaving you standing there, fury and melancholy warring for dominance in your chest. you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw something. you want to grab him by the collar of his stupid hoodie and shake him until he tells you what you did wrong. but he’s walking away too quickly for you to do anything but stand there and look stupid.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

thursday comes and goes, and you feel so pathetic that you decide to stop trying completely. you stop looking for satoru in crowds. you stop hoping he’ll sit down next to you and fix everything. you stop typing and deleting messages. you stop. and it hurts. it hurts so much more than anything you’ve ever experienced. it hurts more than being stood up. it hurts more than being led on. it hurts more than being cheated on. it hurts.

there’s a constant ache in your chest. your throat feels tight every time you you try to speak. you chase the comfort of sleep every night and it runs faster. you’re zoning out in your lectures. zoning out in conversations every time shoko asks if you’re okay, you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

you haven’t lived a day without satoru since that fateful day on the playground. and now you’ve gone four days without him. you have no idea if you’ll survive another.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

friday nearly kills you. you have a two hour literature lecture with satoru, a huge class in a cavernous auditorium where you usually sit together, in the back row. where he usually slips you notes with ridiculous drawings and nudges you under the table. where you usually draw on his toned arm, little flowers and stars that he complains about but never washes off until they fade on their own.

today, he’s already there when you arrive, to your surprise he’s saved a seat for you like he always does. and a small flicker of hope sparks in you. it’s quenched and dies just as quickly. you realize he didn’t actually save a seat for you. it’s just empty coincidentally. you’re too embarrassed to find somewhere else to sit so you plop down beside him.

he doesn’t even seem to notice because there’s someone on his other side, a pretty girl with long, dark hair who’s laughing at something he’s saying. he’s smiling, and he’s leaning in, his body angled towards her, his attention completely captured by her. you can feel tears prickling the back of your eyes.

you blink them away furiously as you pull out your laptop. heart pounding with anticipation. but he doesn’t even acknowledge you. he doesn’t slip you a note. he doesn’t nudge you under the table. he just keeps talking to the girl on his right, his voice a low murmur that you can’t quite make out over the drone of the professor.

you want to hurl. you want to stand up and scream, to grab his arm and demand that he look at you, that he acknowledge your existence. but you just sit there, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes fixed on the front of the lecture hall, blinking back tears.

he’s never spoken to this girl in his life. you’ve never even seen her before. and sure, he’s by far one of the most popular people on campus but he doesn’t make a habit of starting conversations with random girls.

( he’s always said he didn’t need any more girl friends because he had you. and you were more than enough for him. )

you resolve, right then and there, that you’ll speak to him on saturday. you can’t do this anymore. you can’t live like this anymore. you refuse to. partly, because you miss your best friend. partly, because this week has been the most miserable week of your life. but mostly because you love satoru too much to let him go.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

on saturday, you muster up the courage to go to his dorm, heart pounding against your ribs. you can’t do it anymore. the silence, the avoidance, the gaping hole in your heart where your best friend is supposed to be. 

( you don’t bother knocking because he’ll know it’s you. and you’re not sure he’ll let you in. you decide to make good use of the spare key he gave you last year for emergencies. because to you this feels like an emergency. )

you can hear the sound effects of a video game as soon as you step over the threshold. you pad towards the living room and find satoru and suguru on the couch, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen where sub-zero is brutally launching at kitana.

“you’re cooked” suguru grins as he mashes buttons with a ferocity that makes you smile for a second.

“in your dreams, emo” satoru drawls, a lazy smirk on his face as he leans back against the cushions. he looks so relaxed, so normal. because he hasn’t noticed your presence yet. the sight of him grinning sends a fresh wave of pain through you.

“satoru” you frown, he glances up as you stumble back, and his smirk vanishes, replaced by that same cold, expression you’ve been getting all week.

“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice flat, trying and failing to mask the shock racking his body.

“i’m here to talk to you . . . obviously.” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound strong. “i want you to tell me what i did to upset you.”

suguru’s hazel eyes dart between the two of you, taking in the tension, the way satoru’s whole body has gone rigid. the way your eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. he slowly sets his controller down on the coffee table. “okayyy,” he murmurs, standing up. “i don’t think i should be here for this conversation so i’m gonna go to my room and you two do your thing. . .”

“yeah, you should leave,” satoru snaps, at the exact same time you say, “you should probably leave sugu.”

suguru raises his hands in mock surrender, “relax i’m going,” he mutters, and practically bolts into his bedroom, shutting the door with a soft click that echoes in the silence.

“i gave you that key for emergencies” satoru murmurs, picking up the remote beside him and turning the tv off.

( you can’t believe him. is that all he has to say? after nearly a week of radio silence . . . he’s seething over a stupid tiny silver key ? )

“you’ve been ignoring me for five days, satoru,” you start. “five whole days. you won’t look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’ve been acting like i don’t even exist. so don’t you dare sit there and make me feel crazy for coming here and trying to fix things. instead of telling me what i did and how i can fix this.”

he finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the ice in his eyes cracks, just a little. thawed by something raw and vulnerable and so full of pain it makes your own chest ache.

“you didn’t do anything. it’s not you,” he sighs “it’s me.” you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he’s red, blue, and purple in the face.

“don’t give me that cliche bullshit,” you shoot back, taking a step closer to him “don’t do that. talk to me properly. we’ve always talked about things properly.”

( the statement sounds less true as each word drips off your tongue. because you’ve talked about everything under the sun with the sole of exception of the thing that matters most: your feelings for each other )

“maybe i don’t want to talk anymore,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

“yes, you do,” you mumble through gritted teeth, taking another step closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “you’re the most talkative person i know. you can’t go five minutes without telling me some ridiculous joke. so please, satoru. just talk to me.”

he looks up at you, blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to break. you think he’s finally going to end this stalemate. he opens his mouth, then closes it again. he shakes his head subsequently.

“i can’t,” he whispers, and the words are so full of pain they break your heart all over again. “i just. . . can’t.”

“why?” you query, your voice barely a whisper.

he looks away, his gaze fixed on a point just over your shoulder. “because if i start talking,” he shudders, “we can’t be friends anymore”

“you’re my best friend, okay?” you choke out, the words torn from your throat. “i don’t know what i did, but i know that you’re the most important person in my life and the last few days have been killing me— ”

“i don’t want to be your fucking friend,” he cuts you off, his voice is ragged, sapphire eyes glinting like coal in a fireplace, burning with a scorching intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

the words hang in the air between you. unraveling everything you’ve ever known. it feels like the world is tilting on its axis. it feels like your friendship is shattering into a million irreparable pieces. you can only stare, your mind a blank, static, the tears on your cheeks are frozen in time.

“what. . ?” you breathe, “you don’t . . what?”

“i don’t want to be your friend because i want to be more than that” he repeats, his voice cracking. “i’ve wanted to be with you since the day i pushed you off the swings. since the day we met on the first day of elementary school and you wouldn’t stop talking about your brother’s obsession with digimon and pokemon. i’ve been in love with you for over a decade, and i’m so fucking tired of pretending i’m not.”

‘since the day i pushed you off the swings.’

‘since the first day of elementary school.’

‘over a decade.’

the phrases echo in your mind and you finally, finally understand what he meant when he’d said he was tired on sunday. he was never angry at you. he was never trying to hurt you. he was just trying to preserve your friendship. all your memories suddenly take on new meanings. all those times he’d linger after holding your hand, all those inside jokes, all those moments when you’d catch him looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. it wasn’t just friendship. it was never just friendship.

how did you not see it ? how could you have been so blind, so oblivious to something so obvious ?

you’d been so focused on your own feelings, so caught up in your own fears about what might happen if he knew how you felt, that you never even considered. . . never even allowed yourself to fully hope. . .

“i . . ” you don’t even know what to say “i didn’t know.”

you shake your head, trying to process the weight of his words. the years. the pain he must have felt watching you date other people, listening to you talk about your feelings while repressing his own.

“i didn’t know you felt the same way.” you whisper

his brow furrows as the words carry straight to his heart. he’d never believed in a world where he’d be this lucky. never believed in a universe where you’d love him the way he loves you.

but you do. you have. for years. you’ve buried it under layers of friendship and fear, convinced it was one-sided. convinced he was too good for you, too popular, and here he is, telling you he’s been in love with you since you were children.

“all this time, we could’ve been . . .”

you can’t finish the sentence. the possibilities flood your mind, overwhelming you. the wasted time, the missed opportunities, the years you could have had together. but then you look at him, really look at him, you see the hope dawning in his eyes. and you realize it doesn’t matter how long you’ve waited. what matters is what happens now. what you say today.

“i want to be with you too,” you say, the smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out from behind clouds after a grueling thunderstorm. a torrent of everything you’ve been feeling — everything you’ve been holding back for years — pours out of you.

“i’ve been looking for you in other guys,” your breath hitches. “that’s why my dates never work out. because there’s no one like you. i could go on a million dates and i’d think about you on every single one. i didn’t think you would ever see me that way. i was too scared to ask, i didn’t want to ruin our friendship. i didn’t want you to hate me. i didn’t want to lose you forever, and i felt like did. i’ve been dying all week, satoru. literally dying. because i thought i’d lost you, and i couldn’t . . . i can’t. . .”

you’re rambling, pouring your heart out to him, your words a jumbled, messy stream of consciousness, and then you start crying, really crying, your breath hitching in your chest, your vision blurring.

“shit, please don’t cry,” he frowns. “i hate seeing you sad. fuck, don’t . . you could never lose me” he’s cursing under his breath, running a hand through his ivory hair, blue eyes wide with a mixture of horror and regret. “i can’t believe you’re crying because of me. i’m such an idiot”

he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his chest, crystal tears soaking through his shirt.

“did you expect me to be all giddy and happy when you were avoiding me all week ?” you mumble into his shirt.

“no, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “i should’ve never left you. i should’ve told you how i felt but i didn’t think you’d ever see me that way, okay ? i thought i’d be stuck in the friendzone forever and i couldn’t deal with it. i didn’t actually want to ignore you. it wasn’t fair to you in the slightest and it was honestly a dick move on my part. . . i got in my head and i was trying to force myself to move on, but i’ll never do something that stupid ever again.”

“you promise ?” you ask, your voice small.

“i pinky promise,” he murmurs, looping his pinky around yours.

you’re glaring at him through blurred vision and half-lidded eyes. you’re so beautiful. even when you’re sad and mad at him.

( he’s a goner. has been since you walked into class, clinging to your mom’s leg, wailing because you didn’t want her to leave. he’s been a goner since you were sitting three desks away from him, learning how to count up to a hundred. he’s been a goner since the first time you looked at him like this. right after you’d clambered to your feet and demanded he made amends before you snitched on him. he’ll fix everything. he’ll fix everything even if it kills him. )

“please stop crying,” he groans, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i’m really fucking sorry and i’m really fucking stupid too . . . and i know that’s surprising ‘cause i’m the smartest person you know—”

“you’re actually the worst. you genuinely suck satoru. . .” you interject, shoving at his chest to release yourself from his cloying grip. you’re laughing in spite of the tears in your eyes.

“i know” he chuckles, somehow managing to hold you even tighter

“i hate you” you say, knowing you meant the opposite.

“i love you. romantically.” he murmurs. and you know he’s clarifying because you were the type of friends who said it casually. frequently. the type of friends who said it everyday without fail. “i don’t love you the way friends are supposed to. which checks out ‘cause i’ve been an awful friend recently,”

“recently, yeah,” you say, giving him a watery smile, and he swears he’s going to have a heart attack if you keep looking at him. “but you’re still the best friend i’ve ever had.”

“i’ll be the best boyfriend you’ll ever have if you’ll let me,” he says, eyes sparkling hopefully. “can i be your boyfriend ? will you give me a chance to make you the happiest alive ?”

“you’re such a cornball,” you say, laughing through your tears. he’s asking like you’re about to get married.

“is that a yes ?” he asks, cheeks tinged cherry blossom pink, heart thumping erratically in his chest. he’d understand if you said no. right now he doesn’t feel like he’s any better than the losers you used to go on dates with. but unlike them he’s willing to pay his dues tenfold. a hundredfold. a thousandfold. . .

“yes, i’ll go out with you,” you grin, and before you can process it he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe and spinning you around as your laughter echoes in the living room.

when he puts you down, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tear stains on your cheeks. “you’ve gotta tell me what to do to fix everything now” he murmurs. “i don’t have any hello kitty bandaids on me.”

“you still don’t have any ?” you gape, choosing to indulge in his cheesy bit. he’s never going to shut up about him pushing you off the swings or your demand for a cute bandaid. he’ll probably tell the story even when your skin is all wrinkled and your hair’s turning silver. and you’re very okay with that. you’re ecstatic actually. “think of something quick or i’ll tell on you.”

“y’know i’m a genius, i already know what to do” you arch a brow and grins, “i’ll kiss it better.”

( he’s been waiting his whole life to say that )

“you should’ve said that after you pushed me off the swings,” you sigh. “or when you broke my favorite monster high doll. or maybe every time you picked me up from a date . . . we would’ve gotten here sooner.”

“i should’ve just told you i wanted you from the start,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “i could’ve saved us a lot of time and heartbreak.”

satoru finally kisses you, and it tastes like strawberries, the salt from your tears, and the spearmint from the gum he’d been chewing while playing mortal kombat. his hands are everywhere—your waist, cupping your neck, caressing your cheek. your hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. it’s such a slow, sweet kiss, one that you’ve both craved forever. his lips are plush and soft, and he’s pulling you impossibly closer until you have to pull away, cursing the need for oxygen.

he’s looking at you, his cheeks rosy and flushed, blue eyes shining brighter than all the stars in the universe. “pinch me,” he says.

“what ?” you splutter, brows furrowed, head tilted as you blink at him

“pinch me,” he says again. “i’ve gotta make sure i’m not dreaming this time.”

you don’t know whether to laugh or melt. you do a mixture of both as you pinch him and he pretends to wince, “do you dream about me a lot then ?”

“all day, every day,” he quips. “you’re all i’ve ever dreamed of.”

“that’s so corny,” you say, but you’re smiling.

“oh that’s rich coming from you, little miss obsessed with rom coms,” he scoff. “if noah calhoun said that, you wouldn’t think so. you’d be geeking and saying you wish men like that existed. but last i checked i’m a man and i exist—”

“it wouldn’t be cringe because that’s the notebook,” you tut. “but y’know i think you’re quite like noah, actually. personality wise. i can see you hanging off a ferris wheel. and i’d definitely pants you.”

“of course you would” he shakes his head, “looks wise, i’m hotter than noah. wouldn’t you agree?”

“mmm, that’s pushing it,” you say, and he’s about to protest and pout and whine, but you cut him off with a kiss. it starts sweet and gentle before blossoming until you’re beneath him on the couch, his body pressed against yours, his kisses tickling you until you’re laughing so loud you can barely breathe.

“say i’m hotter than noah,” he murmurs against your skin.

“you’re hotter than noah,” you giggle. he loves you. he loves this. this is what he lives to do. make you laugh. he’s made you cry for the first and last time — okay maybe the third and last time if you count petty childhood escapades but he digresses— and he vows, right then and there, that he’ll die before he lets you cry because of him again.

he’s still hovering over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. but he’s not kissing you anymore, he’s just looking at you, and the look in his eyes is so soft, so tender, it makes your heart feel like it might just burst.

after over a decade of pining, of waiting for you to see him with bated breath, satoru can finally breathe easily. his longs are full of the air he’s denied himself of for so long. satoru could never live, never breathe, just be your friend. not really. as awful as it sounds it was a role he played, a costume he wore to stay close to you. but underneath it all, he was always yours. he’ll always be yours

people say the best things come to those who wait, and satoru has always been waiting. always been hoping. and now, looking at you, your eyes shining, your lips swollen from his kisses, he knows every moment of longing, every year of unspoken feelings, every day of carefully guarding his heart, was worth it.

The first time had been almost at the end of his first year at Jujutsu Technical College and 3 weeks after he had officially asked you out. The upperclassmen usually avoided him, put off by the so called "prodigy," but he had finally been able to strike up a conversation with them after the school's athletics carnival had went well. Suguru had kicked the football a total of 3 times and scored one goal, while Satoru had hogged the ball most of their first year match and scored over 10 goals, before Yaga had dragged him off of the field by his ear. 

"Ohhh, right, I saw you get dragged off," Haruto has nodded and yawned, scratching the back of his neck, while Yoshida had hummed. "Yeah, Sawako even wanted us to check up on you, pfft," he snorted before Haruto nudged him to shut up.

"Whaaat? I'm being a good friend," Yoshida scoffed and rolled his eyes with a prideful smile, before his eyes looked over at his tall underclassman again. "Yo, Satoru, do you have a girlfriend?" he asked bluntly, ignoring his friends glares and sighs of embarrassment and awkwardness. 

He had raised a confused eyebrow, before pointing his thumb back at the classroom. He was sure he had kissed you and held your hand on the bleachers that day, did they not see? More importantly, you were literally the most gorgeous and prettiest girl in his eyes, obviously someone as hot as him was perfectly paired with another otaku baddie like you! Pshhhh, maybe they couldn't believe someone like him has been able to pull you.

"Yeah. Her." His thumb pointed back at your figure in the empty classroom.

Yoshida and Haruto had peered into the classroom, only to see… some girl they had never seen before. Plain hair, plain eyes, plain uniform, and a plain you just pressing away at your Tamagotchi. Haruto and Yoshida shared a confused look, before Yoshida clicked his fingers and gasped. "O-oh yeah, that's the girl I was telling you about the other day! You know, the one who walked away when I was trying to ask her for directions?" Haruto nodded, eyes lighting up in recognition, before confusion washed over their faces at the same time.

How does one of the most extroverted and loud boys, fall and date someone like you? Someone who talks in class maybe once a week! someone who’s flip phone is used to play snake while Gojo’s is used to actually… talk to people!

"What?" They had blurted at the white haired student, going on and on about how someone like you should’ve hated someone like gojo, and that you were clearly not meant for each other, and how they were going to tell Sawako that it'd be a waste of her time to pursue Satoru. As if Satoru wasn't right there. His eyes narrowing and upper lip curling in obvious annoyance.

As if he’d let anyone insult you.

"Hey, dumbasses. That's my girlfriend you're talking about," he scoffed at him, pushing past and going back inside the classroom to sit next to you again. 

You had looked over at him curiously, showing him the small screen of your Tamagotchi. "Look, our child is growing," with that casual smile on your face. Satoru blinked, his face straight, before he broke out into coos and awhs, pinching your cheeks and suffocating you in kisses all over your face. "Aghhhh, get off of me! You lunatic!" You had huffed, while he was happily kissing your face all over, "you're such a good mother to our baby dragon! Awhhh, what's the name you chose for him again, my beautiful princess?"

You had huffed, looking a mess before sighing and giving the toy to him. "Sylus."

That day was one of the main reasons that Satoru avoided outright disclosing your relationship, preferring to show it to people instead. 

Nanami didn't need to ask when he finally had enrolled into JJT, as Satoru made it a habit to hold your hand at every chance he got, and kiss your cute face. Haibara, unfortunately, hadn't seen enough or gotten the clue, only seeing how quiet and standoffish you were, and made the brilliant terrible statement when you all were camping in the back of the forest behind JJT for fun. Unfortunately, Haibara had spoken right in front of Satoru fucking Gojo, or Satoru L/N as he'd prefer to be called. 

The fire crackled in the cold dark night, illuminating 6 faces in the forest, as the scent of pine and wet soil drifted through the air. "Y/N and Nanami would make a good pair, wouldn't they? They're so similar!" he had smiled happily and adjusted his hold on the marshmallow he was roasting, not noticing Suguru choking on his spit, Shoko looking up at him and even pausing in chewing her gum. He especially didn't notice Satoru freezing, when he was draping his expensive jacket over your shoulders, cold icy blue eyes glaring holes at the sweet boy's face.

"Converg—" Suguru had jumped to stop and tackle gojo to the ground before he could possibly have killed Haibara. 

After calming Gojo down, mostly by you looking at Gojo as if he was embarrassing you and him whining apologies to you, Haibara had finally been made aware that Gojo and you were dating. "Ohhh, you're Y/N's boyfriend, sorry Satoru, I didn't know," Haibara had chuckled and nodded his head in an apology. 

"We're married," he lifted his hand to show a string you had tied around his ring finger a few minutes ago while fidgeting with him quietly. "We're not married," you shook your head bluntly, correcting him with a straight face.

"Engaged. We're engaged." he nodded proudly and flipped his hair back, all cool and already thinking about wanting to whip out his digital camera and force Suguru to take more shots of him for his fans. "We're 17, Satoru."

"We have a child." "I have a Tamagotchi pet… one that you get jealous of."

"We're madly in love then." He nodded again, not shy or embarrassed after being shut down by you so many times. He waited, Suguru waited, even Nanami waited, wanting to hear you correct Satoru's claim. Only after a full minute had passed, Satoru smirked, a blush on his cheeks as he shrugged, "see, she loves me. Hah," he smirked and stuck his tongue out at Nanami for a split second, knowing the blond man had been doubting him.

That's when he felt your lips press against his cheek. Very rarely did you initiate an sort of romantic gestures, let alone kisses. 

His face had turned beet red, while you were looking at him confused. Blinking blankly, and Suguru laughing loudly in the background. Yes, Satoru did love his girlfriend, more than he loved anyone or anything else, and much to peoples complaints . . .

She was a perfect match for him.