He didn’t remember the drive home.

Or maybe he just didn’t care to. The day had dragged him under like a riptide—mouth full of salt, lungs burning, arms too tired to keep treading water. There was only the blur of tail lights and wet asphalt, the rhythmic pulse of the windshield wipers keeping time with the hollow ache behind his ribs. 

Satoru sat stiffly in the driver’s seat of his car, hands loose on the wheel, letting the city drift past him in streaks of silver and neon. He didn’t turn on the radio. Couldn’t stand the thought of noise. His mind was already too loud.

His father knew. 

His mother, too.

Hana knew.

You knew—at least, you had to guess. But you still hadn’t answered him. Not since that one message he sent hours ago, sitting in his office with adrenaline and shame still surging through his system.

They know.

He hadn’t meant it to sound ominous. He just…didn’t really know what else to say.

The image of your face from the day before kept resurfacing—tight with anger, eyes glassy, voice shaking when you’d told him you were tired of being a secret. That you were tired of doing it all alone. He had imagined a hundred different responses you might send after the truth came out. But instead, his phone stayed dark. Silent.

Every honk as he drove, every light of the roads blurred into the next until all he could do was grip the steering wheel a little bit together and hope he’d end up somewhere familiar after the exhausting day he had.

He did.

Unfortunately.

The rain had slowed by the time he pulled into the underground garage of his building, but the air still clung to him like a wet sheet as he stepped out of the car, coat limp, tie half-crumpled in the passenger seat where he’d left it hours ago. His eyes stung—fatigue, hangover, or guilt—he wasn’t sure anymore.

The elevator in his building chimed when it reached his floor, and he stepped out into the hallway like a ghost, dress shoes quiet on the marble tile. His fingers shook slightly as he keyed into his apartment.

The moment the door swung open, he paused and felt it.

Stillness. Silence. But not the usual sterile quiet of a space that never felt fully lived in. This silence was different. Tense and heavy.

He stepped inside slowly, instinct catching up to dread. At first glance, everything looked the same. 

But then he saw it.

The first thing that registered was the broken glass scattered across the floor.

One of the side lamps near the entrance had been knocked to the floor, its bulb shattered into sharp little teeth across the hardwood. The edge of a mirror near the coat rack was spider-webbed from a clean, deliberate punch. A framed art print near the dining table had been ripped clean off the wall, canvas torn down the middle.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, not in shock—just weariness. His shoulders sagged as he stepped further inside.

There was more in the living room. A wine bottle toppled and bled dark red across the marble counter. A cluster of picture frames that had once sat neatly beside the TV now lay face-down or cracked open on the floor. A throw pillow had been slashed open. His mother’s old crystal vase—shattered. His bookshelf—meticulously organized—was now stripped halfway bare, several novels tossed across the hardwood.

Hana had been here. Clearly. She’d let herself in before finding the ultrasound. Probably the same time she’d called him. Probably the same time he stupidly let it go to voicemail.

He wasn’t even mad. Not really.

He didn’t feel much of anything at all.

Satoru stepped out of his shoes and padded toward the hallway, shrugging off his coat, his whole body aching with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep—it came from unraveling. From watching everything he’d built collapse all at once.

He passed the hall mirror on instinct, then froze.

His reflection looked worse than he remembered.

The left side of his jaw had started to bruise—just faint, a dusky purple shadow that bloomed beneath the cheekbone. He leaned closer, studied it under the dim overhead light. His father had hit him hard enough to leave something behind.

He looked older than he was.

He left the mirror behind and kept walking.

The bedroom door was already half open. When he stepped inside, the chaos felt quieter somehow. Less dramatic. Just drawers pulled open, closet doors ajar, a lamp knocked over on the dresser. The bed was unmade with sheets halfway torn off, comforter bunched at the foot.

It smelled like her. Hana.

Or maybe he imagined that. 

But on the floor, something glinted against the rug.

He moved toward it and crouched slowly, fingers brushing across the edge of a photograph.

Two of them.

The ones that had been under his pillow.

The first: a printout from the last ultrasound—glossy paper creased slightly down the middle, the grainy image still clear, already soft at the corners from how many times he held it each night. The outline of the baby. Your baby. 

The second: an older photo, from college. You were barely in focus—caught mid-laugh, holding a half-empty red cup in one hand while the other rested against his chest like it always belonged there.  He was next to you, an arm slung lazily around your shoulder, both of you flushed from the heat, the alcohol, the music. It had been someone’s birthday party. Or maybe just an excuse to get drunk on a Thursday night. He couldn’t remember anymore. He was glad that someone else took the picture at just the right moment, though.

Neither had been destroyed, luckily.

But they’d both been clearly thrown.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and just…held them. One in each hand. The weight of them in his palm anchored him to the present—though everything else felt like it was sliding away. 

They trembled between his fingers. Not from the air or from the movement. From him. His hands had started to shake, and he hadn’t even realized.

He pressed his thumbs to the edges of the ultrasound again—tracing the curve of the baby’s spine, the way its little limbs were tucked in. So small. So impossibly real.

He swallowed hard.

And then he looked at the second photo. That old one from college, that he never had the guts to frame. He stared at you specifically. Glowing. Carefree. Laughing like the world was still soft. You used to look at him like that. Like you knew something he didn’t. Like he was the safest place on earth.

And he remembered.

The way you leaned into him without thinking. The way your grin curled just before you said something smart under your breath that made him choke on his beer. The song playing in the background. The way your bare knee brushed against his.

He stared at that version of himself—careless, young, a little wasted, and already so completely gone for you—and he wished he could warn himself. Shake him. Tell him not to waste the time.

But that version of him would never have listened.

And anyway, it was already too late.

He let the photo fall gently into his lap.

And then—

It’s like he was back there again…

The memory settled in slowly—warm and golden and a little blurred at the edges, like sunlight caught in a glass.

Sophomore year. Late fall. The air still carried the tail-end of summer humidity, but was still just cool enough that everyone’s breath fogged the air in little white puffs as they stumbled down frat row, half-drunk and laughing way too loud. The street buzzed with music bleeding from cracked windows and the heavy bass of speakers rattling behind warped walls. Streelamps cast hazy halos over their heads. 

The six of them walked in a loose cluster, buzzed from whatever concoction Shoko had made at the pregame (it had tasted like cough syrup and battery acid, but hey, it worked). Laughter rang between them—loud and unfiltered—the kind that only came with warm cheeks and perhaps too much confidence.

Satoru had an arm slung around Suguru’s neck, grinning like an idiot. Nanami trailed behind them, looking unimpressed as ever. Haibara was skipping sideways down the sidewalk with a sleeve of Oreos he’d insisted on bringing from the dorms. Shoko had stolen Suguru’s oversized hoodie and was puffing on a cigarette like it was the breath of life itself.

You were just ahead of them, already tipsy, already glowing. Your laugh floated above the hum of the street, and Satoru swore he felt it buzz beneath his ribs every time you tossed a glance over your shoulder.

They’d pregamed too hard. Or maybe just enough.

“There it is,” Haibara said, pointing with a triumphant crunch of cookie between his teeth. “Phi Tau. Told you they were throwing something.”

“Phi Tau always throws something,” Shoko muttered, exhaling a plume of haze. “Half of them should be court-ordered sober by now.”

Still, the music was loud. There were people on the porch. Lights in every window. It had all the makings of a perfect college mess.

“Okay, there’s no way we’re getting in,” Nanami said flatly, arms crossed as he stared up at the gaudy columns framing the porch. “Look at the ratio. It’s like, twenty guys for every three girls. They’re going to shut the door in our face.”

Haibara slurred a little through his grin, “Come on, man, maybe they’ll just admire our charm?”

“Or your desperation,” Shoko added dryly, flicking her lighter open and shut. “Which is the stronger scent?”

Suguru leaned against Satoru and pointed toward the bouncer, a beefy-looking senior in a backwards cap who clearly didn’t recognize any of them. “He looks like he’s one protein shake away from cardiac arrest. I say we let Nanami talk to him. Use that responsible voice. Frat bros probably love that.”

So, they all picked up speed, half-jogging toward the steps, giddy and loose with liquor.

And the second they reached the front porch, a hand pressed flat and hard against Suguru’s chest.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You guys on the list?” the frat guy said. Blonde, square-jawed, a too-tight backwards cap. He looked like a parody of himself.

“Didn’t know there was a list,” Suguru said, raising an eyebrow.

Satoru frowned and glanced behind the guy. “There’s like, a billion people already in there. You checking all of them?”

“Yeah, well, it’s a ratio thing,” the guy muttered. “Too many guys, you know?”

Nanami scoffed. “Told you, it’s always a ratio thing.”

“Seriously?” Haibara groaned. “We’re not even that scary-looking.”

Shoko rolled her eyes and pulled her hoodie tighter. “What a weak excuse. Just say you’re insecure.”

It was already looking like a bust. The group was ready to turn around, the others muttering complaints and insults under their breath.

But then you stepped forward.

“Guys, guys, guys,” you cut in, holding up a hand, teetering just slightly in your boots. You’d been sipping from your own insulated cup the entire walk over—something fruity and poisonous—and your eyes were bright, your lips tinted from the drink. “Stop complaining. I got this.”

Five heads turned toward you.

Satoru blinked. “What do you mean you got this?”

You just smiled, drunk and confident and very pretty, like you were holding onto the best secret in the world. “Just give me a second.”

“Wait, what is she—” Nanami started, but you were already walking.

“Trust me!” you called over your shoulder, turning back to the guy.

Satoru watched—perhaps too closely—as you adjusted your top and sauntered up to the door like you owned it. Your hips swayed just a little more than necessary. You stopped right in front of the bouncer and leaned up onto the balls of your feet to talk to him, voice too low for the group to hear. He straightened slightly when you approached, immediately more attentive. You tilted your head, eyes wide, and gave him a look that could melt concrete. Your voice was syrupy, teasing, like you didn’t even notice how the wind caught your hair just right.

Suguru elbowed Satoru lightly in the ribs. “Bet you a drink she gets us in.”

Satoru ignored him. He was too busy staring. 

“You sure you don’t remember me?” you said, leaning in just a little. You were smiling at the guy. Biting your lip. Twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. Then reached out to touch the bouncer’s arm gently, as if you’d known him for years.

You must have whispered something right, because the guy caved. Of course he did. He stepped aside with a dramatic sigh, gesturing toward the door like he’d just personally invited you to heaven.

You spun back toward your friends with your arms spread triumphantly. “We’re in!”

The group erupted behind you.

“No way—”

“Holy shit—”

“Marry me.”

Shoko let out a low whistle. “Goddamn. Remind me to bring you to every party from now on.” And even Nanami cracked a smile.

Haibara tripped up the stairs. “Legend behavior,” he muttered.

Satoru was still watching you—he didn’t even realize his jaw had gone a little slack. His eyes were wide, a little dazed, drunk off the sight of you more than anything. The way your lips curved. The way your laughter spilled out like it belonged in the air. The way you looked back over your shoulder, just for a second, to see if he was watching.

He was.

Suguru leaned in again and whispered just loud enough for Satoru to hear, ​​“Pick your mouth up off the ground, Romeo. It’s embarrassing.”

“Shut up. I’m fine.” Satoru muttered.

“Mhmmm.” Suguru didn’t sound convinced.

When you rejoined the group, Satoru stepped aside to let you pass, but your shoulder brushed his chest anyway, and your hand grazed his wrist like it meant nothing.

“He’s in my sociology lecture,” you explained with a grin, catching his eye. “Total pushover. Thought I’d use it to our advantage.”

“You’re terrifying,” he replied, voice hoarse.

You laughed. “You’re just saying that because it worked.”

Yeah, it worked. And that terrified him too—because he was already absolutely, thoroughly gone for you.

And he didn’t even bother trying to hide it.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the party swallowed them whole.

Inside, the house pulsed with heat and motion—music vibrated through the walls and beneath their feet. The ceilings were low, the floors were sticky, and bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder as the crowd swayed and surged with the rhythm of whatever was blasting through the living room speakers. String lights hung crooked from the ceiling, casting everything in dizzying colors. The house smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and sweat, and someone was already dancing on the coffee table.

Shoko whistled, “Jesus. I might’ve been here before. I think I blacked out in that armchair.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s still the same one,” Suguru muttered, elbowing Haibara out of the way as they squeezed into the kitchen. 

“Drinks first,” Satoru chimed, already moving. “Hero of the night gets the first one.”

You blinked up at him, a little dazed from the noise, cheeks flushed with pride and alcohol. “Hero of the night?”

“You got us in, didn’t you?” he grinned. “Pretty sure you earned at least one shitty drink.”

“Wow,” you teased, brushing your fingers down his arm as you followed him toward the counter. “What an honor.”

You slipped deeper into the chaos, weaving through people with practiced ease, and he followed like he always did—without even thinking.

The kitchen was a disaster. Countertops sticky with liquor and condensation. A tub of vaguely pink jungle juice sat in the corner with an empty ladle hanging off the side like it had given up hours ago. Half a dozen bottles were strewn across the counter—vodka, tequila, various unidentifiable mixers. A few solo cups sat in a lazy pyramid beside a crusty-looking cutting board and a lime that had definitely seen better days.

When you stopped at the kitchen island, he caught up behind you, slightly breathless and made a big show of inspecting his options, hand on his chin like he was a sommelier and not already halfway drunk.

“What’s your poison?” he asked.

You leaned an elbow on the counter, eyeing him. “Mmm…Surprise me.”

“Oh no,” Suguru muttered behind you, grabbing a handful of pretzels from a bowl that might’ve been decorative. “She’s gonna regret that.”

Satoru grinned, cracked his knuckles, and immediately grabbed two random bottles. “You have zero faith in me.”

“With good reason,” Nanami called from the doorway.

“Well, now I’m scared.”

“Rude. I’m a man of many talents.”

“Oh really?” you teased, leaning on the edge beside him. “Name three.”

He glanced over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “Let’s see…Basketball. Ping pong. And…party mixology.”

You burst out laughing. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s versatile,” he argued. “Besides, you’ll see.”

You watched him with amused skepticism as he grabbed a cup and began pouring with zero measuring, absolutely no logic, and entirely too much confidence. Equal parts orange Gatorade, vodka, something neon blue, and half a can of Sprite. He stirred it with a plastic knife.

“Voilà,” he said proudly, handing it to you with flourish. “For you, m’lady.”

You stared down into the cup, then sniffed it. “This smells awful.”

“Just try it.”

You took a sip. And immediately grimaced. “Oh my god…”

“What?” he asked, eyes wide and innocent.

“Satoru. This tastes like paint thinner and melted gummy worms,” you coughed.

He blinked. “You mean delicious?”

You giggled and pushed the cup back into his chest. “More like chemical warfare. You are absolutely not allowed to make drinks ever again.”

“Hey,” he said defensively, taking a sip himself—and immediately wincing. “…Okay, yeah. Fair.”

Still laughing, you shook your head and started scanning the room. But then someone bumped into you from behind to reach for a bottle of tequila—too close, too fast—and Satoru didn’t even hesitate. His arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you back toward him as the guy brushed past.

You looked up at him, surprised by the touch, but not uncomfortable. Not even close.

“Thanks,” you said softly, smile curling at the edges, blinking through the dim haze of the kitchen lights.

He meant to let go.

But his hand lingered. Just a second too long.

“Crowded in here,” he mumbled, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved. The music continued to rattle through the floorboards. Someone shouted something from the living room. But you were both locked in with the shift in the air. Your eyes dipped to his mouth for the briefest second, his hand still at your side, the space between you charged and humming.

And Satoru swore his heart forgot how to beat.

Suguru passed by again with a fresh cup, bumping into Satoru’s shoulder with a knowing look. “Go dance or something, you two,” he muttered. “Before you combust.”

You laughed, but didn’t deny it.

Satoru just smiled and said, “Wanna dance?”

The living room had turned into a furnace—packed wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder. It pulsed with the bass of some remix that blurred into the next and shook the drywall. The lights casted flashes of brilliant color across flushed cheeks and half-empty drinks. Someone had cleared out the coffee table from before, shoved it against the wall, and now the center of the room had morphed into a makeshift dance floor, sticky and crowded and perfect.

“Come on. If I stand still for too long, I’m gonna sober up, and that’s unacceptable.” Shoko shouted over the music and grabbed your hand before you could even protest.  Her fingers were freezing, one drink still in the other hand as she yanked you toward the chaos. “I want to make bad decisions and regret them in the morning.”

You laughed, caught off guard but not resisting as you let yourself be pulled into the throng. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Don’t think—just move!” she grinned, and you followed her into the crowd until you reached a clearing just wide enough to move.

Nanami, predictably, hovered by the wall with his arms crossed. Haibara dove right in with zero rhythm but maximum enthusiasm. Suguru joined somewhere in the middle, swaying lazily to the beat with a girl already trying to strike up conversation. And Satoru—Satoru hung back at first, eyes squinting against the lights, drink in hand, grin lopsided and lips already glossy from the sip he just took.

But then he saw you.

You weren’t much of a dancer. Not really. But it didn’t matter. Shoko was a whirlwind beside you, flipping her hair and making ridiculous faces, and you couldn’t stop laughing. You moved together easily—laughing through the music, bodies loose and fluid, hands in the air, twirling dramatically like you were in your own world. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling. 

And when the beat dropped, you jumped with it, hips swaying without thought, arms brushing the air like liquid. A soft sheen had formed across your collarbone, catching the red-blue-purple flicker of the string lights overhead. You tipped your head back when Shoko spun you dramatically, mouthing along to the chorus of whatever pop song shook the windows.

You weren’t even looking at him—but God, he felt like you were everywhere.

He drifted closer. Close enough that he could smell the perfume clinging to your shirt, hear the sound of your laugh even beneath the music. You met his eyes once—just a flash—and smiled, then turned away just as quickly.

And that was enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

He stayed close, but didn’t dare reach for you. His hands fidgeted around his cup. Every time you laughed, every time your hips swayed just slightly in his direction, his heart stuttered like it didn’t know what to do with itself. And his eyes? They followed you like a tether. Wide and starved and wonderstruck.

You were pretty…So, so pretty in a way that made him dizzy. Pretty in a way that made his heart ache.

Suguru nudged him gently. “You should go dance with her.”

Satoru blinked, tearing his eyes away just long enough to glance at him. “What?”

Suguru grinned back. “You’re just standing here, staring at her like a creep. It’s weird.”

“I don’t—” Satoru glanced back toward the crowd. You were still dancing, laughing as Shoko spun you around in another sloppy half-circle. “She’s busy…”

Suguru raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” Satoru said, taking a long sip of his drink. “She’s having fun.”

“And you’re not?”

“Shut up.”

Suguru smirked and shook his head. “C’mon, lover boy. Let’s go make something that won’t taste like acid this time.”

Satoru rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. He needed a second. Maybe five.

They wove through the party again, weaving through the crowd again, past people making out against a coat rack and two guys drunkenly arguing over a pingpong ball. The lights faded into softer amber, and the hum of conversation replaced the music slightly as they squeezed their way back into the kitchen.

The drink table had somehow devolved even further into chaos. The pink jungle juice was completely gone, someone had poured Goldfish into the container instead. Suguru grabbed a clean-ish cup and fished through half-empty bottles as the rest of the party throbbed behind them—music bled through the walls and the smell of weed wafted through an open back door,

Then—

“Hi,” a voice chirped, sudden and sugar-sweet.

Satoru turned slightly to see two girls—upperclassmen, maybe seniors—leaning beside them at the counter, glossy-lipped and far too interested.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” one of them purred, draping herself halfway against the counter beside him.

Satoru blinked, distracted. “Huh?”

“You go here?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically, still scanning the room over her shoulder.

“You look familiar,” the second one added, stepping closer. “Are you in my econ class?”

“Nope,” he replied flatly.

She giggled and touched his arm. “Well, you should be. I’d pay attention more.”

Satoru didn’t respond.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned a little closer. “Well, if you’re looking for someone to show you around—”

“Not really,” he cut in, sipping his drink.

Suguru raised a brow behind them and suppressed a snort.

The girl didn’t seem fazed. She trailed her finger along the rim of her cup, still watching him. “What’s your name?”

Satoru’s eyes flicked over her shoulder again—back to the living room, back to the dance floor, because he saw you.

Because over her shoulder—half-obscured by moving silhouettes—he saw you again.

You were still dancing. Still laughing. Your hand found Shoko’s wrist again as you moved together, your hair catching the light in shimmering streaks. Your shirt clung to the curve of your back, and your eyes were half-lidded, completely in the moment. You looked electric.

And he was fucking ruined.

Completely, irrevocably ruined.

Suguru stepped in before the girl could ask another question, gently easing her away with a polite smile and a “Sorry, he’s a little distracted tonight.”

Satoru didn’t even register it until Suguru handed him a refilled cup and leaned beside him against the counter.

“She looks really beautiful tonight, huh?”

Satoru let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on you.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “She is.”

And he didn’t stop staring.

It had been a few hours, and the party had settled into its second, sloppier act—the part where the music got louder, the drinks somehow got stronger, and everyone got messier. Bodies moved in lazy waves, the air thick with smoke and liquor and sweat. The night shimmered around the edges, golden and blurry.

And Satoru had long since abandoned any pretense of moderation.

They’d taken over the back patio, where a folding table had been cleared out for a very aggressive tournament of pong. The red plastic cups were dented and sticky, barely filled warm beer. Most of the crowed had thinned and spilled outside or onto stairwells, smoking and chatting in the yard under a dangling porch bulb that flickered out every few minutes.

Satoru and Haibara made up one team. Nanami stood on the other side with his arms crossed, deeply unimpressed. Suguru lounged beside him with a a murky, brownish drink, eyes half-lidded and amused by the steady descent into chaos.

“House rules!” Haibara announced grandly, holding up a ping pong ball like it was sacred. “Two re-racks. Elbows behind the edge. No bounce shots. And if you call ‘island,’ you better fucking make it.”

“I hate this already,” Nanami muttered with visible regret.

Satoru wasn’t really listening.

He was laughing too loudly at nothing in particular, cheeks flushed pink, shirt wrinkled and untucked. One of his sleeves were still damp from Suguru’s earlier drink mishap. Absolutely wasted.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he slurred, pointing a wobbly finger toward Haibara’s form.

“I’m not!” Haibara insisted, elbow cocked as he lined up the shot.

“You’re holding it like you’re about to do a seance,” Satoru muttered.

“I’m about to contact the spirit of your dignity,” 

Haibara tossed the ping pong ball—and missed entirely.

“Disgraceful…” Satoru sighed into his drink.

Still, his eyes kept drifting back to the house—scanning the glass door, peering through the tangle of bodies in search of you. You were still inside, dancing somewhere near the center, spinning under the slow swirl of lights, cheeks flushed and radiant. Shoko had you by the wrist, both of you giggling at something dumb. You looked happy. Safe.

His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He missed his first shot entirely.

“Goddamnit…” he muttered as the ball bounced right off the rim and rolled to Suguru.

“Dude,” Haibara said, nudging his arm. “Focus. You’re off your game already.”

“I’m not off anything,” Satoru shot back, winding up for another throw. “Watch this shit!”

The ball arched dramatically through the air, hit the rim once more, and bounced off into oblivion.

“Strong form,” Suguru called dryly.

Satoru blinked, then grinned completely unbothered. “You just wait. I’m telling you, I am undefeated. Legendary. Ask anyone.”

Suguru snorted from the other end of the table. “You’re full of shit, Satoru.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

Another drink disappeared down his throat. And another. During the next few games, he swayed on his feet and had surprisingly decent aim. Not that it mattered though, he wasn’t playing for glory anymore—just to keep his hands busy. To stop the stops from drifting…back to the dance floor. Back to you.

The music shifted to a more mellow beat—something low and hazy, but still, the party buzzed. Cups clinked. Voices rose and fell. Someone laughed in the kitchen. Someone else snored gently on the porch steps, out cold.

And then he managed to sink three cups one after the other. 

“Ohhhhh! That’s three in a row!” he crowed, holding his follow-through like he’d just won a champion ship on a basketball court. “Someone stop me.”

“Someone should’ve stopped you two drinks ago,” Nanami muttered, steadying the pyramid of red cups at the far end. 

Haibara howled with laughter, pounding the table like a drum.

“Do you hear that?” Satoru cupped a hand around his ear dramatically. “It’s the sound of another loss.”

“I think it’s the sound of your liver giving out,” Suguru snickered, pouring more beer into the cups with a resigned shake of his head. “One more round and you're gonna start seeing double.”

“I already am,” Satoru grinned. “Double the fun.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He didn’t argue. Just grinned wider and tossed another ball with impossible precision—right into the center cup.

Haibara let out a shriek of triumph. Nanami, ever the good sport, groaned and reached for the ball. “You’re lucky we’re not playing with vodka.”

“I’m lucky in general,” Satoru declared, puffing his chest. “A natural-born prodigy, my friends.”

But the easy rhythm between them cracked in a split second.

There was a shout somewhere from inside the house, slicing through the music like a knife. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Satoru whipped his head toward the noise.

Inside, beyond the mass of bodies gathered in the living room, just beyond the glowing arch of string lights and drunk couples swaying to the beat of the music, he saw movement. Two figures. Your hand shoved forward, trembling. Shoko stood at your side, face scowling in anger and yelling profanities. And in front of you—

“Dude,” Haibara said suddenly, “Is that Naoya Zenin?”

Satoru’s blood turned to ice.

He recognized him instantly.

Naoya. A smug prick from his business seminar last semester. A legacy kid. Arrogant as hell. Entitled. Someone who always sat in the front row of lecture halls, and talked over women, and name-dropped his family like it was a crown. Someone who bragged about how he was practically guaranteed a cushy job after graduation. Their parents knew each other. They’d shaken hands at events neither of them wanted to be at.

Satoru always hated him.

You shouted again, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Naoya staggered, then straightened with a smirk. His shirt was wrinkled, hair slicked back too neatly. Drunk. Smug.

Satoru moved without thinking.

Suguru shouted after him. Maybe Nanami too. But he didn’t hear, the music drowned them out.

By the time he reached you, his blood was hot again.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

You turned to him, chest heaving. “He grabbed me.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I told him to leave me alone, and he didn’t listen. He followed me—”

“I didn’t do anything,” Naoya cut in, scoffing. His shirt was rumpled, eyes bleary with booze. “Jesus. I was just being nice.”

“Nice?” Shoko spat. “You grabbed her ass.”

Naoya rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. It was a joke. You don’t have to be so sensitive about it.”

“She told you to stop,” Satoru snapped.

“Relax Gojo, it’s not that deep. She looked like she was having a good time. I was just joining in. She clearly wanted the attention—”

Satoru didn’t even think—his hand slammed into Naoya’s chest, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back into a cluster of frat boys behind him. One of them cursed. Someone gasped. And phones came out.

“You wanna repeat that?” he snarled.

“Okay, whoa,” Suguru was there in an instant, gripping his shoulder. “Satoru. Stop.”

“No. Fuck that.”

His voice was loud. Solid. Clear even over the music.

“You think you can touch her without her permission?” he barked, every word sharpened to a blade.

Naoya scoffed, but didn’t move. “It’s not that serious, man.”

Satoru took another step forward, ready to show that asshole a piece of his mind, but your hand found his chest.

“Hey, stop,” you said softly.

He barely felt it at first. His blood was still roaring. All he could see was red—Naoya’s smug face, your shaking hands, Shoko glaring like she was two seconds from throwing a punch herself.

And your palm pressed firmer.

“Satoru.” You looked up at him.

He paused. Just for a second.

“I don’t want to do this here,” you said, voice quiet but unwavering. “I just want to go home, okay?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes flickering back toward Naoya—who was still smirking, still standing there like none of this even mattered.

And god, every part of Satoru was screaming not to let it go.

But then he looked back at you.

Your hand wasn’t pulling him forward. It was steady. Grounding. A touch that asked for understanding, and not revenge. Your eyes shimmered in the glow of the string lights, and there wasn’t fear in them. There wasn’t helplessness.

There was exhaustion.

You were tired. Hurt. Furious. And you were trusting him to choose you over the fight.

So he exhaled—long and slow. His fists unclenched at his sides. The heat in his lungs didn’t fade, not entirely, but it dulled beneath the weight of your gaze.

“…Okay,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You nodded once, and the tension in your shoulders dropped just a little. Shoko stepped in, placing a protective arm around you without a word.

Suguru exhaled beside him, relief flashing in his eyes. “Probably for the best.”

But behind them, Naoya didn’t move.

Satoru caught the look before he heard the words—that same smug tilt of the mouth, head cocked to the side, like he thought he was untouchable. Like he hadn’t just been shoved against a table in front of half the fucking party.

“Fucking slut,” Naoya muttered. 

Not loud. Not bold. Just enough for Satoru to hear. Just enough to make sure it cut deep.

Satoru stopped cold. His breath caught in his throat.

“What did you say?”

Naoya didn’t flinch. Just leaned back against the table with the air of someone who’d never been told no. “Didn’t say anything,” he said with a shrug. “You just hear what you want, Gojo.”

Suguru stepped up beside him, quiet but firm. “Dude. Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

But Satoru didn’t hear him.

He was staring at Naoya. Staring straight through him. His hands were shaking.

“No,” he said, voice like ice. “Say it again. I dare you.”

Naoya just smiled. “Touchy,” he replied. “You always this soft over charity cases?”

That did it.

The world snapped open.

Satoru moved on instinct. A messy flash of white-hot rage, no thought behind it. His fist slammed into Naoya’s jaw with a brutal, sickening crack. The guy stumbled back, his the edge of the table, then crumpled to one knee—blood already spilling from his nose, thick and dark and fast.

You flinched at the sound, hard. Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide as you stared at him—at the sudden violence, at the way he didn’t even hesitate. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to do it.

Cups scattered across the floor. Someone yelled. And the music thumped on, muffled and meaningless.

“Holy shit—” Haibara’s voice cracked through the static.

Naoya reeled, wide-eyed and wheezing. “You fucking psycho—!”

“I’ll break your fucking jaw!” Satoru snarled, already going for him again—shoulders coiled, fists still raised, mouth twisted into something furious and wild.

But Suguru grabbed him by the elbow, wrenching him back. “Satoru! Stop! Jesus, man—”

Nanami materialized like a ghost a second later, silent and surgical, one hand in the collar of Satoru’s shirt as he dragged him backward. “Enough,” he hissed. “He’s down. It’s done.”

Satoru didn’t move at first. His chest heaved. His vision swam. His knuckles screamed.

“Let go,” he growled.

“No,” Suguru said sharply. “You’re not gonna hit him again.”

Then—somewhere near the kitchen—someone shouted, “Yo! Call the cops—!”

And just like that, the party began to unravel.

The crowd surged. The lights felt too bright. People were grabbing their coats, slipping toward the door. Somewhere in the panic, Shoko’s voice cut through the mess—sharp and sober. “We should leave. Now.”

The next thing he knew, red and blue lights were flooding the street, casting dizzying shadows across frat row like a carnival gone wrong.

Someone had indeed called the cops.

They arrived fast—faster than anyone expected. Sirens howled down the block, sending everyone scattering like roaches. Partygoers bolted through side gates and up stairwells, dragging friends and half-empty bottles with them. The music cut out in a jagged stop. Lights flicked off. Doors slammed. Voices shouted over each other.

It all unraveled in a surreal blur.

Now, Satoru stood on the curb, cuffed and swaying slightly, his back pressed to the cold metal of the cruiser. The pavement was damp with beer and condensation. His hands throbbed, blood crusting at the split in his knuckles. His chest burned with adrenaline.

The flashing lights stung his eyes.

He barely heard the officer taking your statement nearby. You were trying to explain—voice strained, gesturing with both hands frantically—but it all sounded far away. Garbled. Like the world had been dunked underwater.

Across the sidewalk, Naoya stood with a smug slouch and an ice pack pressed to his jaw, already spinning his version of the truth. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

“He just fucking punched me! Out of nowhere!” he snapped. “Completely unprovoked. He’s had it out for me since last semester—jealousy or something. I didn’t even touch her!”

Satoru snorted. “Bullshit.”

The officer beside him frowned. “Underage, too,” he sighed, motioning to the cuffs. “Great. Think we’ve got the whole picture here.”

“You don’t,” Satoru muttered under his breath. “You really don’t.”

But the cops weren’t listening. They never really were.

You stood a few feet away, arms tight over your chest, shoulders drawn up like a shield. Your face was pale beneath the flickering lights, but your eyes hadn’t left him once. Shoko hovered nearby with a cigarette tucked behind her ear, expression unreadable. Suguru paced behind you, thumb flicking over his phone screen in a blur of frustrated texts. Nanami was speaking to the senior officer, voice low and composed, trying to reason his way through the mess.

But it didn’t matter. Satoru was stil drunk. Still hot with adrenaline.  And they’d already made up their minds.

The metal dug into Satoru’s wrists as the officer tugged him toward the back seat of the cruiser, voice flat and rehearsed:

“You’re under arrest for battery and underage drinking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Satoru cut in, jaw tight. “I’m sure my dad’ll be thrilled.”

The words slipped out bitter and automatic. And true. His father—a name that carried weight in city courtrooms and corporate circles—was going to fucking explode.

There was going to be fallout. Repercussions. A million questions he didn’t want to answer. Press. Lectures. Expectations.

A record.

Fuck, he was screwed.

He swallowed hard. The steel around his wrists felt tighter than before.

Then, just before they opened the door to shove him inside, he turned his head. Just enough to find you in the crowd again.

You were still watching him. Still there. Still burning behind the eyes with worry and disbelief.

And Satoru—bleeding, cuffed, and soaked in humiliation—smiled.

Crooked. Stupid.

Just for you.

Like an apology. Like a promise. Like he wanted you to know he wasn’t sorry.

Like he was saying: “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

He held your gaze until the door closed behind him.

Because if nothing else—no matter how this night ended—you were the only thing that mattered.

The cruiser pulled to a slow stop at the edge of the property. The gates were already open, the driveway—long, winding, too polished to belong to anything but a home with security cameras and generational wealth—was dimly lit, cast in the cool blue-white of motion sensor lights and mist drifting up from the lawn sprinklers. Ahead of it, the Gojo estate loomedm, cold and sprawling in the dark. It’s windows lit like watchful eyes.

Satoru stared at them from the backseat. His wrists still ached, the cuff-marks faint but visisble even though they’d taken them off an hour ago. His head throbbed. His mouth was dry. His right knuckle was split, crusted faintly with dried blood. And his stomach churned—sour and heavy.

It was nearly 4 a.m.

The officer didn’t say anything as he slowed to a stop. He simply cut the engine and gave a quiet grunt as he popped the backdoor open.

Satoru stepped out in silence, the crunch of the gravel under his shoes the only sound. The early morning air felt sobering. His shirt was wrinkled, stained with dried beer, and his hands trembled faintly at his sides.

And then he saw him.

His father stood at the top of the steps, arms folded across his chest, expression carved from stone. His tie was loosened but not removed, still wearing slacks and polished shoes. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Like he’d been standing there for hours, waiting.

There was no greeting. No nod. No words.

Just footsteps.

He descended the stairs with unhurried precision—and before Satoru could open his mouth, before a single explanation could leave his throat—

His father’s hand struck him clean across the face.

The sound cracked like a whip through the quiet.

Satoru’s head snapped sideways. He blinked hard, breath caught, the metallic tang of blood blooming faintly across the inside of his cheek.

But he didn’t flinch.

Just stood there, jaw clenched, staring at the ground.

“You absolute fucking idiot,” his father hissed. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Satoru’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. I do.”

“You could’ve been arrested. You were arrested. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to make this disappear? What this could’ve done to your record? Your career?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

The second blow never came—but the threat of it hovered in the space between them. His father stepped closer, fury pulsing just beneath the surface. “You think you’re untouchable? You think you can get drunk, pick fights in public, and walk away clean just because of your last name?”

“I didn’t start it,” Satoru muttered, voice hoarse from liquor and shame. “I was just trying to—”

“Trying to what?” his father cut in. “Ruin your future?”

Satoru looked up slowly. His eyes were rimmed with red. “Protect someone.”

His father’s expression soured. “You mean that girl?” He said it like a slur, like your name had already been erased from the family’s vocabulary. “That’s who you were defending?”

“He grabbed her! He wouldn’t leave her alone. He put his fucking hands on her!”

“And so you hit him? You threw a punch at Naoya Zenin—the son of the man I’ve spent the last six months negotiating the merger with?” He scoffed. “Brilliant move.”

“He called her a slut.”

“That’s not the fucking point.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Watch your tone,” his father barked. “You think this makes you some kind of hero? You think this was noble?” He gestured to the bruises, the torn collar, the busted knuckle. “It was reckless. You don’t lay a finger on a Zenin without it coming back to bite you in the ass. Do you really think they’ll forget this?”

“I don’t care if they do or not.”

“Well, I do,” his father snapped. “Because I’m the one who will be cleaning up after your messes for the next ten years if you keep acting like a damn delinquent.”

Satoru stood his ground, though his fists trembled. “So what? I was just supposed to let it happen? Let him get away with it?”

“You were supposed to have better judgment. Especially when it comes to girls like her.”

Satoru’s chest seized with anger. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

His father gave him a look like it was obvious. “She’s a distraction. A liability. And now she’s almost gotten you expelled, arrested, and blacklisted all in one night.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She’s not like us, Satoru,” his father said, quieter now, like a warning. “She never was. And you’re going to end up throwing everything away over someone who doesn’t even belong in your world. And if you can’t see that, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

Something broke behind his ribs.

He opened his mouth—but there were no words strong enough to fill the silence.

Only the sound of crickets in the hedges, the far-off hiss of tires on wet pavement, and the distant echo of a life that was already beginning to split in two.

“I’ve been patient,” his father went on. “I’ve given you freedom. But clearly, you need structure.” His tone turned brisk. “No more parties. No more drinking. No more…intrusions.”

And then, just when Satoru thought it couldn’t get worse, his father tilted the knife. His voice turned smooth, like none of it mattered.

“I want you to meet someone.”

Satoru blinked, still stunned from the hit, from the conversation, from the collapse of everything that had just happened.

“What?”

“A friend’s daughter. From a respectable family. Hana Kobayashi. You’ll like her.”

Satoru just stared, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

His father’s expression didn’t waver.  “You want to stay at that university? Keep your place in the firm when you graduate? Then you’ll do as I say.” he stepped back and straightened his suit jacket. “Now get inside. And clean yourself up. You’re going to apologize to the Zenins in the morning.”

“I’m not sorry.”

His father didn’t even look back. “You will be.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the house.

The message was clear. There would be no discussion.

Only orders.

Only consequences.

Satoru stood there for a long time, alone in the cold. The stars above the estate glared down too bright. His jaw ached. His knuckles throbbed in time with his pulse. His whole body buzzed with shame and fury.

And through all of it—through the sting, through the silence—he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

How small you’d looked when you told him you just wanted to leave.

How your hand had rested so gently on his chest.

How badly he just wanted to protect you.

That thought followed him, even now.

The memory dissolved slowly—fading under the weight of silence, of dim lighting in his bedroom. The past settled behind his ribs like ash. And when he blinked, he wasn’t eighteen anymore. He was sitting alone in the quiet, so many years and choices away from that night.

He could still hear it—your laugh from that night, faint in the back of his skull like a ghost. The sharp snap of his father’s voice. The crush of guilt.

But it all bled into the present now. Into the quiet weight of his apartment, where nothing was loud except the sound of his own breathing—and the photos still clutched between his fingers.

His throat clenched.

What the fuck had he done?

What the fuck had he let happen?

He was supposed to protect you. Supposed to be the one person in your life who never let you down—and now here you were, three months pregnant, standing in the wreckage of everything he hadn’t said. Everything he’d been too afraid to face.

You were right.

You’d been right about all of it. About the silence, the secrets, the guilt. He hadn’t chosen you out loud, not when it counted. He’d kept you suspended in limbo, half-hidden behind shame and anxiety, because it was easier than facing the storm head-on. Because he was a coward.

The tears came before he could stop them.

Hot. Sudden. Sharp.

His chest folded inward, and he doubled forward, elbows braced against his thighs as he crushed the photos to his chest.

It wasn’t even a sob at first—just a single broken breath that punched its way out of his lungs. Then another. And another. Until his whole body started to tremble.

He cried like a man unraveling. Like someone who had held too much for too long and finally cracked under the weight. His hands curled into fists over the photos, clutched them like they were lifelines—proof that something real still existed in all this mess.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once, voice hoarse and cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The room didn’t answer him. No one did.

And still, he kept crying.

Not for his parents.

Not for Hana.

For you.

Because it was finally hitting him that he might’ve already lost the one thing he was too scared to hold on to. And that maybe he didn’t deserve to ask you for another chance.

But God, he wanted one.

He wanted one so badly it made his whole body hurt.

He stayed like that for a long time—just sitting in the wreckage, grief curling around him like smoke, his cheeks wet and his breath catching in his throat like it didn’t know how to keep going.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Not because he felt better, but because exhaustion won out. The kind of soul-tired ache that didn’t lift with rest.

Satoru lifted his head, eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, jaw tight.

And in his lap, the photos stayed exactly where they had always belonged—pressed against the heart of a boy who’d only ever wanted to do right by you, and somehow still got everything wrong.

Eleven | Chapter Index | Thirteen

art by: @kazh5y on Instagram | divider by: @strangergraphics