#satory

Pairing: Satoru gojo X F! Reader

Contains: MDNI, EVENTUAL SMUT, soft dom Gojo, Oral (f receiving), slow sex, a tinyyy bit of agnst, bad friend, Geto cameo , fluff, lovebirds in denial.

Summary!! Dragged into a blind double date by her best friend Yumi, Y/N expected awkward conversation and overpriced drinks—what she didn’t expect was Satoru. Charming, aloof, and beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. There’s just one problem. Satoru is falling for someone else—Yumi, the girl he wasn’t supposed to notice.

Part 2>>>

You never meant to say yes.

It all happened so fast, like most things with Yumi do. One minute you were swearing you'd stay in, wearing that one oversized t-shirt that smelled faintly like lavender detergent and denial, and the next she was standing at your door with lip gloss too shiny for reason and a mission too loud to argue with.

"A blind double date," she says, grinning like she’s delivering great news. "You're coming."

You blink from the doorway, socked feet planted on your apartment’s cool wood floor. “Why?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping past you like she owns the place. “Because I can’t go alone. Because I lied and said my best friend was super cute and single and down. Because you owe me for ghosting that rooftop party last weekend.”

You frown. “I had a headache.”

“You had a spreadsheet and a minor existential crisis about turning twenty-five.”

Fair enough.

“I don’t even like blind dates.”

“You like food,” she shoots back, toeing open your closet with her heel. “And you like getting dressed up, even if you pretend not to.”

You don’t argue that. Not when she’s already holding up a black dress you haven’t worn in months—the one that makes your collarbones look sharp and your waist feel small.

Somehow, by the time you’re in her car, you’ve convinced yourself it’s just dinner. Not a date. Not anything that means anything. Just a way to keep Yumi from bringing it up for the next three weeks.

But then you arrive at Summer Blue, a rooftop bar near downtown with velvet curtains, rich lighting, and a view of the skyline that makes you feel like you're stepping into someone else’s night. One where the air smells like citrus and high hopes.

They're already there.

Two guys, tucked into a corner booth where the lighting dips soft and golden like honey. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a little sleepy-looking—is sipping from a glass and watching the room with a kind of stillness that feels practiced. His presence is quiet but heavy, like an unfinished thought. That must be Suguru.

Next to him is the opposite. Leaning back, legs wide, arms stretched across the back of the booth, with snowy white hair that falls carelessly over his forehead. He’s wearing sunglasses inside.

Sunglasses. But then he pushes them up onto his head, and you see his eyes—bright, pale, too blue to be real—and it hits you. Hard.

He’s stupidly handsome. In that chaotic, dangerous, “you’ll ruin my GPA and my life” kind of way.

Satoru.

They both stand when you approach. Suguru offers Yumi a handshake and a polite smile, eyes flickering with a quiet warmth. But Satoru grins like he’s just been handed a game he plans to win.

“You must be Y/N,” he says, his gaze skimming over your face in a way that makes your skin hum. “Cute name.”

You smile, tight. “You don’t look like a Satoru.”

He cocks his head. “What do I look like, then?”

“Someone who wears sunglasses indoors.”

He laughs. Loudly. Like it actually caught him off guard.

“I like her,” he says to no one in particular, lips curving around the edges of a smirk. “She’s got claws.”

You glance at Yumi. She’s already sliding into the seat next to Suguru, laughter bubbling up like it’s been waiting to escape. Their conversation picks up like it never had to start.

Which leaves you beside Satoru.

You settle in, stiff at first. His cologne is clean and sharp, something citrusy beneath the warmth. You focus on the menu to avoid how your thigh brushes his every time you shift.

They talk. You listen.

You offer a few lines here and there—safe ones, nothing too revealing. Satoru asks what you do. You tell him. He nods like he's interested, but you catch the moment he stops listening. He laughs more at Yumi’s jokes than yours. Refills herglass before yours. Always looking across the table, never beside him.

It’s not obvious, but it’s enough.

You sip your wine slower. You try to focus on Suguru, who seems quieter, thoughtful, far more tuned into Yumi than anyone else. It makes sense. She’s magnetic tonight—glowing with that effortless confidence that makes people fall in love in record time.

You don’t blame her. You don’t even blame him. But it still stings. Because when you first sat down, he looked at you like he might actually see you. And now he’s not looking at all.

By dessert, Yumi’s practically in Suguru’s lap. She’s laughing in that full-bodied way that makes other tables glance over, and Suguru, though soft-spoken, doesn’t pull away. You see it. The beginnings of something. Or maybe just a really good first date.

Meanwhile, Satoru checks his phone. You realize he hasn’t asked you a single personal question in the last hour.

The check comes. Suguru reaches for it first, insists on covering it. Yumi mouths wow at you like she’s been proposed to. You force a smile.

Outside, the city hums low, busy and buzzing with Friday-night heat. Yumi’s hand finds your arm as you wait for the car. Satoru says something to Suguru—low, sharp, something that makes him laugh.

You look at Satoru one more time. He catches you. Smiles. And just before you turn away, you catch the flicker of his gaze sliding back to Yumi.

The ride home is quiet until Yumi turns and sighs dramatically.

“So?” she asks. “What’d you think of Satoru?”

You pause. The lights from the city flash against the windows, strobing your face in soft gold and shadow. You think of his grin. His jokes. His eyes. And then you think of how none of it was meant for you.

“He’s... not my type,” you say, gently.

Yumi doesn’t push.

She’s texting Suguru before you’ve even reached the freeway.

You turn toward the window, chin resting on your knuckles. You feel something shift in your chest—barely a tremor, but real.

And you wonder why something you didn’t even want hurts just enough to feel like a bruise.

You try not to think about him. You really do.

Monday comes with the same routine as always: your alarm buzzes too early, your coffee tastes too bitter, and the world outside your window glows that soft blue-gray of a city not quite awake. The date with Satoru and Suguru feels like something that happened in someone else’s life. A movie you watched, not a memory you lived.

You tell yourself it didn’t matter. You barely knew him. He barely looked at you. It shouldn’t linger the way it does, tucked beneath your ribs like a paper cut you keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

Yumi, on the other hand, is thriving.

She’s been smiling more than usual, texting even more than that. You can always tell when it's Suguru she’s talking to—her posture changes. She sits straighter. Her eyes get a little dreamy, her words a little distracted.

It’s sweet, honestly. And it makes you feel like the side character in someone else’s romance arc.

She tells you about their second date on Wednesday. A gallery opening downtown, modern art and little hors d'oeuvres shaped like abstract nightmares. She wears a red dress and you zip her up with careful fingers, watching her in the mirror as she applies lipstick with hands that don’t shake.

“He’s so thoughtful,” she says softly, and you nod, even though she’s not really talking to you. “Like he sees me. You know?”

You do.

You say goodnight when she leaves, but you don’t turn on the TV or make tea like usual. You sit in the silence of your apartment, bathed in the dim light of your kitchen lamp, and wonder if you’ve ever had that feeling. The being seen.

Your phone buzzes with a work notification. You turn it over, face down.

The week creeps by.

You throw yourself into your job, into projects and timelines and the comfort of checklists. People know you as the dependable one, the calm one, the person who always has a backup plan. You like being that person.

But lately, something feels off. You’ll catch yourself staring out the window a little too long. Getting distracted by things that shouldn't matter—like the memory of Satoru laughing at something Yumi said, or the way his fingers tapped against his glass when he wasn’t paying attention.

You hate that you remember that. You hate even more that he hasn’t messaged. Not even as a friend. Not even as a courtesy. Not that he owed you anything. You remind yourself of that at least three times a day. Still.

Friday night, Yumi’s gone again.

Out with Suguru. You tell her to have fun and mean it, but when the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than usual. You pour yourself a glass of wine. One becomes two.

Somewhere around eleven, you scroll through your photos. Not to look for anything in particular. Just to feel something. And there it is.

A blurry candid that Yumi took at the bar. The four of you, half-smiling, a little tipsy. You and Satoru are barely in frame—his arm behind you on the booth, your body leaning subtly away. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. His does, but it’s not for you.

You should delete it. Instead, you turn off your phone.

Saturday, the sun burns bright and careless over the city. You run errands just to get out of the house—groceries, dry cleaning, a new candle you don’t need. The streets buzz with heat and movement. You slip your sunglasses on, earbuds in, music up loud enough to drown your thoughts. And yet— Somewhere between the fruit aisle and the checkout lane, you think you see him.

White hair. Tall frame. That walk—carefree but too aware of his own magnetism. You turn your head too fast, knocking your elbow into a stranger’s basket. They curse under their breath, and by the time you glance back, the man’s already gone.

It wasn’t him. Probably. But your heart still beats wrong in your chest for a few minutes afterward.

That night, Yumi comes home glowing again. She falls onto your couch in a heap of perfume and expensive fabric, sighing like a girl who's been kissed well.

“I think I really like him,” she says, almost shy.

You smile, this time for real. “I can tell.”

She leans her head on your shoulder. “Is that weird? Is it too fast?”

“Not if it feels right.”

And the truth is—he’s good for her. You can tell in the way she smiles. The steadiness in her. Suguru has a calming effect, like he doesn’t need to be the loudest person in the room to hold attention. Yumi’s usually the sun, but with him, she doesn’t have to burn so bright.

“I think Satoru might’ve liked me too, though,” she says absently, not even meaning it as a brag. Just letting it float.

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “It’s a vibe I got. Just for a second. You know how some guys are.”

Your stomach turns, slow and quiet. Not in jealousy, just... recognition. Confirmation of something you already knew.

“I’m not worried, though,” she adds, curling closer into your side. “Suguru makes him look invisible.”

You laugh, but it comes out smaller than you expect. Invisible. Maybe that’s how you felt that night too.

Later, as the city quiets and your room dims to nothing but the faint glow of traffic outside your window, you lie awake longer than you should. You think of his voice. The curve of his grin. The way your name didn’t sit on his tongue the way hers did.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You almost believe it.

The rain starts sometime around noon.

Soft at first. Barely a whisper against your windowpane. But by the time you’re out on the street, it’s turned into that steady, curtain-like kind—the kind that makes people duck under awnings and tighten their scarves and mutter about weather apps being wrong again.

You don’t mind it. Rain feels honest. Quiet. Like the world has decided to soften itself for a few hours.

You’d meant to just grab a coffee. Maybe wander a bit. Something about gray skies makes the city feel smaller, easier to breathe in. But your steps drift, carried by instinct more than intention, until you’re turning onto 9th Street and standing in front of a shop you haven’t been to in months.

Hoshino Books.

It’s the kind of place that smells like cedar shelves and old pages, warm and lived-in. No music playing. Just the gentle hum of a ceiling fan and the muffled sound of traffic from the other side of the glass.

You push open the door, and the little bell above it rings—a soft chime that tugs at memory like a thread.

The shop is nearly empty. A couple of people browsing. Someone at the back in a beanie, sitting on the floor with their nose buried in a thick hardback.

You shake off the rain, fingers brushing water from your coat sleeve. The lighting inside is soft, golden, like it’s been filtered through amber. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

This is what you need. Just an hour or two to disappear into fiction. Somewhere no one can find you.

Somewhere he definitely wouldn’t be.

And then—

You hear a laugh.

Not loud. Not even fully-formed. Just a huff of amusement, low and familiar and impossible.

You freeze.

Because even if you hadn’t seen him in a week—not in person, not on a screen, not in your dreams where he somehow still grins like he belongs there—you’d know that voice anywhere.

Satoru. You turn slowly.

He’s across the aisle. Leaning lazily against a shelf in the fiction section. One foot crossed over the other, a book open in his hands like it only half-interests him. His white hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head again, like they’re part of him. His coat’s unzipped. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain gray hoodie that somehow makes him look more real.

And then he glances up. Blue eyes. Direct. Sharp.

Recognition flashes across his face like a spark on cold steel.

“…Y/N?”

Your name sounds wrong in his mouth. Not because he says it poorly—he doesn’t. He says it with surprise. A softness. Maybe even something close to regret.

But because the last time he said a name out loud in front of you, it wasn’t yours.

You swallow. “Hi.”

There’s a beat. Two heartbeats, maybe three. Then he smiles. A little crooked, a little unsure.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, stepping closer. He closes the book in his hand and slots it back on the shelf without looking.

You try not to notice how tall he is, how easily he moves, how the rain has left a faint flush across his cheeks.

“I come here sometimes,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. “Didn’t think you were the bookstore type.”

He smirks. “You thought I couldn’t read?”

“I thought you’d prefer something louder.”

“Fair.” His grin widens a bit. “But sometimes I like it quiet too.”

You both stand there.

The silence stretches, long and uncertain.

You should walk away. You know that. You owe him nothing. You’re not friends. You were barely even dates. But still, there’s something about being near him again—something about the way he’s looking at you now, not past you.

Not toward Yumi.

Just at you.

“Didn’t think you remembered my name,” you say, quieter now.

He flinches—barely. But it’s there.

“I deserved that,” he says, voice lower. Honest.

The air between you shifts. It feels like the bookstore is holding its breath.

You turn, pretending to scan the shelf beside you. Your fingers trail the spines. You stop at one—Norwegian Wood. A story about memory. Loss. People who come in and out of your life like the tide.

He’s still watching you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he says suddenly, like the words surprised even him.

You raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just... I thought you weren’t into me.”

You laugh once. Sharp. “You thought I wasn’t into you?”

He shrugs, a little defensive now. “You were quiet. Kind of distant. I thought you were just doing Yumi a favor.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean—” You stop yourself.

Doesn’t mean what?

That he didn’t affect you?

That you noticed every time he looked at Yumi and not at you?

He looks down. “I screwed it up.”

There’s a vulnerability in him now, barely there but real. Like a crack in glass. It’s not an apology, not quite. But it’s something.

You inhale, slow. The smell of old books and rain. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning above. The fact that you don’t owe him forgiveness—but also the fact that part of you still wants to know what might’ve happened if he had looked at you just once the way he looked at her.

You reach for a book at random. Hand it to him.

“You’d like this one,” you say.

He takes it without looking at the cover. Just watches you.

“Guess I’ve got some reading to do,” he says.

“Guess you do.”

You brush past him. Your shoulder grazes his sleeve. He doesn’t move.

And you don’t look back.

Not yet.

You don’t expect him to text you.

But he does.

Not that night. Not even the next day.

It comes two mornings later—midway through your commute, while you're sandwiched between strangers on the train, earbuds in, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Unknown Number

heyit’s satorubookstore was a surprise. you looked good in the rainmind if i send a book rec your way sometime?

You stare at it longer than necessary. You even lock your phone and unlock it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Your heart skips—annoyingly, involuntarily—and you hate that your first instinct isn’t to delete the message.

You wait almost an hour before responding.

I didn’t give you my number.

The reply comes instantly.

yumi did wanted to return the favor. figured i owed you something also wanted to prove i can read books that don’t have explosions

You actually snort at that.

And against your better judgment, you reply.

I like stories that feel like bruises.Quiet ones.

This time, he takes a little longer to answer.

you looked like one the other night a bruise, I mean

the kind that doesn’t show up till laterYou don’t respond after that.But you think about it all day.

By the end of the week, it becomes something of a rhythm.

A message here. A sarcastic observation there. Nothing overt. Nothing intense. Just this slow circling, like you’re both walking the rim of something deep, peeking over the edge without quite falling.

He never pushes. You never invite. But still, the tether stretches between your phones like an invisible thread.

You don’t tell Yumi. You don’t know how to. This isn’t anything, not really. Just two people who happened to be in the same place, and then again, and then again—until the randomness of it started to feel deliberate.

But sometimes, you find yourself rereading his messages before bed. Sometimes, you picture his eyes from the bookstore—the way they softened when they found yours.

Sometimes, you want to text him first. You never do.

It’s a Thursday when he invites you out. You almost say no. But the day’s been heavy with clouds, your brain fogged from too much time staring at your laptop, and you’re craving something that feels like breath.

He sends the name of a café tucked behind a used record shop—nothing trendy or loud, just quiet and narrow and easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

You find him there, seated by the window, coffee in front of him, hair a mess from the rain. He looks up when you enter. No grin this time. Just a small, surprised smile, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually come.

“You showed.”

“I said I would.”

“I thought maybe I imagined that part.”

You take the seat across from him and let the steam from your drink warm your cold fingers. The café smells like cinnamon and rain-soaked wood. The lighting is soft—yellowed and sleepy.

He watches you for a beat too long before speaking again.

“You have this way of disappearing.”

You tilt your head. “You’ve only met me twice.”

“Three times now.”

“Still doesn’t make you an expert.”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “But you’re hard to read. That much, I’m sure of.”

You sip your drink. “That bothers you?”

He leans back, fingers curled around his mug. “A little.”

You glance away. There’s something dangerously easy about talking to him now. Something that’s either going to turn into nothing—or everything.

He’s wearing a simple hoodie again, dark gray, sleeves pushed up. There’s a scrape on one of his knuckles, and your eyes catch on it before you realize you’re staring.

He notices. “Basketball game got messy. Suguru plays dirty.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything light.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You were right, by the way,” he says. “About the books.”

You blink. “What?”

“Stories that feel like bruises. Quiet ones. I’ve been reading one you’d like. It’s slow. Kind of sad.”

“You’re reading something sad?”

“It’s not my natural habitat, but I’m trying,” he shrugs. “Feels a little like you. The kind of story that takes a while to get under your skin.”

You can’t look at him when he says it. You stir your coffee, like it matters.

He doesn’t press.

That’s the thing with Satoru: he could be so much—loud, arrogant, cutting—but when he’s still like this, he’s almost disarming. The way a sharp blade can sometimes look like silver in the right light.

He clears his throat. “So what’s your favorite sad book?”

You raise your eyes to his. “The Bell Jar.”

“Oof. That’s not just sad, that’s devastating.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you look at people like you already know how they’ll leave.”

That makes your breath catch. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know why he sees it.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. Instead, he shifts, pulling a small book from his coat pocket and sliding it across the table.

“I brought you something.”

You stare at it, surprised. It’s worn and clearly used—no cover sleeve, spine bent like it’s been loved hard.

You flip to the first page. The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, a little too casual. “There’s this line near the end—‘The only truly serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.’ Cheery stuff.”

You snort despite yourself.

“It’s not that bleak,” he adds. “It’s... delicate. Sad in a smart way.”

You run your fingers over the cover.

“Why give me this?”

He shrugs, eyes on you again. “Because I wanted to. Because I think there’s a version of you that lives in this book.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

You don’t speak until the rain starts again outside—light at first, then louder. You both look out the window at the same time, and for a moment, your reflections overlap in the glass.

You can feel his attention drift to you. Not like it did before—not with half an eye on someone else. He’s looking at you now.

And you’re afraid you might look back.

It starts with a book.

The one he gave you—worn at the edges, dog-eared like it passed through other hands before yours. You read it in pieces. On the train. Before bed. In the lonely silence after Yumi leaves for work. You underline a few lines, fold some pages, leave faint smudges on the margins. Not because you want to mark them—but because you're holding it tighter than you mean to.

One night, you text him:

The book is cruel. In a way I understand too well.

He replies less than a minute later.

yeah i think that’s why i wanted you to read it

You don’t answer right away.

Your room is dark. Your window slightly open. Rain is dripping somewhere—on leaves, on concrete, on glass. You stare at your phone. You wonder if he’s up.

And then you call him. You don’t plan it. You don’t rehearse. You don’t think.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?”

His voice is hushed. Not groggy—just low. Like he was already awake.

You hesitate. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just... wasn’t expecting to hear your voice.”A pause. Then, quieter:“Hi.”

You let out a breath. “Hi.”

A longer silence stretches between you. But it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like something being held in both hands, carefully.

You shift under your blanket, phone tucked close to your ear. “You read that book and thought of me?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales.

“There’s this part I kept rereading,” he says. “Where she’s standing in front of all those fig trees—each fig a different version of her life—and she realizes if she waits too long, they’ll all rot and fall.”

“I remember that line,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Me too. Felt... familiar.”

You press your eyes shut, picturing it—the slow rot of imagined futures. The ache of wanting so many lives and choosing none.

“Do you ever feel like that?” you ask. “Like you’ve wasted something without even knowing what?”

“Every damn day,” he admits. “I think that’s why I talk so much. To fill the silence. To pretend I’m not stuck in my own head.”

You smile faintly, turning to face the window. “You never seemed like the type.”

“That’s the trick,” he says. “People like me are always hiding in plain sight.”

The rain picks up outside, tapping gently against your sill.

“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if no one was watching? If there were no figs to rot?”

You think about it. “Disappear. Just for a while. Not forever. Just... long enough to remember who I am when I’m not being watched.”

You hear him shift—maybe lying back now. “I think I’d follow you.”

The silence after that sentence is different. He doesn’t laugh to soften it. Doesn’t brush it off. Your fingers tighten around your phone.

“Why?” you ask quietly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because... being near you doesn’t feel like pretending.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. It’s too soon, too tender, too dangerous. And yet—you stay on the line. He doesn’t hang up.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Just the soft sound of his breathing, and the rain, and your own heartbeat pushing against your ribs like it wants out.

Eventually, you fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear. And in the morning, you’ll wake up to a quiet “goodnight” he whispered after you stopped answering.

The next time you see him, it’s not planned.

Not really. Yumi drags you to one of Suguru’s low-key gatherings—more “wine and weird records” than loud party. You think about saying no, but it’s been a heavy week. The kind that lingers in your shoulders and makes your apartment feel too quiet. You need a distraction.

So you go.

The place is a loft somewhere in Nakameguro—brick walls, records scattered like confetti, an old turntable in the corner humming low jazz. Satoru’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the floor with a drink in his hand, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the room without trying.

His eyes catch yours immediately. It’s subtle—just a glance, a half-smile—but it lands like thunder beneath your ribs.

You look away first.

Yumi is busy catching up with Suguru. There’s a girl beside Satoru now, too. She’s laughing at something he said, leaning in just a little too much. You recognize her from before—someone orbiting their circle. You don’t know her name, but the way she touches his arm tells you she wants to be known.

And the worst part?

He lets her.

At least at first. But then he sees you again—across the room, your back pressed to a bookshelf, wine glass untouched in your hand.

He excuses himself from the girl gently, politely, and then he’s walking toward you. And your breath—damn your breath—actually hitches.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says softly.

“You’re not as surprising as you think,” you reply.

That makes him grin.

But there’s something quieter behind it tonight. Less teasing. More focused.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat. “You look...”

“Tired?”

“Not tired,” he says. “Far away.”

You glance down at your glass. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

You don’t smile at that. And he notices.

You feel the shift between you—barely there, like a change in pressure before a storm. He steps closer, just enough for your arms to almost touch. The music from the record player croons something sad and slow, and the chatter around you fades.

“Want to get out of here for a second?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Where?”

“Just the balcony. You look like you need air.”

You should say no. You should.

But you follow him anyway.

Outside, the city glows beneath the early night. Neon reflections blur across wet rooftops. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for the two of you. You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close but not touching.

It’s quiet for a while.

Then he says, “She’s not my type, by the way.”

You don’t answer.

“I saw you looking,” he adds, more softly. “And I don’t want you thinking—”

“Satoru.”

He stops.

You glance at him, tone even. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

His jaw works for a moment. “Maybe not. But I still want to give one.”

You look back out at the sky.

“Do you do that often?” you ask. “Say what people want to hear?”

His eyes find you again. “Not with you.”

You don’t believe him. But you want to. And maybe that’s worse.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours. The way the air changes when someone wants to touch you but doesn’t. Your breath fogs faintly in the cool air, curling into the night.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He turns toward you then—really turns. His shoulder brushes yours.

“Then why are you here?” he asks. “With me?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many. The space between you narrows.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a second too long. His eyes fall to your mouth, and your pulse spikes.

You step back. Too fast. His hand drops.

You take a breath. “I should get back inside.”

He nods. But his voice is low when he says, “I’ll see you soon?”

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no either.

Inside, the girl from before is laughing again—this time with Suguru. She’s spinning one of his records. Yumi is curled into the couch, cheeks flushed with wine, eyes bright.

You go to her. Sit beside her.

And that’s when you hear it. From across the room, Satoru says something. Laughs. But your name doesn’t fall from his mouth.

“Yumi,” he says, to someone who’s not her.

You freeze. You look up. He wasn’t talking to Yumi. He was looking at you.

Your name is not Yumi.

But that’s the one he said. His smile falters instantly. Your heart drops like a stone in water. The girl beside him glances between you, confused. You don’t stay long after that.

May 28 1918 Photographer takes a picture, IWM Q 78246, of a French dog-cart teams at exercise at the camp at Satory