Chapter 1
Satoru didn’t care much for college. Call him a prude, call him reckless—he didn’t care. It was all the same routine, the same dull faces, the same mind-numbing lectures he barely listened to. The only thing that made it bearable were the parties, and of course, the girls.
Who didn’t love a good party? Who didn’t love a pretty girl hanging off their arm? But the early mornings? The grueling, unnatural hours? Now that was a deal-breaker.
This morning was especially cruel. The sun blazed mercilessly, slashing through the sky with a relentless heatwave. A rare, fleeting cloud would momentarily spare him from the glare, but it was never enough. He exhaled heavily, shutting his eyes against the brightness, running a lazy hand through his stark white hair.
He shouldn’t have come so early. Then again, he hadn’t slept at all—too much fun the night before, too much noise, too much alcohol. His body was here, but his mind still drifted somewhere between last night's party and the headache threatening to settle behind his eyes.
He slouched in his chair, long legs stretching out as he surveyed the incoming students with the same detached boredom he always did. Same old, same old. Girls whispered behind their hands when he shot them a wink, their giggles ringing in his ears like a song he’d heard a hundred times before. He smirked, always enjoying the attention, but not surprised by it.
He was Satoru Gojo —being adored was just part of the job.
Then, Shoko plopped down beside him, cigarette perched between her fingers, the faint curl of smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling. He didn’t have to look to know it was her; the scent of nicotine and apathy was enough.
Satoru turned his head to greet her—only to freeze mid-motion.
Because the moment the classroom door opened, something shifted.
It was subtle at first. A pause in conversation. A hitch in the usual background noise. But then he noticed the real problem.
The girls who had been whispering about him, giggling at him, looking at him—they had stopped. Their eyes, once glued to him like they always were, had flicked to the doorway instead.
And then he saw what they were looking at.
Bangs.
Long, inky black bangs, falling in soft, deliberate strands that framed a face Satoru had never seen before. His stomach twisted—not in shock, not in interest, just… something unpleasant . Something that made his fingers curl against the desk.
And then the rest of him came into focus.
A high bun, loose but not messy, like it had been swept up with thoughtless precision. Stray strands slipping free, catching in the light as they swayed with each step. Tall. Taller than most. Maybe his height, maybe an inch shorter, but with a posture that made it feel like he took up more space.
And those eyes.
Sharp. Narrow. Fox-like. The kind of deep, striking purple that didn’t seem natural, like they had been carved from amethyst and set beneath dark, thick lashes. There was something refined about him—elegant, almost. Not in the way of someone who tried too hard, but in the way of someone who didn’t need to. A presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it.
Satoru’s jaw tightened. His fingers drumming harder against the desk, his mood souring inexplicably.
This guy—this random guy —was just walking in here, exuding some effortless, unbothered charm? With those stupid big ears and those ridiculous gauge earrings? And—no. No, absolutely not.
He was not attractive. No one was more attractive than Satoru Gojo. That was a fact.
And yet, he couldn’t stop staring.
The prick looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, or worse, as some tragic, brooding protagonist in a novel. And he wasn’t even trying .
Shoko let out a low, appreciative whistle, exhaling a curl of smoke as she leaned back in her chair.
“Damn,” she muttered, voice half-lazy, half-impressed. “And I don’t even swing that way.”
Satoru scowled, turning to her.
“He’s not that special,” he said, voice coming out sharper than intended.
Shoko arched a brow, lips twitching as she tapped the ash from her cigarette.
“Sure,” she drawled, amused.
His frown deepened.
No, seriously—he wasn’t. He was just tall. And had a decent face. And, okay, maybe the whole long hair thing was working for him more than it should. The black uniform fit a little too well, the stiff collar framing the elegant line of his throat, the fabric taut across broad shoulders. He had this sharp, refined look to him, something deliberate in the way he carried himself, all precise movements and easy confidence.
But Satoru wasn’t impressed.
Not even a little.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, putting on an air of utter disinterest. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was an edge to it—one he couldn’t quite smooth over.
Because it was happening. That shift. The way people’s attention wavered, the way their eyes followed this guy instead of him. And it annoyed him, deeply, inexplicably. Satoru was used to being the center of the universe. The sun around which everything else revolved. He dictated the room’s energy, not some random new guy with a brooding face and fox eyes.
The newcomer hadn’t even looked at him yet, which made it worse. He simply took a seat at the far end of the room, setting down his bag, oblivious—or maybe just indifferent—to the weight of Satoru’s stare.
Satoru clicked his tongue. Annoying.
Fine. Whatever. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like it mattered.
It did matter.
Because the bastard was everywhere.
Every single class. Every single lunch break. Every single free moment when Satoru should’ve been basking in the attention he rightfully deserved. It had only been a week, and yet somehow, this guy had managed to wedge himself into every corner of Satoru’s carefully curated existence, like a shadow he couldn’t shake.
It was infuriating.
At first, Satoru had brushed it off, convinced that the novelty would wear off, that people would come to their senses and remember who the real star of the show was. But no. Every time he turned a corner, there he was. Stupidly tall. Stupidly composed. Stupidly perfect in a way that wasn’t even that impressive if you really thought about it. And Satoru had thought about it—far more than he’d care to admit.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he was not going to deal with that nonsense.
A party was Satoru’s domain. His natural habitat. A place where the world tilted back in his favor, where he was guaranteed to be the center of attention. Music thrumming in the air, lights dim and hazy, girls already watching him from across the room— this was balance. This was exactly what he needed after a week of enduring the insufferable presence of a certain someone.
Except—
His stomach dropped.
No fucking way.
Across the room, in the middle of a conversation— his conversation—was him. Sitting far too comfortably next to Shoko , talking like they’d known each other for years.
Since when were they friends ?
Since when did he get to infiltrate this space too?
Satoru scowled, an ugly, twisting irritation settling in his chest. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
He didn’t like this— hated this. That guy had already managed to disrupt his campus life, but now he was here too? At a party ? In Satoru’s territory?
What, was he planning to steal the spotlight here as well? With that unreadable expression? With that not-as-attractive-as-Satoru’s face?
No. Absolutely not.
Satoru tore his glare away, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he stomped toward his frat’s side of the house. The music throbbed through the walls, bass-heavy and pulsing, but it barely registered over the white-hot irritation simmering in his chest.
A sharp elbow jabbed into his ribs.
"The fuck’s wrong with you?"
Satoru scowled, barely glancing at the culprit—Sukuna, lounging against the couch with a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, watching him with a smirk that was already pissing him off.
"Fucking nothing," Satoru snapped, snatching a drink from the table, though he had no intention of drinking it. He wasn’t in the mood.
Sukuna snorted. "Yeah, sure. And I’m a fucking priest."
Satoru didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, his eyes flickered—like a bad habit, like an involuntary tick—back across the room.
Fucking Suguru Geto.
Sitting far too comfortably , his legs stretched out in that effortless, infuriatingly composed way, dark hair swept up into a loose bun, stray strands slipping down to frame his face. His uniform was gone, replaced with a loose button-down, collar popped just enough to be annoying, sleeves rolled up over his forearms.
Shoko was next to him, laughing at something he’d said. Laughing.
Satoru’s grip tightened around the cup.
"Jesus, man," Sukuna drawled, following his line of sight. His lips curled into something between amusement and cruel delight. "You’re staring ."
"I am not ," Satoru hissed, forcing his head forward like that would make it true.
Sukuna snickered. "You look like you wanna kill him. Or fuck him. Hard to tell."
Satoru choked. "What the— fuck off , no, I do not —"
But Sukuna was already grinning eyes glinting with absolute, unfiltered entertainment . "So which is it?"
Satoru clenched his jaw. His entire body bristled, a heat rising in his chest that he refused to acknowledge. "It’s neither."
Sukuna let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Didn’t know you swung that way, Gojo.”
Satoru twitched . Every nerve in his body screamed at him to punch that smug look off his face , but he knew better than to take the bait. Sukuna lived for reactions. He fed on them, like a parasite, getting off on every ounce of frustration he could wring from people. And Satoru wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
So instead, he rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall with forced indifference.
"I don’t." The words came out flat. Dismissive. End of discussion.
Except it wasn’t the end of the discussion, because Sukuna was still watching him, still smirking like he knew something Satoru didn’t .
And the worst part?
Satoru was starting to hate how his own thoughts were spiraling.
Because why was Suguru Geto so—
Ugh.
No. No, absolutely not.
He was not attractive.
At least, not as attractive as Satoru. That was just a fact, an indisputable truth of the universe. But for some unfathomable reason , his brain refused to let it go. Every damn time he so much as glanced in Geto’s direction, something about him set Satoru’s nerves on edge. The long, dark lashes. The sharp, fox-like eyes. The way his lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, just this unreadable expression that felt intentionally infuriating.
Satoru downed his drink in one go, letting the burn of alcohol scorch away the thoughts threatening to form.
I just hate his face , he told himself. That was it. A normal, completely rational reaction to someone being annoyingly… there .
Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Satoru stiffened, grip tightening around his empty cup as his stomach did something close to a lurch. Because Suguru Geto—tall, too tall, annoyingly composed Suguru Geto—was walking straight toward them. Or, no, not toward them. Not him . He wasn’t even looking at him.
Which pissed him off.
Suguru’s strides were slow, effortless, like he had all the time in the world, his loose button-down shifting slightly with each step. He didn’t wade through the crowd like most people did—he cut through it, space seeming to open for him without him having to try. It wasn’t even intentional. He just moved like that, like the air bent around him in quiet deference, like the world was unbothered by his presence but unwilling to obstruct his path.
Satoru hated it.
He braced himself, tilting his chin up, smirk firmly in place as Suguru neared. But not once did those dark, fox-like eyes flick in his direction. Not once did he slow, or hesitate, or acknowledge that Satoru was standing right there, barely a few feet away, staring a hole into the side of his stupidly symmetrical face.
Instead, Suguru reached for the keg on the counter, rolling his sleeves up just a little higher—like an asshole—before grabbing a red cup and tilting it beneath the tap. The amber liquid poured out in a slow, steady stream, foam cresting at the top, and still, still, he did not look at Satoru.
His jaw clenched fingers drumming against the plastic rim of his cup. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, coiling around his spine like something unbearable. His entire existence was being blatantly ignored, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why .
People looked at him. That was just how the world worked. They noticed him, admired him, revolved around him like planets locked in his gravitational pull. He was Satoru Gojo—he didn’t get brushed aside, didn’t get overlooked, didn’t get treated like some background character in his own goddamn party.
Yet here was Geto, standing close enough that Satoru could catch the faint scent of something warm—maybe sandalwood, maybe something richer, deeper—lingering beneath the bitter tang of alcohol and cigarette smoke. He stood there, pouring his beer with the ease of someone who belonged, completely unfazed, completely at home.
And he didn’t look at him.
Not once.
Satoru could feel Sukuna watching him, the weight of amusement curling at the edges of his presence, waiting, grinning, ready to pounce.
Don’t say it, he willed. Don’t—
Then Suguru moved.
It wasn’t much. Just a slight turn, a subtle shift, the faintest tilt of his head as he lifted his cup to his lips. But it was enough. Enough for their gazes to catch, to lock, to hold —not long enough to be considered staring, but just long enough that Satoru knew, knew , it wasn’t accidental.
His breath stilled in his throat.
The room didn’t fade away—not entirely. The music still throbbed, the chatter still swelled and dipped in the background, the low hum of voices mixing with the clinking of bottles and the occasional burst of laughter. But for one brief, taut second, none of it mattered. None of it registered.
Because Suguru was looking at him.
And the way he looked at him—calm, unreadable, those dark, fox-like eyes framed by the loose fall of his bangs—was worse than outright ignoring him.
Because it wasn’t dismissive.
It wasn’t indifferent.
It was deliberate.
Like he had been aware of Satoru’s gaze this entire time. Like he had known, known , how closely he was being watched, how much space he had begun to take up in Satoru’s mind. Like he had been waiting for the right moment to acknowledge it—not as a reaction, not as an accident, but as a choice.
A slow sip. A casual swallow. A flicker of something—something Satoru couldn’t quite place, something that sent an unwelcome pulse of heat curling low in his stomach—before Suguru simply turned back to his drink. Back to his conversation. Back to not caring.
The moment snapped like a tensioned wire.
Satoru’s jaw clenched.
His pulse thrummed unevenly beneath his skin and by God did that—
A low chuckle rumbled beside him.
“Holy shit ,” Sukuna mused, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That was embarrassing for you.”
Satoru whirled on him
“Shut the fuck up.”
Sukuna just grinned.
A few weeks went by, and the popularity of Suguru Geto didn’t die down—it got worse. Exponentially. Girls would waltz into the classroom in pairs, whispering behind their hands like schoolgirls in a soap opera, barely trying to hide the way their eyes lit up when they spotted him.
Suguru. Always fucking Suguru .
They'd leave flowers on his desk—actual flowers, like it was a drama set in spring—and giggle as they slipped folded pieces of paper into his bag with their numbers scrawled in hopeful loops. Satoru watched it all with a kind of disgust he couldn’t quite justify.
Suguru didn’t even seem to care . He never basked in the attention, never bragged, never played along. He just smiled, soft and polite, and turned every single one of them down without a hint of cruelty. Like he wasn’t rejecting them so much as gently returning them to reality. Like he was doing them a favor.
Which was insane. Absurd. What kind of college guy turns down that many girls without blinking? What kind of person has the self-control to act like getting laid isn’t the best part of being young and hot?
It was unnatural. Suspicious.
And fine, maybe Satoru noticed. Maybe he’d seen him in the library once—tucked in a corner, brows furrowed like he was solving world peace instead of studying econ or whatever dull shit they were feeding them.
His notes were color-coded. Color-coded. Who did that?
And his grades? Perfect. Of course. Naturally. Satoru had overheard a professor praising one of Suguru’s essays as “elegant” and “insightful,” which—what did that even mean? What was an elegant essay? Satoru’s essays were mostly last-minute caffeine-fueled acts of desperation held together by sheer confidence and bullet points, but they got the job done.
Apparently that wasn’t enough anymore. Not when he was around.
When class ended, Satoru practically launched himself out of his seat, muttering curses under his breath that didn't go anywhere. He scooped his laptop up with a bit too much force, the corner slamming into the desk edge with a hollow thunk. Whatever. Let it break. He hated that thing anyway.
He didn’t look at anyone. Not at Suguru, not at the girl who'd tried to ask him something as he passed—he couldn’t even tell you what. His earbuds were in, no music playing. He didn’t need a soundtrack for this kind of mood.
The hallway was crowded. Packs of students herding toward exits like it was a fire drill, everyone bumping shoulders and acting like personal space was optional. Satoru veered off, cutting toward the elevators even though they were slow and smelled like metal and cheap cleaning spray. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs, which were always clogged with people who didn’t understand basic walking speed hierarchy.
He hit the button and waited, foot tapping, eyes flicking to his phone and back up. The doors opened. Empty.
Thank god.
He stepped in, leaned against the wall, pulled out his phone again—reflex, not purpose. No texts. No distractions.
Then the footsteps.
Suguru stepped in without hesitation. His hair was tied up today—neat, out of his face—and he wore one of those unfitted black button-downs that looked like it was stolen from a capsule wardrobe Pinterest board.
The doors slid shut.
Satoru thought about leaving. He thought about it in the same way someone thinks about pulling the fire alarm just to see what would happen.
Instead, he stayed.
Suguru took his place on the opposite side, silent. Hands in his coat pockets. Not looking at Satoru. Not looking at anything. Like he didn’t care that they were the only two people in this echo chamber of humming electricity and fluorescent lights.
Satoru’s shoulder twitched.
There were too many thoughts. No order. Just fragments.
He’s taller than I thought.
His hair’s different up close.
Does he always smell like that?
Clean, expensive. Like cedar and soap. Like someone who ironed his shirts and never spilled ramen on his syllabi.
The numbers above the door ticked slowly, like they knew.
Satoru hated this.
He hated how aware he suddenly was of his own breathing, of the way his fingers curled around the strap of his bag. He hated how quiet it was. How Suguru hadn't said a word.
He stole a glance.
Same height. Almost. Maybe he had a couple centimeters on Suguru, tops. His eyes were sharp enough to tell. Measured that shit without even meaning to. Shouldn’t have mattered. Didn't matter. But still, the thought sat there, sticky and childish: I’m taller.
He realized—too late—that he’d been staring.
Suguru looked up.
Those eyes. Not doe-like, not round and warm like people sometimes described. Narrowed slightly, like they were always in the middle of appraising something. A little sleepy. A little knowing. The kind of eyes that made you feel like you’d already said too much, even if you hadn't spoken.
Satoru blinked, but didn’t look away.
Suguru didn’t either.
Just that. One second. Two.
"Do you need something?" Suguru asked.
Polite. Too polite. He wore a small smile, the kind he gave those girls who tried to talk to him after class—vague, charming, deflective.
Satoru felt heat crawl up his neck like a fucking rash. He never felt like this. Never. Not even when he was caught doing something worse.
His throat clicked dry as he swallowed.
“No. Nothing,” he said too fast.
Suguru hummed, low in his throat, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You always take the elevator, then?"
He frowned. “What kind of question is that?”
Suguru shrugged. “Just wondering. You seem like the stairs type.”
Before Satoru could even entertain a response the elevator shuddered, the lights flickering a mechanical whine stuttered above them, and then the elevator jolted to a dead stop.
The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was vacuumed. Like all the noise in the building had been sucked out.
Satoru blinked. Looked up at the panel. The floor number was frozen. 9. Then, almost on cue: the overhead lights dimmed to an emergency glow.
Suguru tilted his head up, then down. Calm. Too calm.
“Well,” he said. “That’s inconvenient.”
“No shit,” Satoru muttered. He pressed the emergency button. Nothing. Held it down. Still nothing.
Of all the days. Of all the fucking people.
He stepped back, running a hand through his hair like it might reset the situation. The elevator felt smaller now, like the walls had edged inward, just a bit. Just enough to be felt.
Suguru leaned against the railing like they weren’t stuck in a box nine stories above ground.
“Guess we’re stuck for a bit.”
Satoru said nothing.
Suguru didn’t seem to mind the silence. His arms folded neatly, sleeves pushed to his elbows, bracelets catching the dim light.
He resisted the urge to turn around and face the wall. Juvenile move. But his thoughts were loud, too loud. Uncharacteristic. He felt unbalanced, like someone had reached in and twisted his spine half a click to the left and now everything was off-kilter.
"You okay?" Suguru asked.
Satoru turned his head too quickly. It cracked at the neck. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Suguru gave a small shrug, like he didn’t care either way. "Maybe you don’t like small spaces."
That almost made Satoru laugh. Him? Satoru Gojo? Best basketball player in the school. President of the biggest frat on campus. Walks into any room and people either light up or shut up. He practically invented confidence.
He wanted to scoff, make some crack about being claustrophobic. He wanted to say, I’ve played finals with a torn ligament. I’ve done keg stands on rooftops. I sleep through turbulence. A stuck elevator? Please.
But nothing came out.
He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. That place where the retainer used to dig into his gum. There was a crack in his molar. He should get it fixed, but he wouldn’t.
Suguru didn’t say anything else. He just looked ahead, his profile calm, unmoved by the stale elevator air or the fact that they were sitting on a floor sticky with decades of spilled beer and air freshener.
He leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled hard through his nose. Not scared. Not anxious. Just… bored.
Sure.
Then—movement.
Barely a shift at first, a flicker in his periphery. He glanced, not really meaning to, to the side where the stupidly tall, attractive — nope —Suguru stood. Or rather, bounced. His leg. That slow, unconscious rhythm of nervous energy. Up-down-up. A silent stutter of restlessness.
Satoru frowned, and without meaning to, tracked the motion upward—dark slacks, the hem slightly wrinkled at the ankle. A faint scuff on his shoe. Barely noticeable. The kind of thing that would get missed unless you were looking too long.
He was.
Suguru’s face was turned slightly down, and his bangs—gloss-black and too perfect to be accidental—fell just enough to cut across his cheek. His lips were caught between his teeth. Not biting, exactly. Just held there. Thoughtlessly.
Oh.
Satoru blinked.
Oh.
Something flickered in his chest. Close to amusement. Not quite. Something adjacent. It was ridiculous. This whole thing was.
Suguru Geto. Nervous. Or distracted. Or somewhere in the mental neighborhood of not okay
The same guy who’d brushed off every girl on campus like they were dandelion seeds on a breeze. Who took notes in soft cursive and never got called on twice because professors knew he had the answer the first time. But here he was, biting his lip and bouncing his leg like a first-year waiting on exam results.
Satoru tilted his head, letting it rest against the metal paneling with a soft clink. He didn’t say anything. Just watched.
Watched Suguru inhale shallowly, like someone measuring breath for volume, not air. Watched the tension roll through his shoulders and settle in his jaw.
Was it the elevator? No—he didn’t read as claustrophobic. No darting eyes, no panic. It was internal. Quiet. Knotted.
And maybe that should’ve made Satoru feel better. Leveled the playing field. But it didn’t.
Instead, it complicated everything.
There was something unguarded about it. Something fragile and too human, and Satoru wasn’t used to seeing that in other people. Not really. They usually cracked under pressure in loud, predictable ways—frantic talking, nervous laughter, breaking eye contact too fast, apologizing for things that didn’t need apologies.
But Suguru didn’t do that. He folded in. Smaller, not louder. He didn't want to be seen like this.
Too bad.
Satoru kept watching, arms crossed.
There was a curl of heat low in his gut, but not the kind he was used to. Not lust. Not anger. Something third and inconvenient.
He licked his back molar. That cracked one.
You okay?
No. Too obvious. Too flipped.
Why are you nervous?
Too direct. Would shut him down.
He wanted to needle. Gently.
So he said, “You always bounce your leg when you’re meditating, or is that just an elevator thing?”
Suguru’s head turned, slow. Deliberate. His eyes were… tired. No—that wasn’t it. They were pulled inward, like he’d just come back from somewhere else and hadn’t fully re-entered the room yet.
He blinked once. Then again. The corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.
“Didn’t realize I was doing that.”
Voice low. Steady. But not as easy as before.
Satoru shrugged. “You are.”
A pause.
Suguru let out a breath—softer than Satoru’s earlier exhale, but not careless. Like he was trying to recalibrate.
“Guess I’m not as composed as you thought.”
Satoru snorted. “Please. You’re everyone’s favorite Zen Buddhist TA. You probably have mantras for this exact scenario.”
Suguru’s smile deepened. Not smug. Just… present.
“I might.”
The elevator stayed still. Time did, too.
Satoru let his head roll toward Suguru. Watched him without pretending otherwise. Watched the stillness come back into him, bit by bit. Leg settling. Shoulders easing.
“You don’t like elevators?” he asked.
Suguru didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch. Then:
“I don’t like being seen when I’m thinking.”
Satoru blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
Suguru was still looking forward, not at him.
“I get in my head. Forget I’m in a room with other people. Sometimes I miss things.”
Satoru felt something tighten in his throat. Not a lump. Not emotion. Just awareness.
He looked down at his own shoes. One was untied.
“You don’t seem like someone who misses much,” he said.
Suguru huffed a laugh. “That’s the point.”
Before Satoru could parse it—could even decide if that was deflection or confession—the elevator dinged.
Just like that.
Lights flickered back to life, the low mechanical churn kicked in, a tired groan from the ancient wiring, and then motion. A slow, descending slide back into reality.
The doors opened with a soft beep.
Suguru stepped out without hesitation, his silhouette slipping into the hallway’s glow, coat swinging slightly at his sides. No look back. No acknowledgement. No comment.
Like the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.
Like they hadn’t been two people stuck in a metal box with silence pressing into their ribs.
Like Satoru didn’t exist.
Again.
Satoru didn’t move at first. His limbs were slow to follow. His brain still on that last sentence: That’s the point.
He clicked his tongue, more reflex than reaction. A sharp, dry tch that felt stupid in the quiet, like a balloon popping after a wake.
He finally stepped out, too, shoes meeting tile with a dull thud. The hallway was mostly empty—early afternoon hush, fluorescent shadows stretching across linoleum. Suguru had already turned the corner. Gone.
Satoru stared after him for half a second longer than he meant to.
Then he moved.
Not fast. Just enough.
The walk back to his dorm was uneventful. His brain, however, wouldn’t shut the hell up.
He kept replaying it—not the silence, but the break in it. The crack in Suguru’s tone. That little phrase, tossed out like an afterthought but sticking in his teeth like gristle.
That’s the point.
What did that mean?
Satoru tried to let it go. He tried to be normal about it.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled aimlessly, locked it again. Too quiet.
By the time he hit the stairwell near his building, he’d convinced himself he was being ridiculous.
People get stuck in elevators all the time. People talk. Say things. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except Suguru wasn’t just people.
And what he’d said hadn’t sounded like filler. It sounded like truth. Blunt, tiny, unpolished. The kind you don’t notice until it’s already in your pocket and you’re wondering how the hell it got there.
Satoru keyed into his dorm, let the door swing shut behind him with a dull click.
He stood in the center of the room, bag still on, earbuds still in—no music, as usual. Just placeholders.
He didn’t sit. Didn’t throw himself onto his bed or turn on the TV or text anyone.
He just stood there, staring at nothing.
It was annoying. How much space Suguru was taking up in his head. Like a leak in a ceiling you keep pretending isn’t there.
All this time, Satoru had hated him in a passive, shapeless way. Like how people hate Mondays or slow Wi-Fi. Just enough to roll their eyes, to swear under their breath when no one’s listening.
But now it was different. Now there was substance. Not just annoyance. Not just envy.
Something else.
Something about the quiet way Suguru admitted things. The way he let silence sit in the room without flinching. The way he seemed untouched, until you looked close and realized no, he wasn’t untouched—he was guarded. Carefully. Religiously.
Which begged the question: why?
Why keep the world at arm’s length if you weren’t afraid of being seen?
Satoru wasn’t sure why that question felt so familiar.
He dropped his bag. It landed with a soft thud.
He should text someone. Call Shoko. Scroll TikTok. Open a game.
Instead, he stood there, alone with a new kind of discomfort.