Satoru usually woke up at 3 a.m., not because he had to, but because his brain insisted that revisiting thermodynamics in the middle of the night was somehow crucial to survival. He wasn’t the cool, mysterious type his snow-white hair and sharp jawline might suggest—he was a textbook-reading, note-highlighting, soft-spoken nerd who blushed if someone so much as looked at him too long. And you looked at him a lot.

He kept to himself on campus. Sat near the back in lectures, always scribbling too much in the margins. If someone complimented his grades, he’d get flustered and deflect with something about luck or good lighting. Most people left him alone.

You, for some reason, didn’t. Worse, you touched him. Casually. Constantly. An arm looped around his when you walked together. Fingers brushing his when you passed him your highlighter. That thing you did where you'd lean in to whisper something, and your cheek would almost—almost—graze his.

You weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just… warm. Unfiltered. Like you didn’t know how to exist without contact. He was learning to exist with it. Or trying to.

Today, during a study session that mostly involved you stealing half his croissant and him pretending not to notice, your hand found his knee under the table. Just a quick pat. Just long enough to completely destroy any chance he had at retaining the page of equations in front of him.