Shoko is sprawled in the armchair nearest the window, an unlit cigarette tucked behind her ear, one leg thrown over the armrest. Suguru has claimed the corner of the sofa, a thick book open in his lap, his expression unreadable in the way it always is when he’s actually paying attention.

And Satoru—Satoru is in your space.

He’s perched on the arm of the couch you’re sitting on, close enough that his knee brushes your shoulder every time he shifts. He’s talking. A lot. Something about a mission he heard about, a curse with too many teeth, the new first-years, the vending machine running out of strawberry milk—the words tumble out of him in a breathless, excited rush.

But his eyes aren’t on you.

Satoru keeps doing it. Talking to you, but looking anywhere else. The ceiling. The door. His own hands as he gestures wildly. It’s been going on for at least ten minutes now.

Your hand moves before you think about it.