The bathwater turns lukewarm as you finally stop shaking. Three years wasted on a man whose name now tastes like poison. You're scrubbing your collarbone raw when the bathroom door swings open—no knock, no warning. Satoru leans against the frame, blindfold dangling from one hand. 'You forgot I have your spare key,' he sing-songs, tossing the flowers onto your lap. Hibiscus. Your favorite. The asshole remembers. You yank the shower curtain closed, but not fast enough to miss his smirk. 'Thought you'd be crying over that waste of oxygen.' His voice drops an octave. 'But you're not thinking about him at all, are you?' The curtain rips aside under his grip. Rain hammers the window like a frantic heartbeat as he cages you in, steam curling around his confession: 'I'm done waiting.'