The fluorescent lights in Edmore University's medical wing hummed like a swarm of particularly aggressive wasps. Satoru Gojo sat on the examination table, long legs dangling, one hand cradled against his chest while the other drummed an irritating rhythm against the vinyl cushion. His Cartier sunglasses—because of course he wore Cartier sunglasses indoors in December—reflected the harsh overhead lighting in two perfect circles.

"I fucking told you to slow down, Gojo."

Coach Anderson's voice had that particular quality of a man who'd aged ten years in the span of a single basketball game. He stood with his arms crossed, the whistle around his neck catching the light. His face was doing that thing where the vein in his temple pulsed visibly, the one that usually appeared around finals week or when someone suggested cutting the athletics budget.

Dr. Fernandez emerged from behind her computer screen, reading glasses perched on her nose, looking about as enthused as someone being asked to work a double shift on Christmas Eve. Which, given that it was two days before winter break, wasn't far off.

"Distal radius fracture," she announced, her tone flat. She pulled up the X-ray on the lightbox with more force than strictly necessary. "Your student has apparently broken a bone near his wrist."

"Well." Satoru's grin was still intact, somehow, despite the pain medication probably wearing off. "Can't I just—"

"No," Anderson cut him off.

"You didn't let me finish—"

"I don't need to."

"But what if I just—"

"Gojo."

"—hurt it again so the bone goes back into place?" Satoru finished anyway, because he'd never met a sentence he couldn't complete out of sheer stubbornness.

The silence that followed was the kind that could shatter glass.

Dr. Fernandez removed her reading glasses. Slowly. Deliberately. "Did you just suggest," she said, each word measured, "that you re-break your wrist to fix it?"

"I mean, theoretically—"

"Out." Anderson pointed at the door. "Get the fuck out of my sight. You're done. Banned from campus athletics for two months. Go home. Go anywhere that isn't here."

"Coach—"

"Satoru." Anderson's voice dropped an octave. "You just tried to pull off a behind-the-back dunk in the last three minutes of a game we were already winning by twenty points. Because you wanted to show off. And now you've fucked up your wrist two days before Christmas. So unless you want me to break your other wrist, I suggest you take your trust fund, your ridiculous car, and your even more ridiculous ideas about medical science and get out of this university until February."

Twenty minutes later, Satoru was sliding into the back of his Mercedes-Benz S-Class, cast and all. His driver—a perpetually patient man named Henrik who'd been working for the Gojo family since Satoru was in primary school—didn't even blink at the fluorescent blue cast.

"Good evening, Mr. Gojo."

"Henrik, my man." Satoru sprawled across the leather seats, trying to find a position where his wrist didn't throb like a bastard. "Please tell me you've got the good painkillers."

"I have water and paracetamol, sir."

"You're killing me."

"That would be against my job description."

The drive through London was typical December chaos—brake lights reflecting off wet pavement, the occasional Christmas display still twinkling in shop windows despite the late hour, everyone desperate to finish their holiday shopping. Satoru watched it all through tinted windows, his mind already several stops ahead.

The upside: two months off. No practice. No games. No Coach Anderson's disappointed dad stares.

The real upside: you.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smirk but close enough. Dr. Fernandez had said something about avoiding "strenuous activity," which he'd nodded along to while absolutely not listening. The woman clearly didn't understand that it was his right wrist that was fucked, and he was perfectly capable of—

"We've arrived, sir."

Henrik had pulled up outside the building in Kensington—the flat Satoru had bought last year because it was "convenient" and "a good investment" and definitely not because you lived there and he'd wanted a key. The building was all glass and steel and the kind of price tag that made normal people's eyes water.

Satoru fumbled with his phone, cast making everything awkward and clumsy, before managing to pull up his keys. The fob. Whatever. The thing that opened doors.

"Need help, sir?"

"Henrik, I love you, but if you help me with a door I'm going to lose what's left of my dignity."

"Understood, sir."

The lift ride up was mercifully empty. Satoru caught his reflection in the mirrored walls—hair a mess, cast bright blue because apparently the only other option had been pink and he'd already been having a shit enough day, his shirt wrinkled from the examination. He looked like exactly what he was: an overconfident prick who'd tried to show off and eaten shit for it.

Your floor. Your door. Your flat.

Or, technically, your flat that he'd maybe been helping with rent because you'd punched him the one time he'd tried to pay it outright. Compromise was healthy in relationships or whatever.

He managed to get the key in the lock one-handed, which felt like a minor victory. The flat was dark except for the ambient light filtering through the windows—London never really went dark, just shifted into a different shade of gray. Quiet, too. Either you were asleep or you'd gone out, and given that it was nearly midnight on a Wednesday, he was betting on asleep.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open carefully, years of sneaking in late after away games making him automatically quiet. There you were, a shape under the duvet, just the top of your head visible against the pillows.

Satoru kicked off his shoes—another minor victory in his one-handed achievement list—and approached the bed like someone defusing a bomb. Getting under the duvet with a cast was its own special kind of hell, but he managed, sliding in behind you and carefully positioning his injured wrist away from anything it could smack into.

His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you back against his chest. God, you were warm. The flat was absolutely freezing—you always kept it too cold, said it helped you sleep—and after the drive through winter London, your body heat was basically paradise.

He buried his face in your hair, breathing in that smell, the one from whatever fancy shampoo you used that always made the whole flat smell like a fucking garden. His skin prickled with goosebumps, the adrenaline from the day finally crashing.

You stirred against him, that particular shift of someone pulled from sleep.

"Hi, baby," he murmured into your hair, voice rough.