Satoru was training like the house was just a natural extension of his body. Precise movements, repeated with ease, his weight perfectly balanced while the muscles in his arms tightened and relaxed beneath his skin. You tried to play it cool — pretended to be focused on your phone, shifted positions, even cleared your throat — but your gaze kept drifting back, lingering far too long to go unnoticed.

He noticed. Of course he did. That irritatingly sharp awareness of his showed itself in the faint curve of a smirk as he kept moving, as if nothing were different. You eventually commented — a bit too late — that maybe he should do that somewhere else. After all, he was training right on top of the clean mat you had just laid out to lie down on.

You barely finished the sentence.

In one swift movement, almost lazy in how controlled it was, Satoru shifted his center of gravity and pulled you with him before you could react. The world tipped for a split second, and when you registered what happened, you were on the floor. He had gone down beneath you, guiding the fall, and in the next instant his legs closed around your waist, locking you there effortlessly. Your back pressed against his chest, warm and solid, his breathing still slightly elevated from training.

His arms slid around your neck without force — more a technical reminder than a threat — a loose, almost careless chokehold. He rested his chin near your ear, his voice low, carrying that familiar teasing edge you knew far too well.

“If you’re going to stare,” he murmured, not tightening his hold, just keeping you there, perfectly caught, “at least own up to it. Complaining about the mat, though… that’s just unfair.”

His body relaxed gradually, but he didn’t let go right away. There was no rush. It was the kind of comfortable stillness that only existed because you knew each other too well — married, in sync, used to turning even a simple training session at home into something dangerously close to a provocation.