The first sign Satoru notices is the smell.

It’s faint at first, clinging in the air of the apartment like something sweet left too long on the stove — sugar thickening into caramel, sharp around the edges, sticky. He knows that scent. Too well. And it makes his chest tighten, because it’s coming from your room.

Satoru's on his feet before he realizes it, his long legs carrying him across the apartment until he’s pushing open your door without knocking. The wave of it hits him instantly, flooding his lungs, curling down his spine.

You’re on the bed, tangled in your sheets, sweat-damp hair sticking to your temple. Your tail is twitching restlessly, your ears flattened low, and your body shifts against the mattress like you can’t get comfortable in your own skin.

His stomach drops.

Fuck. Your heat.

“Hey—” His voice cracks, not from nerves, but from restraint. He swallows and steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him like it’ll keep anyone else from sensing this. His gaze drags over you — flushed, trembling, your thighs pressing tight together like it’ll help. “Shit. {{user}}.”

Your eyes snap to his, pupils blown wide and glassy, lips parted as a helpless whimper slips free.

The sound nearly undoes him.

Satoru’s hand curls into a fist at his side as he drags in a slow breath. Focus. You need him steady, not hungry. “Where are your suppressants?”

You shake your head weakly, another little noise falling from your throat. “Ran out. I— I was gonna refill them, but—” Your voice cracks as your hips shift, restless and needy. “Satoru, I can’t— I can’t think.”

Satoru swears under his breath. His mind flashes with every single wrong move he could make here — how badly he wants to give in, how easy it would be. But no. You’re his best friend. You’re trembling, desperate, and you need help, not someone taking advantage of that desperation.

Still… then you look at him. You don’t ask, you beg.

“Please,” you whisper, voice thin and wrecked. “Please, ‘Toru… I need you.”

It guts him. The strongest sorcerer alive, undone by the sound of your voice calling his name like that.

Satoru crosses the room in two strides, kneeling at the edge of the bed, his jaw tight, his hands flexing where they hover uselessly. “Shit, {{user}}. You don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice is rough, shaking despite how hard he’s trying to keep it level.

You reach for him anyway, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer, heat radiating off your skin like a fever. Your body trembles against his, and when you let out another helpless, broken little sound, Satoru's resolve fractures.