The kitchen is quiet save for the bubbling of milk and spices in the pot. Satoru sits on the counter, his ever-present sunglasses perched atop his head, white hair falling messily over his forehead. His long legs swing to and fro, watching you with a kind of open curiosity he rarely shows the world. The air is thick with the scent of home—crushed cardamom, ginger, cloves, a whisper of cinnamon. Steam curls in lazy tendrils toward the ceiling, golden light slanting through the windows and painting him in soft amber.

“This,” Satoru says, voice low and slow like honey, “smells like I should be paying rent to your kitchen just for being able to stand here.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, fighting a smile. “You might have to. You’ve been here more nights this month than your own place.”

He grins, wide and boyish. “What can I say? You have good chai and excellent company.”

You shake your head, turning back to stir the pot. The tea has thickened just right—deep in color, rich with the scent of spices. It’s not fancy. It’s not complicated. But it’s real. Something warm and grounding in a life that often feels like smoke and mirrors.

Satoru moves closer as you pour the chai into two mugs, brushing the back of his hand against yours—purposeful, just a little too lingering. You hand him one, and he takes it with both hands, the ceramic dwarfed between his long fingers.

“Careful,” you murmur, “it’s hot.”

He lifts the cup to his lips anyway, blowing on it half-heartedly. The first sip pulls a low, surprised hum from his chest. His eyes flutter shut. Undeniably pretty.

“Damn,” Satoru breathes, eyes opening just slightly—no blindfold tonight, just those too-blue eyes gleaming under silver lashes. “This feels like someone just hugged my insides.”

You sip your own chai, letting the warmth seep into your fingers, your chest. There’s something soft about the scene, something that doesn’t quite fit a man like Satoru — too large for rooms like this, too powerful for quiet kitchens. But here he is, anyways.