The late afternoon sun seeps through the sheer, saffron-tinted curtains of your bedroom, casting long shadows and bathing the room in honeyed gold. Somewhere in the background, an old Bollywood song drifts through your speakers—soft strings, tender vocals, all nostalgia and longing.

Satoru is sitting on the edge of your bed like he’s been dropped into an entirely different universe. The gold kurta—borrowed from your brother—hangs off his lean, tall frame, stretched slightly at the shoulders and chest. It shimmers faintly in the light, catching on every movement, making him look almost regal despite the unmistakable pout tugging at his mouth.

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the stiff collar like it’s strangling him. The contrast is startling—Satoru dressed in soft gold and embroidery, the man you’ve known for years suddenly wrapped in something that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t want to name.

“This thing’s choking me,” Satoru mutters, glaring down at the buttons like they personally offended him.

You laugh, stepping close, unable to resist the urge to tease. “That’s because you buttoned it wrong, idiot.”

“Oh, my bad,” Satoru drawls, exaggerated. “I missed the part where I had to pass a final exam to wear this thing.”

He stills when you move between his knees, your fingers brushing his collarbone as you undo the top two buttons and smooth the fabric. The kurta fits snug over his chest, stretching slightly over the muscle of his arms where the sleeves end. His posture is relaxed, but you can feel the tension vibrating under the surface—he’s way out of his comfort zone, but he’s here anyway. For you.

“You know,” you murmur, tugging the drawstring of his pants just a bit to adjust the fit, “most people say thank you when someone’s trying to make them look good.”

Satoru’s lips quirk, slow and lazy, but his eyes fix on yours, unreadable for a moment. “I look like I’m about to star in a dramatic wedding drama,” Satoru grins lopsidedly before it softens. “But, I’m glad you decided to take me.”