The morning is pale and gold at the edges, sunlight spilling like honey through gauze-draped windows. Your chambers are quiet, save for the soft pop of the hearth and the faint shuffle of Satoru’s boots on stone. You’re perched at the edge of your bed in a linen shift, hair still damp from your bath, cloak slipping half-off your shoulders.

“Satoru,” you call gently, not needing to raise your voice.

He’s already there, emerges from the far corner like a shadow peeled from the wall, tall, sharp-shouldered, dressed in black with his sword belted at his hip, silver hair unbound and falling in soft disarray. His eyes, blye and impossible, find you in an instant.

“What is it, my lady?” he says, voice easy, low with sleep, threaded through with something else—something softer, meant only for you.

You tilt your leg toward him, bare foot brushing the rug. “My boots.”

Satoru raises a brow. “You have maids for that.”

“I want you.”

That earns a slow, crooked smile. He sighs, mock-dramatic, as if the request burdens him—but he’s already kneeling. Already pressing one hand to your ankle, thumb sliding up the delicate slope of your shin. “Lucky me,” he murmurs.

Satoru works in silence, drawing the first boot up your leg with practiced ease. His fingers are warm where they graze your skin, lacing the leather snugly. You feel his gaze as much as his touch — not leering, never — but attentive. Possessive, in that way only Satoru can be: playful, half-saint, half-wolf.

“Other foot,” he says, voice like spun silk.

You offer it, and he cradles it in his lap. The room is quiet save for the soft scratch of leather on linen, the tug of laces drawn taut. His hands are careful — the same hands that wield a blade with cruel precision, now fastening your boots like they’re the most delicate task in the world.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in. Slow. Intent.

And presses a kiss just above your knee, where the hem of your shift has ridden high. His lips are warm and unapologetic against your skin — a promise tucked into the hollow of your leg. He lingers a heartbeat too long, then pulls back, gaze catching yours through the fall of his silver hair.

“Bold of you,” you whisper, a smile teasing your mouth.

Satoru grins. “You asked for me.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

He ties off the final knot and rests his chin briefly against your knee, shameless. “I’d still be here. You know that.”