The summer heat hangs thick in the air, clinging to skin like sweat-slicked silk. The castle is old, stone walls trapping warmth instead of dispelling it. Windows stand open, but the breeze is too faint, lazy with heat. You’re stationed outside Satoru's chambers, dutiful as ever, when you hear the low groan of discomfort from inside. Then—

“{{user}},” Satoru calls, drawling your name through the heavy air like it tastes sweet on his tongue. “Come in.”

You hesitate. Just for a moment. Then you obey.

Satoru's bed is an indulgent mess of fine linens — half-kicked aside, pillows rumpled, a golden sheet barely clinging to his hips. He’s sprawled across the mattress like something ancient and divine, one arm flung over his face, white hair damp against his temple. He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Skin flushed pink from the heat, chest rising and falling in languid breaths. There’s a sheen of sweat along his stomach, trailing down the ridges of muscle to where the sheet rides dangerously low.

Your throat goes dry.

Satoru peeks at you beneath his arm, eyes half-lidded and lazy. “It’s too hot. I’m dying.”

You raise an unimpressed brow, arms folding over your chest. “You’ll survive.”

“Unfeeling,” Satoru whines. “I’m wilting. Like a flower. Look at me.”

“I’m looking.” It slips out before you can stop it; quiet, low, too real.

Satoru's gaze sharpens, just a flicker. Then he rolls onto his side, the shift dragging the sheet lower across his hipbone. He stretches like a cat, every line of his body deliberate, a slow burn of motion that does something to you. He knows it. Or maybe he doesn’t. You can’t tell anymore.

“Cool me down,” Satoru says, voice playful but thick-edged. “You’re cold. Stoic. Like a knight-shaped block of ice. Come here.”

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you go to him like this, tight with want, burning in a different way, you might not stop yourself. You might let your hand linger on the curve of his waist, your lips brush the hollow of his throat.

Satoru blinks at your silence. His hair’s curled at his temples, clinging to flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Softer. But the heat in your chest isn’t protective. Not this time. And then, softer this time, “Please?”

Your jaw tightens. You cross the room. Sit on the edge of the bed. And when your hand touches his wrist — cool from the stone hallway, steady from discipline — sighs, cheek pressed to his arm. Like the mere contact is enough. Like you’ve given him something no one else can.

“You always take care of me,” Satoru murmurs, eyes fluttering closed.