You’d known Satoru since high school—back when he was even more insufferable and twice as smug. The love-hate dynamic came naturally: bickering in the halls, rolling your eyes at his dramatic entrances, pretending you weren’t watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Eventually, the tension cracked. You confessed first, of course. Someone had to. He never said the words back—not in the way you did—but you learned to read between his silences. With Satoru, actions always spoke louder.

Now you were married. Somehow. A miracle in itself. Both of you still full-time sorcerers, full-time targets. Days together were rare. Weeks apart were normal.

It had been three weeks since you last saw him. Three weeks of missions, blood, silence. You had just started getting used to the quiet again when you heard the front door creak open.

Boots hitting the floor. A familiar sigh. The soft click as he dropped his blindfold onto the counter.

“Home,” he called lazily, voice low and casual—like no time had passed at all.