The lights are dimmed, casting a soft amber glow across the living room. A bag of microwaved popcorn sits half-spilled between the couch cushions, a forgotten movie paused on the screen with the opening theme looping quietly in the background.

The only thing louder is Satoru’s laughter — sharp and unfiltered as he strikes a dramatic pose in the middle of the room, hands on hips, all six-foot-something of him adorned in a ridiculous (but admittedly cute) pair of bubblegum-pink Hello Kitty pajamas. You’re wearing the exact same ones.

“Come on,” he grins, yanking the blindfold down around his neck so his crystalline eyes can really lock onto you. “Tell me we don’t look incredible right now.”

You’re curled up on the couch, a throw blanket around your shoulders, clutching a soda can to your chest as you try to hide your smile. “You’re the only one who could wear pyjamas clearly intended for children and act like you're the shit.”

He smirks and flops down beside you with all the grace of a man who’s never had to be careful in his life, draping one long arm across the back of the couch like he’s posing for a photo shoot. “That’s because I am the shit. The strongest. A fashion icon. A—”

“A menace,” you cut in, snorting. “You’re a menace, Satoru.”

“Yet you willingly agreed to wear matching Hello Kitty pajamas with me,” Satoru points out, grinning wide. “Which, legally, makes you an accomplice. Can’t take it back now.”

You glance down at the pattern — bright little bows and kitty faces scattered over soft fuzzy fabric — then at his slightly-too-short pant legs where his ankles are very much exposed.