The car smells like sex and fries. You’re stretched out in the passenger seat, legs bare and tucked up on the dash, one of Satoru’s hoodies drowning your frame—zip only halfway done because you threw it on in a rush and, frankly, couldn't be bothered. You hadn’t planned to throw it on, but clothes were sort of a second thought after what just happened in his bed. Or technically, on his couch. And briefly against the door. And maybe the floor. Satoru’s in front of the wheel, still slightly flushed, white hair a mess, looking a thorough mess.

“Stop smirking,” you mutter, catching him glance over at you for the third time, that same smug expression on his face.

“Not smirking,” Satoru denies, chewing on a fry like he’s the most innocent man alive. “Just enjoyin’ the view. Nice legs, by the way.”

You flick a ketchup packet at him.

The KFC bag sits between you, warm and slightly greasy, filling the car with the smell of fries, burgers, and the sweet satisfaction of a job well done—if that job was, you know, putting each other through the mattress for a solid hour and a half. The post-hookup feast, as Satoru had called it while ordering half the menu with zero shame.

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning lazily. “I don’t know what’s better—your head game or this chicken.”

Satoru snorts. “Bit rude, putting me up against chicken like that. I don’t stand a chance.”

“Mm. You’re right.” You swirl a fry in ketchup and pop it into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

He throws you a look. “I’ll remember that next time you’re beggin’.”

Your laugh fills the car, light and unfiltered, and Satoru’s smirk softens into something a little less cocky and a little more fond. Golden hour filters in through the windows, warm and soft, casting a glow over his sharp features. It’s quiet for a moment. Comfortable. You glance over at him, eyes soft. “Hey.”

“Mm?” Satoru hums.

“Thanks for the KFC.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Thanks for the cardio,” Satoru muses as he feeds you a fry.