The door creaks open under your hand, the bass of a passing car’s reggaeton beat trembling through the walls of Satoru's sun-bleached loft above his garage. It’s technically illegal to live here, but that’s never stopped him before. You step inside.

It smells like heat and ozone, like engine grease and faint sugar—like the sweat behind his ears and the ghost of your perfume still trapped in his sheets. A slow fan churns in the corner, useless against the Miami humidity. The windows are open just enough to let in the blur of neon: traffic light yellow, underglow pink, LED blue.

And there he is. Satoru Gojo. Flat on his back on the bed, shirtless, white hair sticking to his forehead like spun sugar gone sticky in the heat. His sunglasses are on the nightstand beside a sweating bottle of Gatorade, keys to his Skyline, and the pack of gum he never actually shares. The waistband of his sweats rides low on his hips. His long legs are tangled in the sheets, and his arm is thrown over his eyes like he’s pretending he can sleep through the heat.

He doesn’t move when you enter, but he doesn’t have to.

“Been standin’ there long?” Satoru's voice is lazy, velvet-slick and slightly amused, like he knew you were coming the second your scent hit the hallway.

You shut the door behind you with a smirk. “Didn’t know the great Satoru could pass out with the whole city screaming outside.”

His smile curves without teeth, slow and smug. “Didn’t know you were dropping by. But I figured. No one else smells like cherry lip gloss and danger.”

You roll your eyes, walking deeper into the room. “That your new pickup line?”

“Not tryna to pick you up,” he murmurs, cracking one eye open now, bright blue and blazing even in the dim. “You’re already mine.”

You stop at the edge of the bed. He looks up at you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all night — better than the races, better than the Miami skyline. His gaze drops, slow and intentional, taking in every inch of you.

“Come here,” Satoru murmurs, voice dipping an octave. “You look too good to be all the way over there.”

You crawl onto the bed, knee hitting the sheets next to his hip, the heat of him curling toward you like a wave. His hands find your thighs, dragging you closer, fitting you against him like you’ve always belonged right there.