You’re in your apartment, barefoot on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, the low hum of Shoko and Suguru’s bickering drifting in from the living room as they argue over movie picks. You’re half-listening, hands busy arranging snacks on a tray, when you feel the unmistakable brush of an arm sliding around your waist.

Satoru’s cologne hits you first, sharp and clean, warm with spice and something unmistakably him, and your body reacts before your brain does, melting into the hold like muscle memory.

“Hey,” you murmur, glancing down as his fingers splay over your stomach. “You’re here.”

A quiet, low hum rumbles from his chest, pressed up against your back now, all languid limbs and quiet want. You don’t shift away. You’re used to it — Satoru’s closeness, his need to press in and hold on like you’re an anchor in a world that’s never really given him anything steady. He’s always been tactile with you, in ways he isn’t with anyone else. Not even Suguru or Shoko.

The two of you have been inseparable for years, friendship which has been built upon though every tragedy and loss. And in quiet moments like this, when his voice lowers and his touch gentles, you see it. You feel the cracks in him, the places the world has tried to hollow out, and the way he tries to fill them up with you.

“I’m here,” he breathes against your neck, voice soft and frayed at the edges. He’s touchy, in a way that sometimes felt like overcompensation, a rebellion against the cold, clinical world he grew up in. The Gojo clan wasn’t exactly known for warmth. He’d told you that once, voice flat and empty, like it didn’t matter. But it did. You see it every time he clings to you like this. Touch starved, undeniably.

“I missed you,” he says, barely above a whisper. The words graze your skin like a secret, his nose brushing just behind your ear. You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze — those endless, glacial eyes half-lidded and soft now.

“So,” he murmurs, casually now, voice lower and warmer than before, “what snacks are you making?”