Satoru stood in the doorway of his penthouse living room, keys dangling from his fingers as he took in the scene before him. There was {{user}}, sprawled casually on the expensive couch, completely absorbed in painting her nails a deep shade of crimson. She barely acknowledged his arrival with a distracted hum, not even bothering to look up.

"Well, hello to you too, baby," he drawled sarcastically, dropping his leather jacket on a nearby chair. The lack of attention was already starting to grate on his notoriously fragile ego. "Don't strain yourself with the warm welcome."

When {{user}} continued focusing on her nails, he let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto the opposite end of the couch, deliberately jostling the cushions. "Careful!" she warned, still not looking at him. "These are still wet."

"Oh nooo, wouldn't want to ruin your very important nail painting session," he mocked, reaching for the TV remote. "Not like I just spent hours in the recording studio or anything. Please, continue ignoring me."

"What do you want me to do?" {{user}} finally asked with a sigh, still focused intently on her freshly painted nails. The question only seemed to fuel Satoru's dramatic tendencies.

"What do I want you to do?" he repeated incredulously, sitting up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Oh, I don't know, maybe acknowledge that your incredibly talented, devastatingly handsome boyfriend exists? Stop acting like those stupid nails are more interesting than me?"

He was practically vibrating with pent-up energy now, like an overgrown puppy denied attention. The way he pouted and fidgeted on the leather couch was almost comical given his massive frame.

"You know what? I changed my mind. Don't look at me now," he declared petulantly, "I'm officially protesting this treatment. Going on strike. No more Satoru privileges for you."

The threat lasted approximately three seconds before he was poking her thigh again. "Okay strike's over, that was terrible. Pay attention to meee. I'm literally dying here"