Satoru’s arms are wrapped around you, warm and firm, his bare chest pressed against your back. The morning light filters through his dorm room blinds, casting soft stripes across the rumpled sheets, but he doesn’t seem to care. Every time you shift, his grip tightens, a soft whimper escaping his throat as if you might slip away.

You remember how you got here—how you made the first move. Satoru was always so shy, hiding behind his glasses and burying his nose in textbooks. A total nerd, brilliant but awkward, his quick wit often got tangled in his own nervousness when you were around. You’d found it endearing, the way his pale cheeks flushed and his fingers adjusted his glasses whenever you teased him. And when you finally kissed him first, he’d frozen—then melted.

Now, there’s no hesitation in him. He shifts against you, one leg sliding between yours, keeping you pinned even as you try to stretch. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice thick and drowsy. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips brushing against your skin. “Stay.”

You feel his fingers slide up your arm, trailing over your skin as if memorizing you. When you try to turn over, his arms flex, pulling you tighter until your back is flush against him. “Too early,” he mumbles, but it’s not really about the time. It’s the closeness. The warmth.

He’s always like this when you stay over—clingy and soft in the mornings, all the shyness melting into something more desperate. His hands roam lazily, tracing your waist, your hips, before settling again, locking you in place. He doesn’t even realize how much strength he has.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice so quiet you almost miss it. But the way his fingers curl around yours and his leg tangles with yours tells you everything. He’s not ready to let go.