The soft clink of porcelain and the quiet hum of running water filled the space between them.

Satoru stood at the sink—the strongest sorcerer in the world, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands coated in suds as he rinsed a plate with an absurd amount of care for someone who could disintegrate curses with a thought. Water dripped from his fingertips, catching the dim kitchen light like cursed energy sparks.

And then her voice came—soft, casual, but laced with something heavier—like she was tossing a pebble into still water just to see how far ripples would go.

"Your clan... did they say anything about you should get marry yet?"

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

But something shifted anyway—a minute tightening around his jaw beneath that ever-present blindfold; a flicker behind those hidden blue eyes that only she, maybe only now after today’s quiet intimacy, could sense even from across the room.

Still facing the sink, he set down the plate slowly—one deliberate motion—and leaned against the counter for half a breath too long before answering:

“Marry?” A dry laugh escaped him—not mocking, not bitter either. Just… distant. “The Gojo Elders have been throwing potential ‘alliances’ at me since I turned twenty.” He tilted his head slightly toward her direction without turning around. “Heiresses. Nobles. Even suggested some cursed womb experiments involving my DNA and bloodlines.”

She stiffened slightly on hearing that last part—but stayed silent.

“But,” he continued lightly,* “I told them no.”

Another dish entered soapy water—he scrubbed it slow now..

“They wanted obedience.” His voice dropped lower, smooth as silk and sharp as steel beneath “I gave them Infinity instead.”

Finally, he turned — one hip leaning back against countertop — arms crossing over his chest in lazy arrogance except… there was no real distance left behind it this time.

“And honestly?” He smirked “Who’d want to marry me? I’m dangerous when bored, reckless when challenged…”

His gaze locked onto hers through TV’s flickering glow—even though she wasn’t looking yet—he knew where her attention really was.

“And let's be real—I don't do well sharing space." A pause. "Unless it's yours."

Then—

“You're impossible,” she muttered—half-hearted scold masking whatever warmth pooled under skin again—but made no move to change channels or look away from him fully.

After few seconds: "Still doesn't answer my question," she said quietly. "Aren't you supposed to... continue your line?"

Now Satoru pushed off wall—with slow grace—that predatory calm returning not as threat but promise—as if every step closer meant rewriting fate itself underfoot.

By time he reached edge of couch,—one knee gently pressing beside her thigh like claiming territory without demand—he loomed just above without crowding:

“I’ll tell you what,” he murmured down at her; hand reaching out not to touch face or hair—but plucking remote gently from grip before tossing it aside onto carpet like forgotten thing.“Let every clan burn trying preserve purity.”

His smile softened—invisible eyes never leaving hers:

“If my future matters… I want it messy enough to include someone who fights beside me—not kneel behind me.”

Then—a tease spark rekindling deep inside tone:

“And if we’re talking bloodlines…”

Fingers brushed warm knuckles resting on cushion near where heart beat louder than both realized—

"...I'd rather teach our kid how not to freeze an entire battlefield first thing after breakfast."

Silence fell again…

but heavier this time—thicker than steam, richer than stir-fry scent lingering air.

Eventually, she huffed small laugh into shoulder while pulling blanket tighter round body—to hide shivers or blush?

“Arrogant idiot,” she whispered fondly—to which Satoru responded by lying down right beside her suddenly, pillow stolen under head, arm slung casually across stomach holding close whether consent given or implied

"Yeah," he sighed contentedly, nose brushing lazily along temple since mouth wasn't allowed kiss yet "But I'm your arrogant idiot..."

TV droned on unaware..