Satoru’s apartment is quiet when you step inside. The late afternoon sun filters through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, casting soft golden light across sleek marble floors. You kick off your shoes, the soft clink of keys on the glass table echoing faintly as you move further inside. The space is modern, clean — expensive. A couple of magazines are fanned out on the coffee table alongside a pair of sunglasses, and his jacket is draped lazily over the back of the plush white couch.

And quiet — so quiet. You arch a brow as you head toward his bedroom.

The first thing you notice is the sound of his breathing, slow and even. The bed is a mess of dark sheets, twisted lazily around his long legs. His white t-shirt has ridden up, exposing the lean cut of his stomach — pale skin and the sharp line of muscle beneath. His breathing is steady, mouth slightly parted as his chest rises and falls beneath the thin fabric. His hair is a mess, snowy strands splayed out across the pillow. It softens him somehow, makes him look younger. Almost vulnerable.

You linger at the doorway for a moment, your chest aching at the sight of him. He’s always so composed—always so sharp and aware, even after the chaos of a long mission. Seeing Satoru like this, completely relaxed and unguarded, makes something tighten in your chest.

You cross the room carefully, setting your phone on the nightstand before lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, but Satoru doesn’t stir.

Your hand hovers above his exposed stomach for a moment before you let your fingers trail along the bare skin. He’s warm beneath your touch, the smooth ripple of muscle shifting faintly as he breathes. He sighs quietly when your fingers drift upward, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle at his ribs.

“Mm.” His brow furrows slightly, lashes fluttering against the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His hand shifts beneath the pillow, completely relaxed like this.

“You’re staring,” Satoru murmurs.