The apartment is dark, save for the faint glow of the city outside. Satoru steps inside quietly, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, blindfold shoved down around his neck. He’s bone-tired — muscles sore, mind still spinning from the cursed spirits he just finished handling — but he doesn’t head straight to his room.

Instead, his feet carry him down the hall, toward your room. It's habit now — checking on you after missions, making sure you're safe. Alive. He tells himself it's just routine. Your door is cracked open. Satoru pushes it wider, voice low and familiar. “Hey, you still—”

The words die in his throat.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, bare legs tangled in the sheets. His shirt — one of his old, worn ones — hangs loosely off your shoulder, slipping low enough to reveal the soft curve of your collarbone. Your hand is between your thighs, fingers curling slightly, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.

His heart stutters, and something sharp coils tight in his gut. Your eyes snap open at the sound of his voice, not expecting him back so soon.

“Satoru—” You jolt upright, yanking the blanket over yourself, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

For a second, he just stands there, staring. His chest rises and falls, slower than before, steadier — but his gaze sharpens. His pupil dilate as they drag down your face, the exposed skin of your shoulder, the bare stretch of your thighs. In his shirt. His shirt. He’s betting that it’s not a goddamn coincidence.

“You…” His voice comes out quieter than he means it to — lower, rougher.

“I didn’t know you were back,” you breathe, voice thin. Fuck, you thought he was going to be away at least for another night. Your cheeks colour, fingers curled into your messy sheets.

“What are you doing?” Satoru mutters, his throat dry, his breathing soft and unsteady. Sure he’s always thought you were beautiful, but in that best friend kind of admiration, that yeah we’re friends but I’ve thought about sticking my tongue down your throat kind of way.