The city hums outside the window, rain drizzles against the glass, soft and rhythmic, drowning out the distant wail of sirens. But inside Satoru’s dimly lit apartment, time feels slower — warmer.

Satoru lounges against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head, the other idly twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers. He’s shirtless, his pale skin gleaming under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, messy white strands falling over his eyes as he watches you. Those damn eyes — limitless, unreadable, like he’s always three steps ahead of you even when you’re this close. “You’re quiet,” Satoru muses, his voice smooth, teasing. “That’s not like you.”

You sit up slightly, the sheets pooling around your waist, fingers tracing the faint outlines of old scars on his ribs. The evidence of battles fought, lives saved—of the weight he never lets anyone see. But he lets you touch. Lets you take your time, mapping him out like something sacred.

“I’m just thinking,” you murmur, avoiding his gaze. Satoru exhales a slow breath, reaching for your hand and linking his fingers through yours. His grip is loose, casual, but there’s something grounding about it.

“That’s dangerous," Satoru murmurs.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I used to think I wanted something… different.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Let me guess—someone stable? Predictable? Boring?” Satoru grins.

You don’t answer right away, just looking at Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the untouchable, the unstoppable. The one person who was never supposed to be yours, was never supposed to be anybody’s. And yet, here he is, lying beside you, warm and real.

“Someone easier,” you admit.

Satoru hums, tipping his head back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing yours just slightly, fingers brushing over the ridges of your spine gently, slowly sliding down, an intimate kind of affection he reserves for you and only you. “Then why are you still here?” Satoru mutters as he rubs his thumb over your hip.