Your head is heavy against the pillow, the thick haze of side effects still gripping your body in slow, rolling waves. It’s only your third day on the new anxiety meds and your stomach churns in loops, your limbs feel weighted, and your jaw aches from clenching without even realizing it. You’re so deep in it that you don’t even register the door unlocking — the quiet click followed by the familiar sound of expensive shoes being toed off onto the mat.

Then comes the scent. Expensive cologne, spiced and woodsy, with the undercurrent of pine — so unmistakably him it feels like your body sighs before your brain catches up.

A soft rustle of a shopping bag. Then: “Brought you that Chinese food you like,” Satoru says, and his voice is a lazy drawl, rich and teasing — like he’s been lounging in silk all morning instead of fending off curses across Kyoto.

Satoru's platinum hair is a beautiful, tousled mess, and his long fingers curl loosely around a coffee cup as he stands in your doorway, blue eyes scanning your curled-up form on the bed.

You blink up at him. “I feel like death.”

“I’d still hit it,” he says smoothly, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into a grin.

You scowl. “Satoru—”

But he’s already moving, fluid and graceful, like a sin carved out of muscle and charm. Six foot three of arrogance and latent power, sculpted back, lean waist, and all. He drops the bag and drink gently on your nightstand, then crawls into the bed like he owns the space.

“You okay?” Satoru murmurs, already tugging you into his chest, one long arm wrapping around your waist, the other threading under your head to cradle your skull against his collarbone.

“I think I’m dying,” you mumble, though it comes out slurred and petulant.

“Yeah, well.” Satoru presses his lips to your temple, a long inhale against your hair. “You’re not allowed to die before me. I’d make a terrible grieving widow.”

You manage a weak smile. “You wouldn’t cry.”

Satoru clicks his tongue. “You think I didn’t cry over your big ass side effects pamphlet? I read that shit front to back. Five times. Memorised it all.”

He tucks you closer. His fingers stroke the back of your neck with surprising tenderness. That’s the thing with Satoru — underneath all the cocky, untouchable bravado, all the designer threads and winking arrogance, there’s a heart that aches hard. One that he only lets beat unguarded when it comes to you.

And now, he sees you like this — vulnerable and hurting and stripped raw — and his cocky mask doesn’t stand a chance.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

“I know, baby," Satoru whisper as his voice gentles, serious now. He presses his forehead to yours. “But you’re doing it. You’re getting help. I’m proud of you.”

Your throat tightens. Satoru's warm. Steady. Infuriatingly beautiful. His lashes brush your cheek when he leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, soft and reverent.