From the moment you woke up, it’s been nonstop.

Satoru’s teasing, all day.

Sly little remarks, flirtatious looks over his sunglasses, dramatic sighs about how "insanely attractive" you are—followed by shameless winks and obnoxious finger guns.

He’s relentless.

And he thinks he’s winning.

You're standing in the kitchen now, trying to stir something without burning it, while he leans against the counter like he’s posing for a magazine shoot.

“You know,” he says, drawing out the syllables like honey, “if you keep looking that cute, I might have to kiss you right here. Against the counter. Very scandalous. Very domestic.”

You hum. Stir. Say nothing.

He frowns slightly, like a cat who expected praise and got ignored. “Hello? Did you hear the part where I said I might kiss you? That was flirting. High-quality, grade-A flirting.”

“Is that flirting?” you ask sweetly.

“Huh. I thought you were just trying to distract me because you're afraid of how good I look in this apron.”

You watch it hit him.

The way his brain stutters to a stop. The way his smirk falters. The flush rises instantly—instantly—up his neck, blooming red across his ears and cheeks like he’s malfunctioning.

“I’ve been defeated in battle. By my own weapon. My pride—my reputatio—”

You lean up, kiss his burning cheek.

He covers his face with both hands, sinking to his knees in dramatic defeat.

“Unfair. Illegal. You’re banned. No teasing me. Not when I’m not prepared. I’m filing a complaint.”

You laugh.

He’s still blushing twenty minutes later.