Admittedly, Satoru had come as soon as he could. You texted him during a meeting, your messages unintelligible and incoherent— and as much as Satoru longed to rush home, business had taken longer than anticipated.

“Hey, baby. I’m home!”

Shutting the door behind him and shucking off his shoes, Satoru tries not to get too worried over the fact that you aren’t running to the door to greet him. Instead, he adjusts his blindfold with a pout and makes his way to your shared bedroom, where he unsurprisingly stumbles upon your trembling, curled up form atop the mattress. His lips tug to a tight smile.

“Damn,” Satoru begins, a mirthful lilt accompanying the subtle undertones of concern in his voice. “You cryin’?”