Satoru is warm. A heavy, lazy weight sprawled over you, his limbs tangled with yours, his face buried against your stomach as the afternoon sun drapes golden light across the sheets. His breath is slow, steady against your skin, but you can feel it—something in the way he holds you. The way his fingers absentmindedly trace over the fabric of your shirt, the way his lips press, soft and thoughtless, against your hip.

You card a hand through his snowy hair, lazily scratching at his scalp as he rests his head on your stomach “You’re being clingy,” you murmur.

“Mmm,” Satoru hums, not bothering to argue. Instead, he turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, crystalline eyes fluttering open to meet yours. It’s in his gaze—that longing, that want. A depth to it that lingers, unspoken but felt.

Satoru exhales, shifting so that his chin rests just above your navel. “We should have a baby,” he murmurs, as if the words aren’t enough to change your entire world. He’s been thinking about it a lot more recently — seen the babies in the parks in their strollers, saw the pictures of a friend of a friend’s kids first birthday. Fat rolls and big eyes and a little piece of love from the both of you. He wants. Oh, Satoru wants so badly.

Your breath catches. “Satoru—”

“I mean it.” Satoru voice is quieter now, more serious. “I think about it all the time.”

You don’t respond immediately, and he takes the opportunity to press his lips against your stomach again—slow, reverent. His fingers curl over your hips, thumbs smoothing over your skin.

“I want to see what they’d look like,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “If they’d have your smile. Your eyes.” He exhales, closing his eyes briefly. “I’d love them so much, y’know?”

Satoru never been good at hiding things from you, not when it really matters. You see it all—his longing, his fear, his hope. And he hopes, longs for it. Yearns for it. For that piece of family he’s never had growing up, for something to call his own.