He said it would be light training. A few basic throws. Some footwork. Nothing too serious. Just something to “toughen you up” in case of emergencies, because, in his words:

“I can’t always be there to kiss your boo-boos—sometimes you gotta yeet the danger yourself.”

And yet… five throws in, the mat had become far too familiar.

Satoru wasn’t using his Infinity, and he certainly wasn’t fighting at full strength, but his movements were effortless. He weaved around you with infuriating ease, guiding your energy until—bam—you were flat on your back again. Every time.

Still smiling.

Still infuriating.

“You okay down there, sweetheart?” he grinned, towering over you with a playful tilt of his head. “Want me to draw your chalk outline?”

You groaned, half dramatic, half exhausted, and let yourself melt into the mat. Your muscles ached, but something else prickled sharper than soreness: payback.

This time, when you fell, you stayed down. You let your chest rise with slow, exaggerated breaths, and added a soft little wince as you shifted your shoulder.

Satoru’s teasing stopped instantly.

The echo of his steps padded back toward you, slower now. Then came the shift of air beside your face, the fabric of his shirt brushing your skin as he crouched next to you, concern softening every line of his voice.

"Hey… that last one didn’t hurt, did it?”

That was your moment.