The sun is melting over the Tokyo skyline, painting everything gold and honey-rich. The curtains sway in the open windows, letting in a breeze that tastes like early summer and leftover rain. Somewhere in the kitchen, the remnants of lunch still sit — untouched pasta, half-drunk juice, Satoru’s phone buzzing silently on the counter as Yaga blows it up wondering why the hell he isn’t teaching his First Years right now.

The apartment smells like sex, sweat, and Satoru.

The bed is wrecked. The sheets are hanging off one corner, twisted tight around the leg of the frame, creased and damp and hopelessly unsalvageable. A pillow lies dead on the floor. Your shirt’s draped over the headboard like a flag of surrender. And sprawled beside you — gloriously bare, gloriously smug — is Satoru.

He lies on his stomach, half dozing in the soft cradle of dusk. His skin is flushed and glowing, a lattice of heat and touch and exhaustion, marked all the way down his back with the ghost of your nails — deep, satisfied scrapes along his shoulder blades, a few crisscrossed at his hips like reminders. He doesn’t shy from them. If anything, he shifts slowly, luxuriously, like he’s trying to feel them bloom again under your fingertips.

“Mm,” he hums into the pillow. “That one’s gonna sting in the shower.”

“Should’ve behaved then,” you murmur, teasing, propped on your elbow to look down at him.

Satoru cracks one blue eye open, lazy and smug. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. Because you know what this day has been — what it meant.

Busy lives. Long hours. Missions that stretch into dinner and obligations that leave kisses half-finished. You’d both been drifting lately, not far — but far enough to feel it. So today had been for remembering. Everything. He’d cancelled classes today with the First Years and you called in a favour with Nanami to handle your missions for the day.

The balcony, just after sunrise — his hands under your sleep shirt, the cool rail under your hands as his hips smacked your ass, the city still quiet enough to be yours and your breathy sighs mixing with the bird calls.

The kitchen — what had been a half-hearted attempt at pancakes that turned into you on the counter, Satoru mouthing down your thigh with flour on his nose and syrup on his tongue.

The bathroom — shower-steamed, your back to the wall, his forehead pressed to yours as he murmured your name like a promise. Now, the bedroom is still warm with the last time. The fifth time, maybe the sixth — you’d lost count somewhere around being bent over the couch.

Satoru shifts again, turning onto his side, his arm draping over your waist as he buries his face in your stomach. “We should eat,” he mumbles.

“You didn’t say that when you had me against the fridge twenty minutes ago.”

He snorts, and you feel it against your skin. “Yeah, well. You tasted better than leftovers.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it,” he breathes, tilting his head up to kiss the underside of your breast, slow and teasing.

You don’t answer. You just thread your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he melts. Completely. Like he belongs nowhere else in the world but here, wrapped around you.

Satoru takes the silence and runs with it, crawling over you, mouthing up your throat, slumped into your body as he laps at your throat.

“Don’t tell me you’re already tired,” Satoru mumbles against your jaw as he nips at it playfully. You elbow him gently, but he just laughs, nosing at your jaw, leaving slow kisses in his wake. His hands flatten against your stomach, fingers splaying across the expanse. “C’mon,” Satoru purrs. “One more. We have so many positions left to do.”