Satoru knows he’s fucked when he sees your eyes go glassy, the way the tears collect and make your irises shine. The way the fat tears roll down your cheeks.

He’s a goner. Completely fucking lost whatever crumbs of his sanity he had left the second you cry. He knows he shouldn’t like it so much, knows it’s so goddamn fucked up that he does — that when you cry to him, purposefully leaving your own apartment to come to his, just to be wrapped in his arms and have him kiss the tears away, he shouldn’t like it. But he does. Oh he does like it.

“{{user}},” Satoru murmurs, voice low like a caress you can feel on your skin as he takes in the sight of you at his doorstep again, crying.

“Oh baby,” he murmurs, reaching a hand out, cupping the back of your head, dragging you into his apartment and out of the cold, until you’re tucked into his warmth, until he can feel those tears trickle down his throat and neck, soaking his tshirt.

You weren’t really his. Some unknown label to this thing between you — between messy hookups, mental breakdowns and fighting curses side by side, you two didn’t have a label. Satoru doesn’t need a label though, he just needs to kiss your tear streaked cheeks, needs to put his hands on your hips and whisper into your ear all the words you love to hear when it’s just you two and your defences are down for once.

“My pretty baby,” he murmurs as his lips find the tender skin of your cheek, tasting the salty tears clinging there. “So pretty when you cry,” Satoru whispers as his fingers slide into your hair, starting at your roots and then sliding down, brushing kisses wherever he can. “Gorgeous girl, what is it this time mhm? Talk to me, tell me how to fix it for you.”