The room was dim, shadows flickering against the walls from the single lamp. You had been trying to argue with Satoru — about what, you couldn’t even remember anymore — because halfway through your sentence, he was already smirking like he always did when he knew he was getting under your skin.

“You’re so noisy,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with amusement. Before you could finish your protest, his hand slid over your mouth that was shut with the tape, gentle but firm, silencing you in an instant.

Your eyes widened. “Mmf—”

Satoru leaned in close, his body wrapping around yours from behind like a net, inescapable but strangely warm. His breath ghosted against your cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss to the back of his own hand — the same one muffling your words.

The arrogance in his voice softened. “Do you even realize how much I love it when you argue with me? You always look so alive.”

Pinned against him, your heart raced. You should have been angry — his sudden restraint, the way he forced your silence. But his arms around you weren’t cruel; they were protective, possessive. A reminder of how easily the strongest sorcerer could crush the world in his hands… yet here he was, holding you instead.

You tried to push at his chest, but his laugh rumbled in your ear. “Struggling makes it cuter,” he whispered, pressing another kiss against your covered lips, as if he could taste your words through the barrier of his palm.

And then, finally, he pulled his hand away, brushing his fingers down your jaw in apology — or maybe in promise. His eyes, for once, weren’t just teasing; they were serious, glowing with something deeper.

“Now,” he said softly, “say it again. Tell me you hate me.”

But the words caught in your throat. Because you didn’t. You never could.