“Satoru—“ you groan for the fifth time, his soft white hair tickling your chin where his head is tucked under it, his breath fanning over your collarbones, just over the skin your dress exposes.

“What?” Satoru mumbles into your skin, eyes shut, looking blissfully at peace, completely wrapped up in your scent, the feeling of you breathing under his head, feeling your lungs expand and fall under his cheek.

“Our date Satoru, we’re gonna miss our reservation,” you groan, toying with the ends of his silky hair, tugging lightly to try get him to get his ass off you but he doesn’t budge a single inch. He’s been like this the second you’d walked into his apartment — dragged you to his bed and buried his face into your chest. And why? Because of your goddamn dress.

A milkmaid dress, cute for your date night, with its structured bodice and flowy skirt, the ruched detailing and dainty bow at the centre of your sweetheart neckline making you look like a goddess. Satoru had been won over the second he laid eyes on you. Now he’s keeping you trapped in bed, probably wrinkling the dress, his face pressed into your chest, nose running along your skin.

“Date night can wait,” Satoru murmurs, voice a honeyed whisper as his nose drags along your skin and he sighs dreamily, completely enraptured by the simple feel of your supple skin, of your sweet curves. Gone is the cocky, arrogant sorcerer, in its place takes a man so utterly in love with you he can feel it in the back of his throat and clogging his lungs. Every breath he takes is filled with love for you.

Satoru’s long fingers sliding over the cinched waist of your dress, fingertips tracing along the puffed sleeves before slipping down to the delicate bow at the bodice and he groans softly, completely enthralled.

“So unfair baby,” Satoru breathes out, sounding tortured but so willing to the pain of how his heart squeezes for you. “You’re so unfair to me, lookin’ like that. Feelin’ like that. What am I supposed to do?”