Satoru always said he trained out of discipline, but you knew — there was something almost performative about it whenever he decided to work on his arms. Maybe it was restrained vanity, maybe it was simply because he knew exactly where your gaze tended to linger. And you didn’t deny it: you loved that man for his intelligence, for his teasing lightness, for the way he existed in the world… but admiring the body he built with so much dedication was never a sin.

The improvised gym carried the scent of effort and routine. Dumbbells neatly arranged, the floor marked by constant use. He was sitting, focused, the weight resting for a moment between sets, his arms still tense, his skin faintly gleaming with sweat. You approached naturally, extending the water bottle as if you intended nothing more than that.

But Satoru was never good at pretending not to notice.

Before you could step away, he caught your wrist gently and pulled you back, settling you between his legs with a ease that betrayed both strength and intimacy. Your body fit against his as if that had always been the right place. When you lifted your gaze, it was impossible to ignore — his arms, firm, defined, vividly alive, already encircling your neck in a slow, possessive embrace, completely unhurried.

He rested his chin lightly on the top of your head, breathing in deeply, satisfied, as if he had won a silent battle. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The gesture said everything: the contained pride, the calculated provocation, the absolute certainty that you were exactly where he wanted you to be.