Satoru slammed the door shut with his foot, kicked off his shoes in all directions, and collapsed onto the couch like his soul had just left his body.

“Thirty minutes,” he groaned. “Thirty. Of Yaga lecturing me about professionalism. Me! Can you believe that?”

He stretched his arms and legs in every direction, dramatic as ever—completely starfished across the cushions. “I deserve a medal for surviving that.”

You stood in the kitchen doorway, a warm mug cradled between your hands, watching him with a mix of amusement and something else—something heavier.

He peeked one eye open. “You’re staring. I must look irresistible like this.”

You laughed softly, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He noticed.

In a blink, he sat up, blindfold pushed onto his forehead, those crystal eyes suddenly very awake. “Okay, what is it? You’ve got that whole ‘quiet storm’ thing going on. Did I forget something important? Our anniversary? Your birthday? Someone I accidentally vaporized?”

You shook your head. “No. Nothing like that.”

He studied you for a beat longer, then leaned back again, not convinced, but letting it go—for now.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready, yeah?” he said, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “Whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere.”