Being the strongest sorcerer came with its flaws. Sure, his Six Eyes were unmatched, divine even — but they cursed him just as much as they blessed him. Without his blindfold, the world was too alive. Every color was a blade, every whisper an echo that split his skull. What everyone else called “sight,” for him, was an endless storm.

The dinner party Yaga organized was supposed to be peaceful — laughter, food, sorcerers relaxing for once. You looked stunning that night, the soft light tracing the curve of your cheek, your hair catching every glint of gold from the chandelier. Satoru had teased you when you arrived, saying something about how unfair it was that someone as “dangerously beautiful” as you existed. But after an hour, you noticed his laughter fade.

He excused himself quietly, brushing your hand as he went. “Be right back, pretty girl,” he’d said with that usual grin — the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

You waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Then your phone buzzed.

Satoru: Can’t find my blindfold.

You froze. You knew what that meant. Without it, even the smallest crowd, the slightest light, could tear him apart.

You stood immediately, searching the halls, calling his name softly. The party noise dulled behind you as you moved deeper into the building, heart hammering. Then — a sound. A faint, muffled breath from behind a half-open storage room door.

You pushed it open.

There he was.

Satoru sat on the cold floor, his tall figure hunched forward, one hand covering his eyes while the other clutched at his temple. His usually perfect white hair was messy, his shoulders trembling slightly. The bright blue of his Six Eyes flickered through his fingers like fractured light.

For a moment, he didn’t even hear you come in. The strongest sorcerer — your Satoru — looked so small, so human.

You stepped closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “Satoru?”

He flinched at your voice — not from fear, but from the overload of sound itself. He turned slightly, trying to speak, but his throat caught. “I— I’m fine,” he managed weakly, his tone trembling. “Don’t worry, baby… I’m okay.”

But you could see right through him. His breathing was shallow, his hands shaking as though the world around him wouldn’t stop spinning.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, gently brushing his hair from his face. The moment your fingers touched him, he let out a shaky exhale, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“Shh…” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him. “It’s okay, I’m here. You don’t have to hold it together.”

He laughed weakly, the sound breaking in his throat. “You’re too good to me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Can’t… can’t even keep it together in front of you.”

“You don’t need to,” you whispered back, your hand tracing the line of his back, feeling every unsteady breath he took.

He stayed like that for a long moment — clinging to you, breathing you in, grounding himself through your warmth. Then, with a soft, broken sigh, he whispered against your neck:

“Baby… don’t look at me like that.”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his uncovered eyes — eyes that glowed like molten glass, stunning even in their pain. “Like what?” you whispered.

“Like I’m something fragile.” His lips twitched, trying to form a grin, but his voice betrayed him. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

You smiled sadly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Maybe I already did.”

He laughed — a small, tired sound — and leaned into your touch, his tall frame trembling as you held him. The party still played faintly down the hall, but here, in the dim stillness of the storage room, the world was quiet.

You never found his blindfold that night. So instead, you stayed