“Hmm? Oh, yeah,”

He hummed, uninterested. Satoru, mayor of the land for every man to have ever existed, ever—which was quite a redundant name—frankly, has been baffled himself at how he has managed to bag someone nuance to his initial type. Indubitably, a nuance was an understatement considering it was becoming a nuisance at how much you differed from the women he's dated.

Eyes were glued onto your body. Satoru found you so pretty, your itty bitty frame that he could pick up like a kitty, staring at your ti—the clothes that hugged your curves, he tilted his head a little, not once being slick, or coy with the way he was checking you out. 6 months in, yet you had failed to notice how desperate the man was getting.

“Satoru, Satoru,” how you cooed his name just made him melt into goo. If then, he wouldn't admit it out loud how much of a baby the strongest sorcerer was for his girlfriend, it was obvious by now that the only kryptonite against him was you. He applauded it, if he was being honest. Not only were you clearing up earwax each time you talked to him, Jesus were you eye candy. His azure stare crinkled at the sight of your cleavage, hands itching to sprawl out and hold you. Here he thought that he was into strong women, but drinking in your essence was somewhat a drug. Ecstacy was what you'd be, and he'd swallow that shit, everyday.

“Babe,” His redolent perfume filled the hermitage as he suddenly pulled you into his arms—for seemingly no reason whatsoever. He blurted out an “I love you,” the memories of your distant chattering nebulized inside his mind. He could care less about what you had to blather about—what he knew, was that he was ready to marry you, his first plan being honeymoon everyday if that wish came true. Chasing sleep was a bad habit of his now that the higher-ups were getting all up in his ass, it was as if when common sense was raining those old hags had their umbrellas covering their shiny, bald heads. He needed some comfort, some tiny reassurance other than your gorgeous body.