Something feels off the moment you step into the apartment. It’s quiet—too quiet. No teasing voice calling from the couch, no blur of white appearing in front of you before you can even close the door. Satoru always knows when you’re home. Always. And yet, tonight, there’s nothing.

Your duffle slips from your fingers as you toe off your shoes. You’ve been away for a week — just a week for a mission. But for Satoru, who acts like he’s physically incapable of being alone, it might as well have been forever. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, just enough for you to see the dim glow of the bedside lamp spilling across the sheets. Your fingers brush against the wood as you push it open, and the sight that greets you makes your breath hitch.

Satoru is curled up on the bed, wrapped in the remnants of you. He’s not even under the blankets, just sprawled across the mattress with his face is buried in one of your jumpers, fingers curled tightly into the fabric like he’s trying to keep it from slipping away. A soft, white pillow is tucked between his thighs, his long legs tangled in the sheets, a pretty pink flush crawling down his back and cheeks.

And then you see it — the slow, instinctual roll of Satoru’s hips.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you watch the movement, the way his body shudders slightly with each drag against the pillow. A soft, breathy noise escapes him, muffled into your hoodie and your fingers tighten over the doorframe.

“{{user}}—“ Satoru sighs breathily into your jumper, voice muffled, calling for you like an unanswered prayer spilled from his lips, familiar as though he might’ve done this every night you were away, calling the syllables of your name in pure yearning.

For all his confidence, all his teasing and smug grins, this is something else entirely. Satoru’s hips move—slow, rhythmic rolls against the pillow tucked snugly between his thighs. He sighs, burying himself in your scent like it’s the only thing anchoring him, unaware of you watching.