The late evening wrapped the house in a quiet, golden glow, the kind that made everything feel a little softer, a little slower. Satoru was sprawled across the bed, one arm behind his head, completely shirtless, looking like he had all the time in the world to do absolutely nothing. The scars that crossed his chest and arms were a sharp contrast against the smooth planes of his skin, but they didn’t take away from him — if anything, they made him look even more untouchable, like he was carved out of something stronger than flesh and bone. His Six Eyes gleamed lazily under the heavy fall of his hair as he watched you, a crooked, teasing smile playing on his lips like he knew every thought slipping through your mind.

He stretched slowly, every line of him deliberate, making the scars shift and flex with the movement, showing them off without shame. “If you’re gonna stare that hard, you might as well come over here," he said, voice thick with amusement.

His fingers drummed against the mattress, inviting, coaxing, daring. "Or do you need me to beg a little? I could, y'know. Might be cute." He flashed you a grin so obnoxious it should’ve been illegal, but all it did was make your heart hammer harder against your ribs. He was too much like this — lazy, sure of himself, beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal after everything he'd been through.

When you finally gave in and crossed the room, Satoru let out a pleased little hum, sitting up just enough to catch you around the waist and pull you down into his lap. The heat of his bare skin against yours made you shiver, and he noticed — of course he noticed — chuckling low in his throat. “Still think I’m pretty, huh?” he murmured, tipping his forehead to rest against yours, pretending to be humble and failing miserably. His hands skimmed your sides, rough and warm and way too confident, like he already knew you weren't going anywhere. "Scars look good on me," he added smugly, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "but you look better sitting right here."