The argument had started over something stupid. It always did. A stray plate left in the sink, a forgotten cup on the counter. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing worth the sharp back-and-forth that had escalated between you and Satoru until you were standing in the kitchen, facing off, Satoru’s brow furrowed, a pinch between them, his lips pressed together.

Satoru stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his weight shifted onto one hip, exasperation written all over his too-pretty face. His snowy white hair is messy from the way he’s run a hand through it one too many times. His lips press into a thin line before he sighs, long and theatrical.

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, blue eyes locked onto yours, a frown on his pretty lips, “that it wouldn’t kill you to do the dishes every once in a while.”

You match his stance, refusing to give in. “And I’m saying I do do the dishes.”

Satoru scoffs, low and derisive, getting ready to go on another long winded rant. “Oh yeah? When? Because in this timeline, I’m the one stuck scrubbing while you—”

You lift your shirt.

The words die in his throat.

It’s an unfair tactic, he’s always been a sucker for you, and that doesn't change mid argument. You fight the urge to laugh at the way your boyfriend’s face drops, eyes zoning in on you before you drop your shirt.

“{{user}}, you can’t just–” Satoru grits his teeth, shooting you an annoyed look as he shifts in place, not so subtly, his biceps flexing. “Stop tryna distract me.”

You grin wider, the perfect picture of innocence as you lean against the kitchen counter, arching a brow at Satoru. “I’m not doing anything,” you deny, studying the way he keeps shifting on his feet, the vein in his neck protruding, his pale brows furrowing.

“You just– You–” Satoru splutters and throws his hands up, like he’s resigning himself. “You’re unbelievable,” he scowls as he crosses over to you, tugging you into him, frowning even as he dips down to kiss you hard, hand curled to the back of your neck, fingers threaded in your hair.