It’s past midnight when the lock clicks, the heavy door swinging open. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, the TV humming low. You know who it is because there's only one person who has a key.

Satoru steps in like he owns the night — hood pulled low, silver chain catching the light, the smell of smoke and asphalt clinging to him. His sneakers scuff the floor as he kicks them off, tossing his jacket onto the chair. You can see it in the way his shoulders move, the way his jaw’s tight: the streets still stuck to his skin.

But when his eyes find you, the tension breaks.

“Baby.”

Satoru's voice softens, like you’re the only one who gets to hear him like this. He drops his mask of the kingpin, the leader, the man everyone fears — and he’s just Satoru, your Satoru.

You shuffle up from the couch, bare legs catching his gaze, and wrap your arms around his middle the second he’s close enough. He smells like trouble, but he feels like home.

“You’re late,” you mumble into his chest, but your fingers cling to the back of his hoodie like you never want to let go.

“Yeah,” he admits, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Had to handle some shit.” His tone carries the weight of whatever business he left outside, but he doesn’t bring it in here. Not to you. Never to you.

You tilt your head back, looking up at him with sleepy eyes. “Don’t care. Just as long as you come home.”

That knocks something loose in him, makes him grin — soft and cocky all at once. Satoru cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Baby, I'm always gonna come home to you.”

Satoru kisses you then, deep and slow, tasting like smoke and adrenaline, and you let him. You don’t ask about the fights, the money, the blood. You don’t need to. The only thing that matters is that he’s here, that he still comes back, no matter what the streets demand of him.

When Satoru pulls back, he nudges his nose against yours, his grin lazy. “What would I even do without my good girl waitin’ on me?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Starve, probably. I warmed up some food for you.”

Satoru groans dramatically, dropping onto the couch and tugging you into his lap, hands already sliding under the hem of his own shirt on your body. “God, I don’t deserve you," Satoru mutters as his warm, rough hands drag up over the bare expanse of your thighs, squeezing the flesh slightly as his mouth drags over your jaw.