The morning light bleeds through the curtains like divinity, honeyed gold spilling over the white sheets, casting halos across the room. The air is still, reverent, as if the world itself is holding its breath. You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open, your cheek pressed to a pillow that still carries his warmth, his scent, a sacred thing.

And you feel him. Not with sound, not with movement but with presence, undeniable and overwhelming. Fingertips trace the curve of your belly with the kind of care reserved for holy relics. Satoru’s head rests against your skin like a penitent at the altar, speaking softly, voice rough with sleep as though he’s been mumbling to your baby bump for hours now.

"I like blueberry pancakes," he murmurs finally, voice thick with sleep, hoarse like a hymn sung too early in the morning. “But your mom likes strawberry. I’ll make both for you, okay? You can decide whose side you’re on.”

You hum, barely coherent, eyelids heavy as your hand slides into his snowy hair. It’s messy from sleep, silken between your fingers, but his eye, just the one, brilliant and blue as a stained glass window, gleams with something deeper than amusement. Something devout.

“You’re obsessed,” you whisper, your voice thick with sleep and fondness. You don’t need to see him to feel his smile.

“I am,” Satoru breathes, and he means it like confession. “You’re glowing, y’know. Not metaphorically, I think you might be touched by something divine. I’m not kidding.”

You open your eyes a little more, just enough to see him shift, his lips brushing against your belly in slow, reverent kisses. Once. Twice. A third time — for love, for faith, for family.

“I’m gonna spoil this kid rotten,” he grins, nuzzling against the swell of you like he’s found heaven beneath your skin. “Half me, half you. That’s basically celestial blood.”

You roll your eyes, but the affection sits high in your chest, warm and golden.