The kitchen smells like vanilla and something faintly citrusy, maybe the orange zest you swiped from the fridge on a whim, but mostly, it smells like him. Satoru leans against the marble counter, sleeves of his crisp white button-up rolled to his elbows, hair a tousled halo of white, lips parted just slightly as he watches you with something like amusement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do the measuring?” he drawls, voice rich and slow like honey dripping off the spoon you just stirred batter with. “Last time you eyeballed it, the cake came out looking like a pancake with depression.”

You toss a bit of flour in his direction, which he dodges like a reflex, grinning. “And yet you ate two slices.”

He shrugs, the motion making the muscles in his arms flex under smooth skin. “Yeah, well. I like my pancakes emotionally complex.”

You giggle, and he lights up like it’s his favorite sound. Maybe it is.

Satoru circles the island and comes up behind you, his presence all warmth and cologne and gravity. You don’t move as his arms wrap around your waist, his chin nudging into the crook of your neck, whispering, “You smell like sugar.”

“You made me do the sugar first,” you point out, but your hands falter a little at the way he’s just holding you — casually, like it’s his default setting.

“Mmm,” Satoru hums, nose brushing your jaw.

Satoru’s hands slide down, long fingers splayed over your hips as he sways you gently side to side, his shirt brushing your back, his chest warm through the fabric. He kisses the spot behind your ear, soft and lazy, and murmurs, “You like this, huh? Domestic Satoru. Helpful Satoru. Baking boyfriend Satoru.”