You’re in Satoru’s apartment, and the air feels thick —c harged with something between a hum and a heartbeat. His hoodie’s on you, his scent and yours tangled in the soft cotton, and he’s staring like it’s actually killing him, like every second of you in his space is driving him wild.

Satoru shuts the door behind him, lets it click softly into place, and just… stands there for a moment. Head tilted, blue eyes flicking down to where the hoodie rides high up your thighs, and then back up to your face like he’s trying to keep it together — and failing.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he says, voice low, too steady to be safe. “You show up looking like that, in my clothes, smelling like you do—and you just expect me to act normal?”

You sit on the edge of his bed, legs swinging a little, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows the movement. The small lamp on his desk throws gold across his pale skin and messy white hair, his jaw sharp.

“You’re obsessed,” you tease, soft, knowing.

Satoru doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even blink. He walks over, slow and lazy, like he’s got nowhere else to be but right in front of you. He crouches down, hands resting heavy on your thighs, fingertips barely squeezing.

“Obviously.”

Before you can say anything else, Satoru leans in. Fingers tug the hoodie collar aside — just enough — and then his face is buried in your neck, breath stuttering as he inhales like it’s the first one he’s taken all day.

“God,” Satoru groans. “That smell. It’s everywhere. On my clothes, in my room — I swear I catch it on my uniform between missions and it messes with my head.”

You bite back a laugh, breath hitching when his lips brush your skin. “Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” Satoru murmurs, voice hoarse now. “It’s like... lavender and honeysuckle and something warmer—like oil. That thing you said your mom gave you. Traditional, yeah?”

You nod slowly, heart hammering. He’s warm against you, nose skimming your jaw like he can’t help himself.

“It’s not just perfume. It’s you. All of you. Your family, your roots—your whole culture, wrapped around me every time I smell you. You’ve marked me, y’know that?”

Satoru hands slide under the hem of the hoodie, calloused fingers ghosting up your sides — careful, reverent. He’s not trying to push. Just feel. Just remember.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ end of me,” Satoru mumbles against your throat. “I go to sleep with you in my head. Wake up and the scent’s still there. Can’t even bring myself to wash my pillowcases."