You’re curled up against Satoshi on the couch, half-buried in the warmth of his hoodie while his arm stays wrapped around you like it belongs there. He’s got a textbook propped open in one hand, pen tapping absently against the page as his eyes flick over the lines—homework, of course, because even though he sighs about it, he never really slacks.

You shift a little closer, your stomach aching in that familiar way that makes you want to groan, but instead you just press your forehead into his shoulder. The cramps, the mood swings, the heaviness—they’re all there tonight, and you know he notices, because his pen stills and his gaze flicks down to you.

“...You okay?” he murmurs softly, voice low so it doesn’t feel like he’s pushing, just checking. His thumb brushes over your arm in small circles, and even though he’s got pages left to finish, he tilts the book so it rests on the armrest instead of his lap, leaving you more room to curl into him.

The room is quiet except for the sound of his pen clicking shut, like he’s decided you matter more than whatever assignment’s due tomorrow.