“M’tired, baby. Cuddle me back for once.” Satoru’s whiny voice was muffled against your torso, his words practically sinking into your shirt. His arms were locked tight around your waist, his entire long frame draped over you like a weighted blanket you hadn’t asked for, keeping you pinned to the couch.

He usually came home tired, but this was different. Satoru didn’t just look worn out—he felt it. Maybe spending the entire day wrangling a bunch of teenagers into channeling cursed energy without blowing up the training field had finally caught up to him. And it wasn’t just the work—getting them to regulate their emotions was like asking a cat to stop knocking things off shelves. Impossible.

So fine. You relented, your hand lifting to gently pat his head, fingers threading lazily through his snow-white hair. Every so often, you let your nails graze his scalp in slow, teasing scratches, and—of course—the damn idiot had to react like that.

His eyes stayed shut, but a wide, boyish grin crept across his face, his expression soft in a way that made it impossible to take him seriously as the strongest sorcerer alive. Satoru pressed the crown of his head insistently into your hand, chasing the sensation like he couldn’t get enough, his hair slipping through your fingers like silk. The movement was almost feline—content, needy, unashamed. His nose brushed your shirt as he nuzzled lower into your stomach, breathing you in, voice low and almost drowsy when he mumbled, “I love you…” The warmth of his breath bled through the fabric, the vibration of his words sinking into your skin. You could feel every inch of him wrapped around you, his weight anchoring you, his presence so completely overwhelming that you weren’t sure where he ended and you began.

God, Satoru could be so clingy sometimes.