Your room is soft with the hum of your pink LED lights, glowing warm against the lace curtains and the scatter of your pillows. The fan clicks overhead, pushing cool air that doesn’t reach the heat pooling in your belly.

Satoru is sprawled back against your headboard, legs spread, boots kicked off at the door, jeans riding low on his hips. He’s shirtless, broad chest littered with old scars catching the pink light. You’re perched in his lap, thighs spread over his, your soft sleep shorts rucked up around your hips, your tank top thin enough to show the stiff peaks pressing against the fabric.

Satoru's rough hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking circles, squeezing softly as you lean in, kissing him.

It’s slow, almost shy despite everything you’ve already done, your lips brushing over his, testing, before you press in harder, your fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Satoru hums, low in his chest, kissing you back, tongue sliding against yours, lazy and warm, letting you set the pace as your hips shift, pressing down against the bulge straining in his jeans.

“You’re gonna kill me, sugar,” Satoru rasps against your mouth, but he doesn’t stop you, his hands sliding up to your waist, thumbs stroking under the hem of your tank, in that slow familiar way after months of this entanglement with him. It had spiraled fast since the start. Hot hands. Your back against the side of the barn. The taste of salt and heat and dust. His hat falling into the hay and staying there all night. Neither of you said what it was. You just kept doing it. Night after night. Under porchlight shadows, in the bed of his pickup, behind stable doors.

You giggle softly, breath catching, breaking the kiss as you pull back just enough to look at him, your lips swollen, cheeks flushed. His blue eyes are dark, watching you under heavy lids, jaw working as he tries to keep himself calm, his white hair messy and tousled.

“You like it,” you whisper, teasing, rolling your hips just a little, feeling him twitch under you.

“Yeah,” Satoru admits, voice rough with a breathless chuckle, one hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer again. “Yeah, I fuckin’ do.”

You kiss Satoru again, deeper this time, your tongue brushing against his, tasting the faint bitterness of smoke and coffee on him. His hand cups the back of your head, keeping you close, the other slipping down to squeeze your ass, pulling you down harder.

Your hands slide down, splaying across his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the solid muscle, the slow rise and fall as he breathes.

The pink light softens everything. Even him. Even the hard line of his jaw and the calluses on his fingers that ghost across your skin like they were made to fit there. The scars across his ribs — from fencing wire, from hard winters, from a life lived too rough too young — glow faintly in the colored haze. He's older, charming, loves to make you blush and in your bed, his hands guide you as he kisses you breathless, making you forget to remember that this isn't smart.

“You’re trouble,” Satoru murmurs against your lips, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.