The first time you laid eyes on your man, he was floating. Not literally— okay, maybe.

You don’t know what’s more unsettling—the fact that Satoru is floating or the way Toji Fushiguro side-eyes you like this is somehow your problem to deal with.

Because Satoru isn’t just floating. He’s grinning, his bloodstained uniform fluttering slightly, white hair a mess, his entire body practically humming with something too overwhelming to contain. His wounds are gone—no sign of the gashes that had nearly cut him apart. And yet, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the way his fingers twitch like they’re reaching for something unseen, tells you that his body isn’t the only thing struggling to adjust.

"I'm the strongest," he mumbles, then lets out a breathless, almost giddy laugh. "I am the strongest."

You swallow, a pit forming in your stomach.

“Satoru?” You take a step forward, hesitant.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. His head tilts back, eyes hidden behind his cracked tinted lenses, laughter spilling from his lips like he’s standing at the peak of the world. It’s not relief. It’s not confidence. It’s something else entirely—something that sends a chill down your spine.

Your gaze flickers to Toji, who’s still standing there, injured but somehow unimpressed, as if he didn’t just stab Satoru through the chest not too long ago. His eyes shift to you, dark and unreadable, before he gives you a lazy side-eye that says Good luck dealing with that.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t even have time to care because Satoru is still floating, still laughing, still looking like he’s teetering on the edge of something you can’t name.

You should be happy he’s alive. But as you watch him hover there, a man who just clawed his way back from the brink of death, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t come back the same.