The dress is cute. Short and fitted in all the right places, the fabric soft against your skin as you smooth your hands down your hips. You shift from foot to foot, glancing at yourself in the full-length mirror. It’s a little more daring than what you usually wear, but you feel good in it — pretty, confident, ready for the party Suguru’s hosting.

You step out from your bedroom into your dorm’s main seating area where Satoru is sprawled out on your couch, his phone in one hand, scrolling lazily, while the other arm is draped over the back of the couch, his snowy white hair messily falling across his forehead.

“Satoru,” you call, stepping closer.

Satoru hums in response, not bothering to look up.

You roll your eyes. “Satoru.”

His gaze finally flicks up from his phone — and then down, eyes tracking the length of you from head to toe. His gaze lingers, moving over the curve of your waist, the dip of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your legs.

“So?” you ask. “Is it too much?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. He sets his phone down on his chest, tilting his head as he studies you. The silence stretches, and you feel the heat creep up the back of your neck under his heavy gaze.

“It’s pretty,” he finally says, his tone light and easy. “You look hot as fuck.” And that’s just putting it lightly — internally he’s memorising the look of you dolled up, his own goddess looking perfect under shitty dorm light.

“You sure it’s okay?” you ask, smoothing down the hem of your dress. “It’s kind of… short.”

Satoru’s smile sharpens. He stretches his legs out, his arm sliding behind his head as he leans back into the cushions. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

His mouth twitches. Satoru gaze darkens, sliding over you once more before he says, casual as anything —

“I mean, I can fight baby,” Satoru mutters as he beckons you over to him, sliding his long fingers over your hip as he looks up at you through his white long lashes. “You can wear whatever the hell you want, I’ll handle any trouble.”