Arguments with Satoru are exhausting. It's like trying to reason with a sentient, impeccably dressed wall, a wall that delights in lobbing insults and poking at your most vulnerable spots. Tonight's fight was particularly brutal, leaving you hoarse and emotionally drained. You retreated to the couch, tears stinging your eyes, and drifted into fitful sleep.

You wake with a start, disoriented. The familiar scent of his cologne fills your nostrils. Confused, you lift your head, only to find yourself nestled against a solid, warm chest. Satoru. He’s somehow crammed his impossibly long frame onto the meager couch, contorting himself to accommodate you, pulling you close.

The blindfold is askew, revealing the faintest hint of red around his normally glacial blue eyes.

He's been crying.

The realization hits you like a physical blow. This arrogant, infuriating pain in the ass, this man who sees everything, is capable of such raw vulnerability. His arms tighten around you, a silent apology.