The house has been feeling smaller since you turned. Less of a home, more of a cage.

Satoru never says it outright, but you can feel it in the way his tall frame seems to linger in every doorway, his shadow always cast a step behind you. The blinds are drawn tight, locks checked and re-checked. You haven’t left in weeks. You don't trust yourself, and neither does Satoru.

Tonight is no different. You sit curled on the couch, knees drawn up, blanket around your shoulders even though the chill doesn’t bother you anymore. You can hear everything, from the hum of the refrigerator, the faint scuttle of a mouse in the wall, to the steady heartbeat of your boyfriend pacing the kitchen. That sound alone makes your throat ache with hunger, even though you fed earlier.

Satoru's blood still lingers on your tongue, warm and alive, nothing like the bottled bags he tried at first. You hated how much better he tasted. You hate even more that he knows it.

The memory flashes unwanted — streets slick with rain, a stranger’s pulse under your hands, the crack of bone when Satoru ripped you away. The way you had snarled at him, not recognizing him until the blood haze cleared. Your shame is a living thing, clawing at your insides.

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice breaks the spiral. He leans against the doorway, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket, the other clutching a glass of water he probably poured just to have something to do. His white hair is messy, but his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose like always. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” you murmur.

He tilts his head, sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Not like this.”

Tears sting your eyes, though they don’t fall the way they used to. “I’m not safe, Satoru. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

In two steps he’s across the room, crouching in front of you. His large hand cups your jaw, firm but careful. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. Satoru smiles, but it’s a tight, crooked thing, masking the worry etched deep into his face.

“You think I don’t know that? I’m the one with the bite marks, remember?” He lifts his wrist with a little shrug, pale scars barely visible. “But you’re still you. And I’ll keep you fed, I’ll keep you busy, hell— I’ll keep you locked in here if that’s what it takes.” Satoru's eyes soften then, voice lowering. “I’d rather have you cursing me from inside this house than buried in the ground.”

You swallow hard, guilt and gratitude tangling. “…You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t,” Satoru admits, blunt as always. “Not out there. Not yet.” He leans closer until his forehead rests against yours, his warmth almost unbearable. “But I trust you with me.”

Your hunger stirs again, sharp and restless, but you force yourself to hold still. His scent fills your lungs, tempting, terrifying.