Chapter Text
Shinjuku was a place where modern commerce and culture bled seamlessly into one another. Towering glass monoliths loomed over tucked-away businesses, creating a landscape meticulously carved to house the city’s restless pulse. It was a conurbation defined by sound—the whistle of the wind against the skyscrapers rivaling the mechanical howl of the train station. The distant ringing of crossing signals collided with the heavy thrum of traffic, a low-frequency hum that wafted through the air like a fever dream.
At least, that was the memory.
But something was turning sour, twisting the light until the sun seemed to bleed across the horizon, casting a cold shadow over a world that should have been vibrant. The first fracture in the illusion was a simple park bench. It was splintered and broken at its seams, the wood shorn through as if by a jagged blade—yet it remained standing, a grotesque monument of ruin amidst the bustling chaos of the Shinjuku streets.
Satoru was the only one who noticed. His brow furrowed as he watched the crowds continue their trek through the strip, their attention never wavering. Their focus remained untouched by the odd, ruby-colored object that seemed to beckon only him, pulling him away from the city's rhythm.
His movements were heavy, weighed down by a sharp, visceral pain that curdled in the pit of his stomach. The sensation left him uneasy, crawling beneath his skin until the goosebumps pebbled over his pale flesh, forcing the hair on the back of his neck to stand rigid in a primal, silent alarm.
The second discrepancy in the false reality that caged him was the creeping chill. It started at his feet, seeping into his marrow and crystallizing his flesh until his lower limbs felt utterly non-existent. He had to will his numb body to move, forcing his weight forward and dragging his feet toward the scrutinizing bench like a man walking through deep, frozen water.
His fingers brushed the splintered, crimson wood, but only for a fleeting second. A violent, electric shock vibrated through his arm, forcing his hand to recoil as if he’d touched a live wire. He scaled his surroundings, his Six Eyes piercing through the blur of the fast-moving traffic until the world began to stutter, slowing down into the sluggish rhythm of a waning heartbeat.
The final fracture to tear through his resolve was you. His eyes darted, tracing the blurred silhouettes of the crowd through the lens of his growing tachypsychia. Panic settled like lead in his chest as he spun in a desperate circle, searching for your face. He called your name—or he thought he did—but his voice wasn't even a mere echo against the suffocating silence now swallowing Shinjuku.
Aimlessly, he searched for you—for a glimpse, for a shred of hope. Despite the agonizing pressure in his abdomen, he tried to force his diaphragm to cooperate, desperate to scream your name through the fading silhouettes until sound finally tore through the haze. But the voice didn't belong to him; it was yours. He jolted, shaken and jarred, whipping his head around as his eyes scanned the crowd with clinical precision until he finally found you.
Hope died the moment his eyes landed on your figure; you stood like a ghost amidst the sea of people. Your eyes were blown wide, reflecting a terrifying crimson. Blood poured from your parted lips, coating you in a wet, metallic sheen. Your skin was deathly pale, as if all the warmth had been drained and replaced with a biting frost. You croaked his name—a shrill, agonizing sound that tore through the silence. The sight shackled him, turning his blood to lead and rendering his lungs useless.
A sharp lurch of pain erupted from his abdomen, surging into his chest until his breathing turned into shallow, frantic hitches. He gasped, trying to trap enough oxygen to stay conscious, but the more he fought, the more his body was riddled with a systemic agony. Forced by the sheer weight of it, his eyes finally tore away from you. He looked down, his dazed mind finally bringing the sensation of his missing limbs to the forefront of his failing reality.
His eyes were playing tricks on him—cruel, twisted tricks—as he gazed down at what should have been his own body. His arms were no longer flesh; they had been replaced by that same splintered, crimson wood from the bench. The wood was morphing into a jagged ruin, the splinters peeling away and disappearing into the cold shadows that pooled where his lower half should have been.
He tried to step back, desperate to escape the horrific sounds of wood tearing and splintering, but he was stuck—anchored to the very shadow that should have been his body. Terror writhed in his chest, a living thing squeezing his organs until he couldn't breathe, while a cold, frantic sweat began to bead across his brow.
His eyes welled with tears as he watched, helpless, as the shadow began to spread—a dense, suffocating fog clinging to his chest and threatening to swallow him whole. He tried to scream, to roar for help amidst the turmoil, but his voice was mute. The fog was a cold weight, snuffing out his cries the second it touched his lips and clouded his vision.
His chest burned with an excruciating heat as the weight consumed him, and his eyes wrenched shut, unable to witness the ruin of his own body. But in that moment, a new sensation broke through. A voice—a melody—beckoned him out of the shattered streets of Shinjuku. The sound snapped his eyes open, but he wasn’t met with the horrific sensation of being swallowed alive.
No.
He jolted, his fingers spasming as they grasped the hand shaking his shoulder. The ringing in his ears bled away, replaced by the clear, soft vowels of his name. He heaved, his gaze frantically scanning his own limbs; his eyes were blown wide with terror before finally settling into a quivering relief. The carnage had vanished, replaced by the cool touch of silk sheets and a sweet aroma that drowned out the lingering scent of iron.
Finally, his eyes settled on his savior—the only being capable of pulling him from the depths of the hell his mind had conjured. His breathing remained shallow as he watched you, his fingers trembling as they squeezed your palm with a desperate, crushing force. Concern etched itself into your features as you reached out to soothe him.
“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice a soft anchor. “Did you have that dream again?”
He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he pulled you into a desperate embrace, his breath hitching as he used the hug to confirm your warmth and the slow, steady thrum of your heart. His skin was cold and clammy with sweat, a stark contrast to your heat, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him, feeling the tension finally begin to bleed out of his frame as he relaxed against you.
“You’re here... you’re okay,” he breathed, squeezing you tighter as he inhaled your scent, desperate to replace the smell of ash with the smell of you.
A soft smile tugged at your lips, your fingers weaving through his damp hair as you reciprocated his affection. “Of course I am, silly...”
“Are you okay? Maybe we should get you checked out... these dreams, Satoru, they’re getting out of hand,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to search his icy blue eyes for any lingering traces of the nightmare.
“This is the third night in a row. I’m getting really worried,” you breathed, tilting your head as you voiced your concern. “You’re barely sleeping... your appetite is gone... it’s like you’re fading right in front of me.”
Satoru smiled as he listened to you, noting the way your eyes softened and the subtle tremble in your voice. He cupped your face, his palm a cool weight as he pulled your gaze back to his. “I’m fine, really. Work has just been wearing on me... I've been stressed the last few days.”
He wasn’t sure why the words felt foreign on his tongue, or why his body suddenly went rigid. For a brief, terrifying moment, the sensation from his dream surged through his chest again—a jagged ominous feeling—before he forced the smile back onto his features.
“The new interns still have a lot to learn,” he said, letting out a breathless, hollow laugh. He jerked slightly—eliciting another sharp look of concern from you—as the alarm clock began to blare. The flashing digits drew his attention like a moth to a flame; his breath caught in his throat as he watched the crimson number 7 pulse, fading in and out like a failing heartbeat.
He froze, staring at the digit as if it were taunting him. The sound wasn't just loud; it was pounding inside his skull like a war drum, vibrating against his bone until a pained groan escaped his lips.
“Satoru...” Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be as you snapped the alarm into silence. “I would just feel better if you saw a doctor.”
Satoru shook his head, struggling to conceal his dazed, shaken expression. He forced a smile before throwing back the blankets and slipping from the bed.
“I will, I promise,” he replied, his voice unnervingly calm as he retreated toward the bathroom. “I’m already running late.”
Your gaze followed him, your shoulders slumping as he disappeared into the bathroom. He was being stubborn again, refusing to acknowledge the obvious toll his "stress" was taking. You hated it—hated the way he insisted on maintaining that perfect front, disregarding his own health just to keep you from worrying.
Rising from the bed, you made your way to the bathroom, where you found him leaned over the sink brushing his teeth. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest before speaking his name again.
“Satoru.”
He stopped, spitting the foam into the sink before grabbing a towel from the rack. After wiping his face, his gaze snapped to yours. He stalked over, scooping your face into his large hands and gazing down at you with a sudden, melting softness.
“I’ll call and see if Shoko can squeeze me in today,” he promised, pulling you toward him to press a tender kiss against your forehead.
“Thank you,” you breathed, visibly relaxing as a smirk spread across your face. “I want you in tip-top shape for our getaway, mister.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, pulling you flush against his chest. You leaned in, pushing yourself up onto the balls of your feet to reach him, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
It was a journey Satoru had completed countless times throughout his adult life: the mundane, simple rhythm of commuting to and from work. Yet, the moment he stepped out of his pristine apartment, something shifted. The air felt heavy, wrong. It was that creeping sense of abnormality again—a quiet rot beneath the surface of his perfect world.
It made his skin crawl.
The sun was too bright, a clinical white light that seared his retinas and made him wince. Scanning the crowd, his heart began to race. He felt exposed—overwhelmed by the sudden, violent clarity of everything around him. It was as if the world had become a thousand sharp edges, and he was seeing every tiny, frantic movement at once.
He cursed under his breath, ducking into the nearest convenience store to escape the glare. He shielded his eyes with his palm, warding off the oppressive beams of the sun until he was met by the dimmer—yet still bothersomely sterile—fluorescent lights of the shop.
He froze momentarily—his feet dragging across the polished concrete, slower and heavier with every step.
It was as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He felt hollow, as though it wasn’t truly him standing there in the middle of the aisles. The sensation made his heart pound—fast and jagged—until the thrumming in his ears drowned out the world. He felt fake, like a fraud or an apparition, floating through a reality he was never meant to inhabit.
Reaching his destination, he stretched out a hand for a pair of sunglasses—slow and steady—but his fingers passed right through the plastic as if it were smoke. The sight made his breath hitch; his chest heaved in shallow, ragged bursts before he jerked his hand back as if he’d been stabbed. His eyes widened in a look of raw, creeping terror that seeped into his chest once more, threatening to consume him—until the sharp voice of the convenience store clerk snapped him from his daze.
“Sir? Are you finding everything okay?” the young woman asked, her features twisting into concern as she approached him.
“Uh... yeah. Thanks,” he stammered, his voice rushed and breathless. He snatched the sunglasses from the rack—his fingers finally finding purchase—as if proving to himself that he was still solid.
The world seemed bearable once more with his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. They dulled his heightened senses, easing the sharp, overwhelming ache behind his sockets and allowing his trek to work to feel—if only for a moment—entirely normal.
Stepping into the office was almost more suffocating than the world outside. The lingering scent of burnt coffee mixed with the stale, recycled air of the building made him grimace. As he slipped through the Limitless Tech IT department, he hummed lightly to himself, his pace matching the steady thrum of the cubicles.
Satoru had graduated at the top of his class, grinding through four years of university and a grueling six-month internship just to secure his place as one of the country’s top software engineers.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were well worth the taxing education and scrutinizing internship. He had worked hard to build this career; the polished company award atop his desk was the ultimate proof. His eyes lingered on his name, pristine and perfectly engraved in the metal. But as he watched, the surface seemed to ripple. The letters shifted and twitched, morphing into a jagged, unrecognizable script that made his stomach churn.
“Hey, since when did you start wearing sunglasses inside?” A familiar voice snapped him out of his trance. Satoru jolted, his head whipping around to meet the owner of that voice. His heart skipped a beat.
It was Suguru.
He wasn’t sure why, but a burst of pure, child-like happiness flooded his chest. He saw Suguru nearly every day—they worked in the same department, after all—but today felt different. Today felt as if he hadn't seen him in years.
Smirking, he pulled the glasses from the bridge of his nose with a soft chuckle. “It was just a little too bright out there today.”
Suguru gave him a weary glance before shifting the subject. He held out a can of cola and a folder with a sheepish grin. “I brought you a soda and the new interns’ first project.”
Satoru’s smirk widened into a grin. He shook his head, snatching the objects from Suguru’s grasp. “I assume you’re dumping this on me because you don't want to deal with them?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to deal with them... it’s just that you’re better at it,” Suguru smirked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to sell the idea. “And it’s not a dump; it’s an exchange. I’ll handle the heavy lifting for the rest of the quarter if you take the interns under your wing. Deal?”
Satoru couldn’t say no; Suguru had always been there when it mattered most. They were more than best friends; they understood one another with a profound, brotherly depth. Truth be told, he probably wouldn’t have made it this far without him—or without you.
“Alright, but you better not fuck up my quarterly bonus,” he joked.
Suguru’s smirk only deepened. “Please. Your bonus is going to look a lot prettier thanks to me.”
With that, Suguru slipped out of the office, leaving Satoru to the quiet hum of the room. He turned his attention to the project for his new interns; he had always been protective of the youth. It made him look back on his own days as a trainee—the long nights and the harsh lessons—and all the things that should have been done differently for him and Suguru.
He scanned every page in the folder, meticulously ensuring the logic held up. The assignment needed to be a challenge—a trial by fire to prove they belonged here—but he would never make it impossible.
He wouldn't let them fail.
Because youth was sacred.
Because they deserved to succeed.
They deserved happiness.
Satoru managed to keep his mind buried for hours, losing himself in the endless lines of code. As long as his fingers were moving, the world stayed still. It was only when a dull ache began to throb in his knuckles that he finally leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight. With a heavy sigh, he checked the time. It was nearly lunch, but nothing sounded appetizing—nothing, perhaps, except for something sweet.
He knew better than to spoil his appetite—he didn't want to face your fury later. You were adamant about his health, fussing over his diet with a maternal streak that would have been annoying if it weren't so endearing. The thought of your lecture brought a genuine, sweet smile to his face.
Then his thoughts shifted, drifting back to the conversation you'd had that morning and the promise he’d made to go see Shoko. With another weary sigh, he reached for his phone. After unlocking it, he found himself staring at the screen for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb hovering before he finally pulled up the right contact and hit dial.
The phone buzzed loudly against his ear, the ringing stretching on longer than he’d anticipated. His mind began to drift toward the dark, grueling thoughts he’d been avoiding, but he was saved when the line finally clicked open.
“Yeah, Satoru Gojo. Can she fit me in some time today?”
He listened for a moment, nodding to the empty room.
“That works. Thank you.”
The day dragged on—slower than Satoru would have liked. He was on his third soda by the time the clock hit five, signaling that it was time to leave, though he wasn't heading home just yet. He considered making an excuse—texting you to say he had to stay late—but he knew prolonging the appointment would only cause you more worry and leave him even more restless.
Grabbing his phone, his thumb swiped across the screen until he found your icon at the top of his messages. He typed a quick update, glancing over the words once before hitting send.
| Heading to my doctor’s appointment now, then straight home. See you soon.
Satoru watched the grey bubble pulse on the screen, signaling that you were typing. A moment later, your response popped up.
| Thank you, keep me updated please. See you at home.
A sudden, cold sense of dread washed over him as he stepped out of the building. Was it just the usual reluctance to see Shoko—the discomfort of being scrutinized, of feeling weak under her clinical gaze? Or was it the knowledge that night was coming?
He knew, with a sinking certainty, that sleep would only bring the same recurring nightmare: the same jagged images, the deafening sounds, and that lingering, copper smell of a world he couldn't save.
Flagging down a taxi, he forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. The cool evening air served as a sharp reminder that he needed to get home—to you. You were waiting for him, and that alone was enough to quell his rising anxiety.
Satoru watched the city blur past as the driver weaved elegantly through traffic. He fixated on every detail—anything to keep his mind occupied—the neon glow of the lights, the crowded storefronts, and the rhythmic, constant flow of the evening rush.
The crowds blurred into a faceless mass, but then his brow furrowed. A tall, muscular figure stood out like a jagged stone in a stream. Satoru’s head twisted, his neck craning to maintain the connection as the taxi sped past. He needed to confirm what his eyes were telling him.
His heart hammered against his ribs when he looked forward again, only to see the exact same figure standing on the next corner: the tight black shirt, the distinct silhouette of those baggy trousers, and a strange, coiled shape draped across his midsection. He couldn't quite make out the face, no matter how hard he squinted, but he tracked the man’s outline with a growing sense of alarm.
“Sir? This is your stop.” The scrawny man with glasses spoke politely, his eyes meeting Satoru’s in the rearview mirror and snapping him out of his daze. The sheer terror written across Satoru’s face elicited a look of concern from the driver. Unable to find his voice, Satoru simply nodded, swallowed hard, and paid the man before stumbling out into the cool evening air.
Inside, the air felt unnaturally cold—sharper even than the crisp night air wafting through the city streets. Satoru waited impatiently in the lobby, his knee bouncing in a frantic, rhythmic blur. He hated this feeling—this constant fraying of his nerves. He had never felt this level of raw, vibrating anxiety before.
Was the work really burning him out to this degree, or was something deeper starting to snap?
When Shoko finally called his name, a sigh of relief left him. The lobby was suffocating, to the point he felt claustrophobic. Forced into a box and unable to breathe or move freely. Now, he could finally get it over it. He followed her into a room, watching the way she seemed to observe him in return.
“You look like shit, Satoru,” she noted, not even looking up as she scribbled a quick notation on his chart.
“It’s nice to see you too, Shoko,” he grumbled, sinking into the guest chair with a weary sigh.
Satoru spent what felt like an infinity explaining to Shoko everything that was happening—how it was bleeding into his everyday life. He told her about the dreams, the daytime hallucinations, and the suffocating anxiety he couldn’t seem to shake.
Shoko absorbed it all in silence, her pen moving rhythmically as she jotted notes to input into his records later.
Shoko had attended the same college as Satoru and Suguru; hearing that her oldest friend was struggling so deeply made her frown. For a moment, her clinical mask slipped. She let out a soft breath before she finally broke the silence to deliver her diagnosis.
“I’m putting you down for Acute Stress Disorder,” she began, leaning forward in her seat. “You’re overstimulated, and your heart is working twice as hard as it should be just to keep up with the imaginary threats your brain is inventing to justify how stressed you feel.”
Satoru listened, his eyes locked on her serious gaze.
“I’m prescribing you Trazodone,” she continued. “It works as a mild sedative and should help you get the rest you need so your body can start recuperating. Honestly, Satoru? It might be a good idea to take some time off work, too.”
“I’ll try, but we just got new interns and—” Satoru was cut off by the sharp edge of Shoko’s voice as she thrust the prescription paper toward him.
“Satoru. You need to prioritize your health, or you’re going to end up in a hospital bed.”
Satoru could only nod as he took the paper, his eyes scanning the official seal that sat just above Shoko’s notoriously horrible penmanship. She let out a soft, airy laugh as she watched him.
“I know that woman of yours is probably worried sick. Shame on you, Satoru,” she teased, before her tone sharpened into something more serious.
“Take care of yourself.”
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Satoru stopped by the pharmacy after sending you a text to let you know his whereabouts. He mentally thanked the universe for the empty waiting area; he just wanted to go home. It had been an incredibly taxing day, and he was finally feeling the crash. Running on nothing but sugar and caffeine, he realized he desperately needed some real sustenance.
His eyes drifted toward the food section, and an audible groan escaped him as he caught sight of the Kikufuku mochi. He didn’t hesitate for a second. Closing the distance, he snatched up a box and purchased it alongside his medication, his mind already picturing the first bite.
Your face flashed in his mind as he stepped out onto the pavement to begin the journey home. The bag of sweets and medicine rustled in his palm, and he eyed it for a long moment. One couldn't hurt, right? He just needed something—anything—to take the edge off the day before he walked through the door to see you.
Slipping his hand into the bag, he pulled out the box and opened it with practiced, familiar ease. The plastic crinkled and hummed in his palm as he tore the seam. He focused on the way the sweet treat sat in its wrapper before pulling it out, taking a bite with a soft, appreciative hum.
The flavor burst on his tongue, invading his senses and making him nearly keen from the sheer comfort of it. The taste was a time machine, dragging him back to college and the days when he’d been terrible at taking care of himself. Suguru would lecture him every now and then, but he’d never actually tried to curb Satoru’s sweet tooth—more often than not, he’d been the one feeding into it.
Suguru would always make sure to grab him something sweet whenever he went out with friends and Satoru couldn’t make it. Or, if he were out and about by himself and saw something particular, he’d bring it back just because he knew Satoru would love it.
You, on the other hand, had always been adamant about his health. He could still recall the first meal you ever made him, back when you’d first moved into an apartment together. It was supposed to be a way to balance the weight of college and your life as a couple, but for him, it had become his first real taste of home.
“Satoru,” you sang, your hips swaying to a silent rhythm as you pulled the filleted mackerel from the pan. You plated it with a practiced hand and turned toward him with a smile. “The food is ready. Come eat.”
Satoru emerged from the confines of your shared bedroom, the scent hitting him like a physical blow as he followed the warm aroma to the kitchen. You smiled, your eyes twinkling as you watched him take a seat at the table.
“Wow, this looks great,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the spread laid out in front of him.
You hummed, moving back to fix your own plate. “We have grilled mackerel, steamed rice, and roasted potatoes.”
“And please, if you don’t like it, you don't have to eat it,” you said, looking over your shoulder with a warm smile. “It won’t hurt my feelings if—” You stopped, watching in amusement as he practically inhaled the rice. A soft giggle escaped you; it was a sight you would forever cherish.
“That good?” you asked softly, your voice a sweet melody as you finally joined him at the table.
Satoru groaned, his chopsticks frozen in mid-air as a flush crept into his cheeks. He gave you a sheepish smile, tracking your movements as you sat down and rested your chin in your hand.
“Don’t worry,” you teased, a playful hum in your voice. “I have something sweet for after.” You quirked a brow, watching his reaction. Satoru swallowed hard, his gaze darkening with sudden intensity as a smirk tugged at his lips.
“Yeah? Is that right?”
“Hmm,” you purred. You tilted your head to the side, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes as you held his gaze.
“I think I’ll have to give you a five-star rating,” he cooed, mocking your sultry tone with a grin. “Though, I’d love to deliver my personal complaints to the chef in private.” His voice dropped into a low, visceral hum, and he watched with satisfaction as your eyes widened with a familiar heat.
A pang of guilt shot through his chest as he finished the sweet treat. The thought of you at home, already cooking, made him huff at his own lack of self-control, but he knew that you understood his habits—and him—better than anyone.
He crushed the wrapper and shoved it into his pocket, finally stepping into the stillness of the apartment building. The lobby was silent, dominated only by the rhythmic, rushing sound of the fountain. That tranquil rumble acted as a balm, steadying Satoru’s nerves as he headed for the elevator. He let out a long breath, a profound sense of relief washing over him.
The day was finally over.
The silence in the elevator was deafening, the low thrum of the machine failing to drown out the white noise screaming in his mind. It left him feeling hollow, an emptiness that rivaled the blinding glare of the lights overhead. His eyes fixed on his reflection in the slick metal door, searching for a version of himself that felt real.
He was exhausted—that much was clear from the man staring back at him. The elevator groaned to a halt, the mechanical ding echoing in the small space as he reached his destination. Yet, just as the doors parted, the metal surface rippled. The engineer was gone; in his place stood a figure in midnight black, eyes hidden behind a familiar blindfold. Satoru’s heart hammered against his ribs. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the hallucination, but the doors were already vanishing into the walls, leaving him staring out into the hallway.
Stepping into the hallway, he turned and waited for the elevator doors to slide shut. He just needed to see—needed to confirm that his eyes were playing tricks on him. His heart hammered in his ears, the frantic rhythm making his chest heave as he watched his reflection reappear in the polished metal.
He let out a low, shaky chuckle as his gaze settled on his reflection. Disheveled and clearly struck by fear, he was still himself. Normal. Satoru leaned against the wall, telling himself he needed to get a grip; his sanity was fraying, and he’d already sparked enough concern from you. The last thing he needed was a breakdown that ended in a psych ward. Hopefully, the medication Shoko prescribed would finally dull the edges of whatever this was.
Satoru took a few more moments to collect himself before heading toward the apartment. His strides were languid, a deliberate attempt to buy himself enough time to appear normal and calm before facing you.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool metal of the doorknob. Your humming filtered through the oak, a melodic pull that acted as a tether to his soul. Stealing inside, he watched you for a heartbeat, moving silently to avoid breaking the spell. A smirk finally touched his lips; there you were, lost in your own world as you prepared the onigiri and miso soup.
You were the only thing that made sense anymore.
He dropped his keys into the tray and stepped into your domain with silent, careful strides. His gaze fixed on the way you meticulously plated the rice before setting down the chopsticks. The apron tied at your waist hugged your frame just right, your hair swept up in a messy, effortless updo.
God, you were so pretty.
The way you cared for him tugged at something deep in his chest. You loved him to an extent that felt both humbling and heartbreaking. You had your own world, your own ambitions, yet you always carved out a sanctuary for him to come home to. In your eyes, he was always the priority.
Satoru placed his grocery bag down with utmost stealth as he closed the distance. You hadn’t heard him open the door or slip into the kitchen, your thoughts too preoccupied with perfecting the soup. It was only when large arms wrapped around you from behind that your train of thought was torn away—your heart thudding violently against your ribs.
He had startled you.
You looked down at his arms, the familiar heat of him pressing into your back melting your tension away. “Satoru,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips as your heart began to slow. Embarrassment and relief settled over you in equal measure. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Satoru hummed, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he inhaled your scent greedily.
“M’sorry,” he mumbled against your skin, following the apology with a soft, lingering kiss. A shiver raced down your spine, and you reached back, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck to draw him closer.
“Welcome home,” you whispered, craning your neck so you could see him. Your eyes shone as they lingered over his handsome features, taking him in. “Are you hungry?”
Satoru’s eyes met yours—soft and vulnerable, his pupils blown wide as he watched you in pure admiration. The sight made you frown, concern creeping across your features. It wasn't often he was this soft; usually, his gentleness was balanced by a playful, cocky edge. But this was different.
“Satoru, what’s the matter—“
Before you could finish your question, his lips were on yours. He pressed against you with a hot, desperate fervor, seeking out your taste and warmth as if his life depended on it. A raw, shocked whimper escaped you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping past your lips to claim yours. It was a kiss born of pure desperation—hot, heavy, and frantic.
You melted into him, your head tilting back to grant him better access to your mouth. Your tongue met his with a matching fervor, and Satoru let out a low, ragged groan against your lips. The sound sent a spark of pure, unadulterated heat through you. You felt lightheaded, your nails digging into his scalp as he crushed his mouth against yours, as if he were trying to pull the very soul out of you.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. Though neither of you moved an inch. You were both heaving, breathing each other’s air as your hearts hammered a frantic, shared beat.
“I just missed you,” he managed to rasp out. He studied you with a desperate sort of hunger, his eyes tracing every inch of your face as you looked up at him through your lashes.
“I missed you too,” you whispered, your smile soft and warm. You let your eyes linger on his face, searching for whatever was bothering him, before finally turning back to the stove. You kept your tone light as you continued preparing dinner. “Did something happen?”
Satoru leaned in, his chin heavy on your shoulder as he watched you plate the food. His arms stayed locked around your waist, holding you like an anchor. “Shoko drugged me up,” he grumbled softly. “She thinks these meds will help me sleep. Says the rest is probably just stress.”
“Well, that’s a start, right?” You turned your head slightly to catch his eye. “Besides, we have your birthday trip coming up soon. That’ll be the perfect way to get your mind off work, yeah?”
Satoru didn't give a verbal response; he simply buried his head deeper into the crook of your neck while you finished your task.
“Let’s eat,” you murmured, lifting the plate of rice balls. He followed your lead without a word, his hands reaching for the steaming bowls of miso soup to bring them to the table. He sat beside you, the heat from the soup rising between you like a curtain.
The clink of chopsticks against ceramic was the only sound in the room—a steady, rhythmic heartbeat of a life they had built together. Satoru took a bite of the onigiri, the familiar saltiness grounding him to the chair, the table, and the woman sitting beside him.
He was home. The door was locked, the soup was warm, and the world outside the oak door didn't matter. As he looked at you, he felt the last of the stress drain away, replaced by a heavy,contented exhaustion.
He was safe.
⋆˙∞˚.⁺