#inlove

When you had first handed him the leather-bound book three weeks ago, right before leaving for an extended business trip, Satoru had burst out laughing. He had dramatically declared that the "Strongest" had no need for a diary. But then you had kissed his cheek, looked him in the eye, and told him that whenever he missed you, he should just write down whatever was on his mind. “Write it down for me,” you’d whispered. “And when I get back, you can read it all out loud to me.”

Naturally, Satoru had taken the task with life-or-death seriousness ever since.

He tapped the end of the pen against his chin, looking toward the dark kitchen. The house felt entirely too large without you in it, too quiet, too still. He cleared his throat, adjusted his posture, and went back to writing with a goofy, fond smile spreading across his face.

Dear Diary (or rather, Dear Wife, since you're the one listening to me read this right now),

It is currently 11:42 PM on Thursday, and I am officially dying of boredom. More importantly, I am dying of missing you. Tokyo High is boring. The higher-ups are boring. Even teasing Megumi today was only a seven out of ten because you weren't there to shake your head at me and try to hide your smile.

I’ve been thinking about you all day. Honestly, I think about you every five seconds, but today was especially bad because I tried to make dinner.

It was a disaster, sweetheart. A absolute tragedy. I tried to recreate that stew you made last Tuesday—the one with the rich broth that you let simmer for six hours while you studied at the counter. I thought, 'Hey, I have Six Eyes, I can master cooking in twenty minutes.' Wrong. I burnt the garlic, oversalted the broth, and somehow managed to splash sauce on the ceiling. I don't know how it happened. Infinity didn't even save my shirt.

It made me realize, for the millionth time, just how incredible you are. It’s not just that your cooking tastes like a five-star restaurant—though it definitely does, and I am spoiled beyond saving—it’s the way you do it. I love watching you in the kitchen. You get this tiny, focused crease right between your eyebrows when you’re measuring ingredients. You move so smoothly, so gently, like cooking is just an extension of how much you care about the people you're feeding.

Every single meal you make feels like a love letter. Even when you just make me a quick bowl of rice with an egg on top late at night because I came home late from a mission, it tastes better than anything else in the world. You feed my body, but honestly, you feed my soul too. You take care of me in ways I never thought I needed, and I love you so much it almost makes me feel helpless. You are my home.

Satoru paused, leaning back against the wooden chair and staring up at the ceiling. A soft sigh escaped his lips. He really, genuinely adored you. He loved your warmth, your patience, your brilliant mind, and the way your laughter could effortlessly pull him out of his darkest moods.

He looked back down at the page. He was being so sweet. So romantic. You were going to melt when he read this part out loud to you.

Then, his mind wandered. He recalled the last time you had spent a full morning baking in that very kitchen.

A wicked, familiar spark lit up his bright blue eyes. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, dimpling his cheeks. He leaned back over the journal, his pen moving much faster now, his handwriting growing slightly more chaotic with excitement.

Speaking of your cooking, though... my mind drifted back to last weekend when you made those homemade buttermilk biscuits from scratch.

You had flour dusted on the tip of your nose, and your hair was pinned up, leaving the back of your neck completely exposed—which, by the way, was an open invitation that I accepted repeatedly. But while you were kneading that dough, leaning over the counter, I couldn't help but notice how soft and plush you looked. And it brought me right back to my absolute favorite thing in the entire universe.

Your chest.

Sweetheart, I need to put this in writing so it’s officially documented: your boobs are a miracle. They are an absolute blessing to mankind, but mostly to me.

They are so unbelievably soft. Soft like freshly kneaded biscuit dough, but warm, and yielding, and perfectly shaped to fit right into the palms of my hands. Do you have any idea how hard it is to pay attention to what you’re saying when you’re walking around the house in one of my oversized T-shirts with no bra underneath? The answer is impossible. Infinity itself cannot block that level of distraction.

I miss resting my head on your chest. You have no idea. My favorite place in the whole world isn't some fancy resort or a quiet mountain peak; it's right there, squished up against your soft breasts while we're lying in bed, listening to your heartbeat. It’s warm, it’s squishy, and it’s the best pillow in existence. When I’m stressed out after a long mission dealing with filthy curses, all I want to do is bury my face right between them and inhale the scent of your skin.

Satoru stopped writing for a second, chuckling softly to himself as he imagined the bright flush of crimson that would inevitably spread across your face when he read this section to you. He could already hear your voice—“Satoru! Be serious!”—and the thought only fueled his pen further.

And don't get me started on how gentle you are when you let me hold you, he wrote, his grin widening. You let me play with them like a giant, spoiled cat. I love how you gasp when my hands are cold, and how you try to push me away but end up just tangling your fingers in my hair instead. I love the weight of them in my hands, how heavy and perfectly warm they feel, and the way you melt against me when I kiss down your neck.

So yes, your cooking is top-tier. Your biscuits are legendary. But if we're talking about things that are soft, comforting, and utterly addictive... your chest wins every single time. Hands down. No competition.

I can't wait for you to come home. I’m going to tackle you onto the bed the second you walk through the front door, read this entire page out loud right into your ear, and then demonstrate every single word I just wrote.

Hurry back to me, my love.

Forever yours,

Satoru ♡

Satisfied, Satoru blew lightly on the ink to help it dry, then snapped the pink leather journal shut. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long arms high above his head until his joints popped, feeling a deep, contented warmth settling in his chest. He couldn't wait to hear you laugh, watch you blush, and hold you close the moment you finally walked back through the door.