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An early summer breeze soothes across your exposed skin. The weather is getting warmer by the day, but you can still find a comfortable spot in a patch of shade. Sundress season is in full swing.
You’re tucked into Satoru’s side, his arm resting along the bench behind you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder. The pair of you often come to this park on his days off. There’s a pastry shop he’s particularly fond of situated next to one of your favorite tea shops.
Peaceful days like this are meant to be luxuriated in for all of the contrast they provide to the darkness of the not so distant past. Sorcerers were destined to struggle and suffer, but Satoru decided he didn’t like that destiny very much. So he got rid of it—for everyone, forever.
(Not that it was an easy feat, but those memories aren’t welcome when the sun is warm and the breeze is cool. When the living are close and the cherished dead are resting soundly at last.)
Birds chirped merrily overhead as you steal another piece of the kouign-amann perched on Satoru’s knee. Buttery sweetness spreads over your palate—perfectly indulgent. Across the way a group of small children screeched and giggled as they chased each other across the supple green grass.
A shrill peel of laughter draws your attention to a group of college students huddled under a nearby tree. They giggle as they whisper to each other, shooting glances in your direction periodically.
Well, not your direction.
You’ve been with Satoru long enough to be accustomed to the incessant scrutiny of strangers. A white haired Adonis with a smile that could melt the panties off a nun tends to draw attention, you get it and you certainly don’t blame them for their fascination.
You’re not quite able to quell the insecurity that swells sickly in your gut. They’re beautiful, you think, with their summer attire showing off flawlessly smooth, sun kissed skin. Hip bones peek over their mini-skirts and shorts, crop tops displaying their flat stomachs.
The closest you’d ever been close to looking like them was years ago, when you were about their age. Though you can’t exactly say it was the healthiest time in your life, it was the last time you’d felt close to conventionally attractive. You could actually shop at trendy boutiques rather than feel like their inventory was openly mocking you.
You’ve never been beautiful like them, though, even back then. You fit best into the mold that society happily provided because you were too sad to eat, not because of some genetic lottery.
You wonder what it's like— to look like you were delicately sculpted by the hands of a masterwork craftsman. Radiant skin pulled taut over lithe bones. Just soft enough to be enticing and nothing more.
The angle you sit at on the bench causes you to bend in such a way that deepens and exaggerates the fleshy rolls of your waist. You pinch one, pulling the fabric of your sundress free of the fold so you can better obscure the topography of your body.
Maybe now you could try. Maybe now that things were quiet, you could be beautiful like them. Someone that people wouldn’t look at with incredulity when they were spotted hand in hand with Satoru.
A frown pulls at your lips, You’d just have to cut back on some indulgences. So you discard the piece of pastry in your fingers back onto its parchment wrapper.
Satoru notices—because of course he does. Six eyes or the sixth sense of a dutiful partner, who knows.
“You gonna make me eat the whole thing?” He says with a playful whine; baby blue eyes meeting yours out of the side of his dark glasses.
“I’ve seen you house a dozen of these, Toru. You can handle this one.” You assure him.
“But this is probably going to be the last time we can get the strawberry ones before they go out of season. Strawberry’s your favorite.” Sunlight glints off his full lower lip as he pouts down at you.
“I had some. Moderation is important for mere mortals like me. I need to start eating better. Less pastries, more veggies…” You trail off, smoothing your dress down your thighs, trying to buy into your own line.
He makes a disgusted face, “That doesn’t sound like a life worth living.”
“Maybe for those with the palate of a five year old, but it’s part of being an adult.” You tell him, putting on your best long suffering wife routine, “Besides, I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
Your attempt to sound casual clearly fails—his brow furrows at your remark, eyes flitting from yours to where your hands pick at your dress.
“You wanna lose weight?” His tone is carefully neutral, the one he takes when he’s doing his absolute best not to accidentally offend you. Testing your emotional waters to make sure he doesn’t cause any needless waves.
“I mean, I know I’ll never look like that,” You nod your head towards you onlookers, “But it would be nice to not be quite so far off the mark.”
“Off the mark…” He mutters quietly to himself.
He frowns as he regards the group in question, the fingers at your should have moved to pluck at the strap of your dress as he formulates a response. The silence between you drags on, the crease in his brow deepens like he’s trying to solve a complex equation in his mind.
“I can hear the poor hamster that powers your brain fighting for his life, just spit it out.” You poke his temple to draw his attention.
Shoulders sinking in defeat, he lets out a long exhale.
“I mean it’s none of my business what you do with your body.” He says, more to himself than you, you think, “If you wanna be skinny or whatever then go for it, I guess. As long as you’re healthy about it.”
“Yeah?” You can’t help but laugh at his poorly masked petulance. This is not the way you expected the conversation to go. He’s clearly trying to sound supportive and failing rather spectacularly.
“Yeah…” Dejection lacing his tone until he hears it and corrects himself, “I mean yes. Of course. I don’t need a say in what you look like. Do what makes you happy, sunshine.”
He gives you a tight smile and squeezes your shoulder reassuringly.
You blink up at him in disbelief. “You’re seriously bummed I want to lose weight? Do you want to be with someone who has what they have?”
“A crop top?” He guesses, cheery at the idea.
“Satoru…” you scoff.
“A belly button piercing?” He tries again.
“Stop it.” You laugh, punching his chest playfully.
“A streaky self tan?” He snakes his arm around your waist, grabbing a generous handful of your stomach as he does, making you squeal.
“Quit it!” You slap his hand but he just squeezes tighter.
“Baby, can I be a bad husband for a second?” He sighs, relishing the feeling of you against him.
You huff as you relent, going lax in his grasp. “You were a good husband before?” He may have gotten you to sit still, but he’ll never stop your teasing. Not that he would have it any other way.
He bows his head, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I like you soft.”
His low timbre sends frissons of heat down your spine. Your exhale is shaky as you press yourself closer to him instinctually, chasing the source of the sensation.
“I’d like you to stay this soft.” He murmurs as his hand relinquishes your tummy in favor of digging into the softness of your thigh, not high enough to be indecent, but enough to make your breathing stutter and your legs squeeze together. “Can ya do that for your terrible, chauvinist husband?”
Your poor brain is fuzzy with his flirtations, you lick your lips and attempt to ground yourself.
“Yeah, yeah, anything for you.” You try but there’s little to do to hide how breathy you sound. He can play you like a fiddle.
“Good.” He raises his head and loosens his grip on you, but doesn’t move his hand from your thigh. “Your tummy is the best pillow in the world. Where would I nap if it went away?”
You hum thoughtfully and pop your previously discarded pastry into your mouth. The strawberries are delicious.
“Suffer, I guess.” You pause briefly before deciding to ask the question that’s heavy on your mind, “Do you really like the way I look?”
“Need me to prove it? We can go back to the car right now and I can-” Your hand shoots up to cover his mouth before he can finish his lurid thought.
“Satoru, I know you want me.” You laugh at his candor, “But do you really…like all of this?” You gesture generally at your body.
“You’d be beautiful at any size. Wouldn’t really change anything…but yeah, if I’m being honest I like you nice and plush.” He has the audacity to look bashful, “It’s hot.”
Affection bubbles in your chest, warm and sticky sweet. You cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss. His lips are pliant and impossibly soft, as always. He makes a pleased sound as he leans into the kiss—nipping at your lower lip.
You break away before affection is replaced by something less suited for public display.
“Is your chapstick strawberry flavored?” You ask, licking your lips.
His eyes flick down, drawn to the glimpse of your tongue, “It’s your favorite.” An impish grin slowly spreads across his face.
“Sure is.” You snuggle back into his side—feeling lighter and a bit giddy.
A comfortable silence falls back into place as you watch the increasingly competitive game of tag unfold across the field. There’s definitely going to be blood at some point. You’re getting strangely invested in the scene when Satoru clears his throat.
“Sooo…” Satoru drawls, head lolling to rest atop yours.
“Yes?” You answer, suspicions rising.
“You mentioned something about crop tops earlier.” He feigns a casual disposition.
You roll your eyes, “You mentioned crop tops, my love.”
“Oh? Hm.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I could have sworn you said something about wanting a closet full of them.”
“Satoru.” You give a half-hearted warning.
“Anyway, I think it’s a great idea.” He pats your thigh and gives you an approving nod.
“You’re an idiot.” You grumble, “If anyone’s getting a closet full of crop tops it's you.”
“Oh say less, sunshine. Anything for you.”
The sun is warm and the breeze is cool. Your heart is full to the brim, but your husband never stops bathing you in his devotion. Strawberries are in season and you don’t intend to let a single one go to waste.