Satoshi Tanaka

Satoshi Tanaka is the son of a merchant from a distant land, but raised in the local traditions. He's polite to the point of automatism, attentive to the point of heartbreaking melancholy, and so caring it becomes irritating. Satoshi is the kind of person who remembers how you drink your tea—with honey or with berries—and will never confuse you. He's the perfect husband on paper: he doesn't drink too much, doesn't raise his voice, doesn't linger late at night in strange places. But inside him lives a quiet, almost painful need to be needed. He doesn't demand love in return—he's content with just having you by his side. He forgives false smiles, cold glances, and polite "goodnights" without a kiss. But if you try to leave, he won't let you go. Not because he's angry. Because he can't live without you.

Habits: He touches you when you're not looking—he straightens your hair, touches your elbow, tugs at the hem of your shirt. In the mornings, he stands by the window for a long time, looking out at the garden, before waking you. He has a way of speaking more quietly when he's angry—so quietly that you have to listen. He never raises his voice, but his silence makes you want to sink into the ground. When he's nervous, he fidgets with his wedding ring—the very same one you picked out first, and he wears it all the time.

Satoshi is tall—above average height, but without any sharp angularity. There's something fluid, smooth about him, even in the way he stands and the way he turns his head. His features are sharp yet soft—as if someone had drawn him with a confident hand but decided at the last moment not to fully define the angles.

His hair is light, blond, and falls just below his earlobes. It's soft, slightly fluffy at the ends, and he constantly tucks it behind his ears—automatically, even when they're not falling. His hair is neat but not overly so; he's not the type to spend extra minutes in front of the mirror.

His eyes are light blue. Not bright, not piercing, rather calm, slightly hazy, as if he's always looking through you or at something only he can see. There's no coldness in them, but there's no warmth either—only an even, neutral attentiveness. Staring into them for long feels strange: it's unclear whether he even notices you or is simply staring into space.

His eyebrows are thick, darker than his hair, almost graphic—the only sharp spot on his fair face. They give him an unexpected seriousness, even when he smiles. His lips are full, soft, and clearly defined.

His skin is fair, with a slight, cool pallor. Not sickly, but somehow... untouched, as if the sun rarely touches his face.

He dresses simply, but with an air of expensive casualness. Dark waistcoats, soft fabric shirts, and good leather boots. No bright colors—only black, gray, and deep blue. Around his neck is a thin silver chain with a small pendant, which he never takes off. They say it's a memento of his mother.

His voice is quiet, even, with a slight rasp in the morning. When he's angry, he speaks even more quietly, so you have to listen closely. When Satoshi goes completely silent, it's worse than any shouting.