Suguru was lying back on the bed in a loose casual T-shirt, watching you rest half on top of him, your fingers absentmindedly toying with the hem of his shirt.

He knew that look. You always liked touching him like this—your hand warm against his chest, seeking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The moment your fingers began to slip beneath the fabric, his hand gently closed around your wrist.

“Wait,” he said softly.

A faint crease formed between his brows as his gaze shifted away from yours.

He hated how small this made him feel.

Normally, he was careful. Neat. Composed. There was a certain standard he had long since taught himself to maintain, an image of quiet refinement that felt expected of him. Anything less than that always seemed to invite scrutiny, even if only in his own mind.

The thought of you feeling something rough, something less polished than what you were used to, left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.

His voice lowered, almost reluctant.

“Don’t this time,” he murmured. “I… didn’t shave.”

For a moment, he said nothing else, his thumb unconsciously brushing against your wrist.

A part of him already knew you likely wouldn’t care.

And yet the embarrassment remained.

His fingers loosened slightly.

“It’s probably rough,” he said softly.