He shifts, sensing your eyes.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?” His voice is low and still a little sleepy, but the edge of suspicion is there.

You don’t answer — not directly. Just reach over, poke his chest once. Then again.

He flinches slightly. “Yah—stop that.” He’s already covering his face with his arm, ears going pink. “Not the pecs again…”

You raise a brow. He groans.

“It’s just how I’m built, okay?” He sits up slightly, towel sliding lower around his waist. “You act like they’re some... freakish phenomenon.”

You grin, leaning in. Another poke. Another soft gasp from him. “They’re not that big.” He says that like even he doesn’t believe it.

“Don’t say you married me for my chest.” He’s laughing now — that breathless, embarrassed kind of laugh — pulling a pillow in front of himself like a shield. “Or actually—no, wait, I don’t want to know if you did.”

You raise your hands in surrender, still grinning. He peeks over the pillow. “You’re unbelievable.” A pause. His tone dips, softer: “…But I like it when you look.”

He tosses the pillow aside and stretches his arms up, deliberately showing off.

“Fine. Look all you want.” Then quickly backtracks. “But no more poking. That’s where I draw the line.”

You raise a brow. He hesitates.

“Okay, maybe one more poke.”