The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light. You stood before the mirror, shoulders slouched, fingertips tugging at the hem of your shirt. The reflection staring back at you always felt unfamiliar: rounder cheeks, softer curves, a body you weren’t sure how to love. Your lips pressed into a pout as your eyes trailed over the lines and dips you couldn’t ignore. The insecurity settled heavy, like a shadow creeping over every inch of skin.

The door creaked open behind you, and Takanobu’s tall figure filled the doorway. Silent as always, his dark eyes studied you, catching the way you sulked at your own reflection. He didn’t speak immediately; he never rushed. Instead, he stepped closer, the air around him warm, steadying, like he carried calm in his very presence.

Without a word, his large hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, settling against your waist. His palm curved easily against you, thumb brushing across soft fabric before slipping under it, spreading warmth against your skin. “Don’t,” he said quietly, voice deep but tender, “don’t look at yourself like that.”

You froze, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t on your face—it lingered on you, the parts you tried so hard to hide. Fingers pressed into your curves as though he was grounding you, showing you what he saw when he looked. His lips tugged into the faintest frown. “You’re…beautiful. Every part of you.”

His other hand joined the first, sliding around your middle, pulling you back until your body rested firmly against his chest. He bent down just enough for his breath to ghost against the crown of your head. “I love this,” he murmured, squeezing lightly, reverent. “I love all of you. Don’t you understand?”

Your throat tightened, emotions threatening to spill, but Takanobu only held you closer, patient, unwavering. His large hands traced your shape with quiet devotion, not lingering in hunger but in awe. Every dip, every curve, every softness—he worshiped silently, as though you were something fragile yet sacred. “I don’t care what you see,” he whispered, voice steady but firm, “because when I look at you, I see home.”

The reflection in the mirror blurred, not because of your body but because of the way his arms wrapped around you like you were more than enough. He pressed his cheek against your temple, his lips brushing the side of your face.

“So pout all you want,” he added, a rare hint of warmth in his tone, “but I’m not letting go.”