You had bought new lingerie sets—delicate lace, soft silk, colors chosen with care. And naturally, you wanted Mitsuya’s opinion. Not just because he was your boyfriend, but because he had an eye for detail, a gift for design, and a way of looking at you that made your heart skip.

So you slipped into one of the sets, took a breath, and stepped out of the bathroom.

He was waiting in the living room, legs crossed, posture relaxed, as if he hadn’t been counting the seconds. But the moment he saw you, his gaze shifted—slow, deliberate, appreciative. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, warm and mischievous.

“Turn around,” he said softly.

You did.

His eyes followed every curve, every seam, every subtle shimmer of fabric. Then he stood, closing the distance with quiet ease. His fingers brushed over the material—light, thoughtful, reverent. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just Mitsuya, analyzing like an artist with his favorite canvas.

“Not bad,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “But I can do better.”

You laughed, flustered and flattered, because of course he could. Mitsuya could turn thread into poetry. But the way he looked at you now—like you were already perfect—made you wonder if he’d ever really change a thing.