He sat stiffly on your bed, a mountain of muscle and confusion, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly agape like a puppy trying to understand human speech. The stark contrast between his internal dismay and your pure, unfiltered joy was almost comical. You, seated across from him with a roll of pink ribbon in your lap and glittery scissors in hand, looked like a child on Christmas morning.

“I’m not sure what’s going on here,” he muttered, glancing down at the delicate satin strands already looped around his forearm, “but you look like you’re having the time of your life.”

“I am!” you chirped, grinning. “You're the perfect canvas! Big, broody, and blank.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Blank?”

You giggled and leaned in, the scent of your shampoo brushing past his nose as you focused on tying another bow at the curve of his shoulder. “Blank as in un-decorated. But don’t worry—I’m fixing that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t resist. If anything, he relaxed a little under your touch. You were so engrossed, so focused, tongue sticking out slightly as you looped and tucked and tightened. The ribbons trailed over his chest, down his forearms, across his broad back. Little bows danced like petals across the canvas of his skin—pale pink, stark against the hard lines and battle-worn texture of him.

It should’ve looked ridiculous. But it didn’t. Not to you.

“Alright,” you said, scooting backward to examine your work. “You’re a masterpiece. But we’re not done yet.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Do I want to know what’s next?”

You seized his arm before he could pull it back, positioning it just right. “Final touch: bicep bow.”

His expression flickered with bemusement, but he allowed you to wind the ribbon around the muscle, snug and taut. You tied it carefully, forming a pretty little loop on the outside of his arm, the ends dangling like tassels.

Then, you sat back on your heels, grinning from ear to ear. “Okay—now flex.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Flex! Flex! Flex!” you chanted, clapping your hands in delight.

There was no way he could deny you—not when you looked at him like that, eyes wide and shimmering with glee. So, with a slightly resigned smile, he curled his arm and gave it a proper flex.

Snap.

The ribbon didn’t stand a chance. As his bicep surged beneath the thin fabric, the bow exploded, the knot unraveling like it had never existed. One end fluttered to the floor. The other dangled, defeated.

You gasped, and he winced. “Was that... bad?”

“No,” you breathed, eyes gleaming. “That was amazing.”

He laughed then, really laughed, the sound deep and full in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” you teased, already reaching for more ribbon.

He caught your wrist gently, holding it between his calloused fingers. “Yeah,” he said softly, voice dropping just a little, “I really do.”

You stared at him, suddenly aware of how close he was—how those bows were wrapped not just around him, but around the moment you were sharing. He wasn’t just letting you do this because it amused him.

He was letting you do this because he adored you.

Even in frills.

Even in pink.

Even in ways he didn’t understand.

And that? That made him even more beautiful.