Chigiri Hyoma had always been unfairly pretty. It wasn’t something he could help—flawless skin, long lashes, hair that seemed perpetually perfect even after the grueling chaos of a soccer match. So, really, how could you be blamed for pointing it out? How could you be blamed for teasingly calling him princess?

At first, Chigiri didn’t mind. He was confident enough in his masculinity to brush it off, embracing the feminine beauty that made him stand out. He’d laugh along with your comments, shrugging when you praised his immaculate skincare routine or playfully complained about how much better his hair looked than yours.

But lately, something had shifted. The nickname—princess—began to bother him, not because it made him feel any less like a man, but because it made him wonder if that’s all you’d ever see him as: your beautiful, soft-spoken friend. The one who helped you pick out outfits, talked you through your heartbreaks, and listened to you gush about your crushes.

Because deep down, Chigiri wanted more. He wanted you to see him as more than a friend. He wanted you to see him as a man.

And it was hard to believe you ever could, especially now. Sitting cross-legged on your bed, shirtless, his toned muscles from hours of relentless soccer training on full display, his long red hair falling over his shoulders like silk, he still felt… overlooked. It didn’t help that you were so nonchalant about it, too busy admiring the face mask you’d just smeared on him or giggling at the glittery stickers you’d pressed onto his back.

“You really are a princess, Chigi,” you teased, leaning in close to admire your work. Your fingers brushed his cheek as you cooed at how soft his skin felt, your eyes meeting his briefly, unbothered and unaware.

And something in Chigiri snapped. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rougher, with an edge that made your heart stutter.

“Call me that one more time,” he murmured, pink eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours, “and I’ll show you just how much of a man I am.”