You're curled up on his stupidly expensive leather couch in one of his old shirts, hair damp from the shower, legs tucked under you. He’s in a black tank top and sweats, broad and lounging, but watching you like a hawk.

You’re talking about your day, laughing, casual. Then it slips out—quiet, almost like you didn’t mean to say it at all.

“I don't look good in your shirt.” You pull at the front of his shirt, trying to make it not stretch over your chest and hips. It doesn't look like it's supposed to. Like those girls on Pinterest or TikTok, drowning in their boyfriend's clothes.

The silence after is immediate.

He sets his drink down without a word. Turns his full attention to you. Crimson eyes darken, sharp enough to slice clean through. You glance up, confused. When you question him, he just narrows his crimson eyes. His jaw clenches. “Don’t,” he snaps—low and blunt. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. Ever.”

You blink, startled. He moves before you can reply, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Because to him, you don’t.

Then, with a growl, he wraps his arms under your thighs and lifts you. No warning. Just lifts. Once. Twice. Easily.

You squeak, protesting, face flushed.

“I can bench your weight as a fucking warm-up.” His voice is a quiet, dangerous rumble, eyes focused on you. “You think I give a fuck about numbers? About curves? You think I don’t like this?”

He shifts under you, hips rolling, lifting you again with just his body. He's shirtless, you can see his broad chest and stomach flex as he steadies you. Holding you there. Owning every inch.

“Every part of you. Soft, thick, heavy. I want all of it. I need it.” His mouth is at your ear now, voice lowering to a gravelly whisper. “You’re perfect. And you’re mine.”

Then, like it physically hurts him to say it. “You’re not allowed to hate what I love.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, hot, lingering, almost reverent. “Next time you look in the mirror, you better remember this.”