You heard the door open with a soft click. The light shuffle of sandals on the floor followed soon after, and then—

“...Stop looking.”

He stood there, cheeks glowing red, his short white hair tousled like he’d been fighting with the mirror for twenty minutes. The off-shoulder frilly top and high-waisted shorts clung to him, and he refused to meet your eyes. His bag dangled awkwardly from his arm as if he was regretting everything.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him.

He fidgeted. “Tch… seriously, stop. I already know I look weird. I shouldn’t have worn this. I should go change—”

You crossed the room before he could turn. One hand reached up, brushed his hair back, then cupped his cheek. He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away.

“…Why?” he mumbled. “Why do you keep looking at me like that… like it’s okay.”

He didn’t get it.

Didn’t get that you weren’t seeing the outfit or the labels or any of the things that made him insecure.

You were just seeing him.

You leaned in, resting your forehead gently against his. The heat in his face doubled.

“D-Don’t get all close like that… idiot…”

But his hands clung to your shirt. He didn’t push you away. His voice cracked a little when he muttered, “Even if I look like this… you still…”

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, drawing him in. He gasped softly but didn’t resist. His head dropped onto your shoulder, hiding that flushed expression in the crook of your neck.

“…You’re warm,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Stupid. You're always too warm…”

His fingers dug gently into your back as you held him.

“…Don’t let go, okay?”