You’re folding new clothes, birthday gifts. Some new loungewear, that dark wrap-top you’d held up to your chest in a picture and texted him about with a skeptical, "too much?" It hadn’t been. It’d barely survived his thoughts, in fact. There are hair clips scattered across your desk now, ones shaped like tiny flowers and moons and stars.

Shoto is laid out diagonally across your bed, because it's the only way he fits without hanging off the edge, long limbs and broad shoulders draped over your comforter like he lives there. His back’s against the headboard, one arm bent lazily behind his head, the other resting across his lap, fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of his loose black tee. His hair is messy from his quick shower earlier, fluffy and tousled, falling over his eyes and brushing against his cheekbones.

He's barefoot. Sweatpants hang low on his hips, loose around his legs, and his shirt rides up just enough to tease the cut of muscle at his waist when he shifts.

He’s not doing it on purpose. But he sees the moment your eyes flick toward him.

"You’re staring again," he says. Calm. Neutral. The edge of a smile teases his mouth.

You give him a look and roll your eyes before folding again, tucking clothes away into a drawer.

Shoto exhales, slow. Then he stretches, long and casual, arms high over his head and spine arching just enough to make the bed creak beneath him. His shirt lifts even more. Golden light slides along the pale curve of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, and he watches you look at him.

Instead, Shoto lets his gaze drift over you again, hungry and indulgent and just a little amused. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself, like he's discovering again how lucky he is to have you.