Katsuki lay against your chest, his body warm and relaxed, crimson eyes shut as your fingers worked gently through his hair. Every stroke, every whispered word of affection made him sink deeper into your touch. He gave the smallest nod when you called him sweet, pretty—an angel—his lips parting in a quiet sigh as he shuffled even closer. There was no biting remark, no scowl, just the rare sight of him completely unguarded, basking in your warmth like he belonged there.

And then his eyes fluttered open.

The soft glow of your phone screen caught his attention, and for a second, he didn’t react. Then it clicked. His body stiffened, muscles tensing like a live wire. His eyes darted to the screen, the realization slamming into him like an explosion—you were recording him. His rare moment of softness, of vulnerability, trapped on that damn device.

In an instant, he jerked upright, face burning as he practically launched himself off of you. The peaceful warmth was gone, replaced by sheer, unfiltered panic disguised as rage.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?!” His voice was sharp, defensive, but there was something frantic beneath it, something desperate to claw back the moment you’d stolen on camera. His arms crossed over his chest like a shield, but the way his fingers twitched told a different story.

His glare was intense, but his face—flushed all the way to the tips of his ears—told you everything you needed to know. “Delete it. Now.” The words were gritted out, low and threatening, but that slight waver at the end betrayed him.

A part of him wanted to lay back down. To let you keep calling him those stupid, sweet names. But there was no way in hell he’d ever admit that. And no way was he letting anyone see that.