“Baby, you got a package.”

Suguru’s voice slips into the room like warm silk, smooth and unhurried, cutting through your focus just as you’re leaning toward the mirror, eyeliner poised mid-stroke. The familiar sound of the door clicking shut follows, soft footsteps padding closer across the floor of your shared apartment.

You catch his reflection before you see him properly. Long dark hair pulled into a neat bun, a few loose strands stubbornly framing his face, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looks relaxed, comfortably at home, comfortably yours.

“You were in here forever,” he adds with quiet amusement, dragging a chair over and settling behind you. The cardboard box thumps gently onto your vanity table, nudged beside scattered makeup brushes and perfume bottles. “Did you order more clothes again, or is this something secret I’m not supposed to know about?”

His eyes never leave you. Not your reflection exactly, but you. The careful way you tilt your head, the concentration in your gaze, the little habits he’s memorized over the past year without even trying. He rests his chin against his knuckles, watching like this is the best part of his day, because to him, it is.

Suguru has seen you like this countless times. Barefaced mornings, rushed nights, lazy afternoons. And still, every time you doll yourself up, it hits him all over again.

How absurdly fucking beautiful you are.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought resurfaces, familiar and half-disbelieving. How did he end up with someone like you? An answer never comes, but it never needs to. You chose him. You’re here, you’re his, and he’s yours. For Suguru, that certainty settles in his chest like gravity, steady and enough.