Felix had always been soft with his love — gentle touches, warm compliments, kisses pressed into skin like worship. But when it came to you, he had no filter.

He was in awe of your body.

Not just in the “you’re sexy” kind of way — though yes, he absolutely thought you were stunning — but in the “I could write poetry about the curve of your waist and the dip of your collarbone” kind of way.

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?” he’d murmur, eyes trailing over you like you were made of starlight. “Like… I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

Whether you were in your comfiest clothes or just out of the shower, hair a mess, his gaze never wavered. He didn’t just notice you — he devoured you with his eyes, slowly, reverently, like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

And the best part? He meant every word. Every low, breathy compliment. Every kiss he placed on the parts of your body you sometimes struggled to love.

“This right here,” he whispered once, pressing his lips to your stomach, “this is mine. And I love it. I love you.”

He wasn’t afraid to say it out loud. That he was obsessed. That your body wasn’t just “enough” — it was perfect to him. Soft, strong, shaped by laughter and life.

“Don’t suck it in, baby. Don’t hide from me,” he’d say gently, catching your hands as they tried to cover. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. Exactly how you are.”

And the way he looked at you — like you were everything — eventually made you start to believe it too.

Because Felix didn’t just love your body. He worshipped it. Because it held the person he loved most in the world