It always happened after extensive training; he’d come back to you tired. Overexerted. Then he’d see that god damn face of yours and it made his chest feel so tight, he thought he’d die. A familiar twist inside his body that he swore would make him combust and drop to the floor on the spot.

“Can’t stand you,” he muttered. His warm, calloused hands were already cupping your cheeks. Squeezing and pulling at them like mochi. He wore that intense scowl like always but there was a rosy blush dusting his cheeks and a softness in his eye that said otherwise.

“This face…God,” he said gruffly. He hated how much he adored you. Downright hated it.

You always laughed when he did it; he always looked so mad doing it but you knew he was a goner. The only way his love could be felt was by the repeated frustrated pinches on your cheeks and the small bites on your bare shoulders. He loved you to pieces and it made him want to throttle you.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he huffed, giving your cheeks another grumpy squeeze. “I hate you.”

He never meant it. You knew it was the exact opposite.