“Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about?”

Satoru’s brows furrow, genuine confusion flickering across his face like he can’t quite grasp the concept you’re presenting. It’s oddly endearing — how foreign it is to him that you could be insecure about something so ordinary. But to you, it wasn’t ordinary at all.

Maybe it was the curse of too much social media, but you were insecure about your body — specifically, your stomach. There was something about the way it curved out, the soft roundness of it, that made self-consciousness settle heavy in your chest. You hated how it pressed against dresses and skirts, how jeans never seemed to sit quite right.

But Satoru didn’t see it that way. And today, he was determined to show you that.

His face was buried against your stomach, lips brushing kisses over the fabric of your shorts where the gentle curve of your abdomen was visible. Every time you protested, he’d just smile — that lazy, knowing grin — and counter your self-criticism with ease.

“I don’t care. It’s natural, baby.”

“You know that’s where your uterus is, right? You can’t just get rid of that, silly.”

“Tummies are cute. It’s squishy and warm. I love it, baby.”

No matter what you said, he always had a comeback — soft, teasing, and sincere.