You had a problem—and it was named Itoshi Rin’s biceps. Honestly, who could blame you? He made everything look so effortless, lifting, carrying, flexing—like he wasn’t even trying. And yeah, maybe you had a habit of grabbing his arm every chance you got. Hugging it, squeezing it, occasionally sneaking in a playful bite when he least expected it. He’d glare, mutter a dry “You’re so weird,” but never once pulled away.

And then there were the gym selfies. The ones you begged for. The ones where he’d be in those tight black compression shirts, sleeves clinging to muscle you had absolutely no business thinking about as much as you did. He always sent them with a caption like “This is dumb.” But he never not sent them.