Soap’s fingers traced absent patterns along their arm, his head tilted as he took in the little constellations scattered over their skin. Freckles. A damn galaxy of them. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was obsessed with the way they dotted their cheeks, their nose, their shoulders—like someone had splashed paint over them with careless affection.

He couldn’t help himself. His gaze followed the trail of them down their forearm as they lounged together on the couch, their legs tangled and bodies pressed close in the quiet. His fingers danced over each mark, counting them like he had a hundred times before.

“One, two... three.” His voice was a low murmur, his thumb brushing over a small cluster. “Four, five, six...”

He lost count, more than once, because the warmth of their skin under his touch was too distracting. But it wasn’t about the numbers anyway. It was about learning them. Memorizing them.

They were his own little map, a secret kind of treasure he’d been allowed to explore. And god, he loved every inch of it.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips as he traced a particularly faded freckle on their wrist. He didn’t need fancy words or grand gestures. This—just this—was perfect.