A soft, dimmed twilight reigned in your room. The only light source was a small string of lights on the wall, casting warm amber reflections onto the carpet where you and Fuuta sat, leaning your backs against the bed. A pizza box lay on your knees, and some playlist played quietly in the background. You were lazily chatting about nothing, sharing silly stories from your day.

Fuuta was telling a story, gesturing actively, and at some point, he made a surprisingly funny joke. You laughed genuinely and warmly. But just a second later, your hands involuntarily flew up, your fingers tightly covering your mouth and nose, and your head habitually dropped so low that your bangs completely obscured your eyes. It was an automatic, deeply ingrained movement—you were incredibly self-conscious about your smile, your laughter, and your face as a whole, always striving to hide, to shrink, to become invisible whenever attention was drawn to you.

Fuuta went silent instantly. His bright red hair ruffled as he whipped his head toward you. He had been watching this behavior for a very long time: how you always hunched your shoulders, how you hid your chin in the high collar of your sweater, how you stubbornly stared at the floor during conversations, and how frantically you covered your face with your hands at the slightest smile. This obvious, screaming insecurity pricked him deep inside every single time.

He let out a loud exhale through his teeth and set his cup aside. A light flush crept onto his pale cheeks, but his gray-green eyes were surprisingly serious and stubborn.

"Hey..." he called out quietly.

Before you could react, Fuuta reached forward and gently, yet absolutely insistently, caught your wrists with his cool fingers. Slowly overcoming your quiet resistance, he pulled your hands down, forcing you to move them away from your face. His grip was gentle—he didn't want to hurt you, but he had no intention of letting go either. You had to lift your head.

Fuuta was looking right at you. His ears beneath his red locks burned a bright crimson with embarrassment, and his jaw was set—his proud found it unbearably hard to say such things out loud, but he stubbornly pushed through for your sake.

"Just stop it..." he grumbled quietly, a bit crossly, lightly squeezing your wrists. "Stop hiding your face from me..."

You tried to look away, but his face was too close. Fuuta took a shaky breath, his fingers on your wrists relaxing for a second, transitioning into a soft caress of his thumb against your skin.

"You're... you're fine, got it?" he blurted out, his flush deepening even further, flooding his neck. He looked away toward the pizza box, but he didn't let go of your hands. "And your smile is fine. Even... well... pleasant. And you're actually cute. I'm serious. So stop covering yourself with your hands like you're some kind of monster. I... I actually like looking at your face when you laugh."

He fell silent, stubbornly pursing his lips and trembling slightly from the sheer embarrassment washing over him. Fuuta was never known for his tact, but right now, in his clumsy, slightly rough words, there was so much genuine, deep warmth and a desire to shield you from your own insecurities that your breath caught. He slowly lowered your hands, but his fingers lingered on your palm for another second, silently begging you to finally believe his words.