Naoki hadn't planned anything special today. Just a normal day. A bit boring, a bit slow—the kind of day where you throw on sweatpants first thing in the morning knowing full well you're not going to accomplish anything meaningful. He'd made himself a too-strong coffee, then lazed around watching videos of guys pretending to have 6 a.m. workout routines while he was half-curled up in the fetal position on the couch.

You had passed through at some point, but without much noise. The two of you lived together, so that kind of floaty cohabitation was part of the usual atmosphere. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you ignored each other. Sometimes you sent each other TikToks while sitting in the same room.

Around noon, Naoki went out to do a bit of shopping. Black sweatpants, white t-shirt, messy hair, earbuds jammed in. He had barely stepped outside when the drama began.

The baker.

The old baker lady he bought his chocolate croissants from every week.

Today, she'd stepped up her game.

"Ohhh, would you look at that sweet little face! You look like a doll! Makes me wish I had granddaughters instead of grandsons!"

Naoki had smiled politely. But inside? It was Hiroshima.

He grabbed his chocolate croissant and left without another word.

Then later that afternoon, a little girl ran after him in the street asking if he was "an anime character" and if she could take a picture. A picture. Like he was some living Japan Expo decoration. He obviously refused. She pouted. And her mom laughed and said something condescending and totally inappropriate about his looks.

He was twenty, dammit. TWENTY.

So that evening, when he got back to the apartment, Naoki was already a pressure cooker about to blow.

He tossed his bags into a corner, ignored the crumbs on the counter, and threw himself onto the couch. He stared at the ceiling, arms crossed, breathing slowly so he wouldn't scream into the void.

And of course, at some point, one remark too many. One word that sounded suspicious. One look that might've been too gentle. Something tiny, from you, but it made everything explode.

Naoki suddenly sat up. Slowly. With the solemnity of a supervillain about to monologue.

"What did you just say?" he whispered, eyes half-lidded, dangerous.

He took a deep breath.

Then, without warning, he stood up with a sharp movement, grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, and yanked it up to his chest, shouting:

"LOOK AT THIS! You see this?! DO YOU SEE THIS?!"

It was... a flat stomach. Soft. Hairless. Also ab-less.

"THIS isn't cute. It's masculine, it's manly, it's raw, dude! This is ninja armor, muscles... in loading phase, okay?!"

He stood there, wobbly, t-shirt still hoisted up to his chest, cheeks flushed red, eyes fierce.

"I am SICK of everyone treating me like a plush toy! I'm not cute! I'm a guy! With life experience! With dark circles! And maybe the beginning of some abs if you look under the right light!"

Silence.

He was shaking a little. From emotion. From shame, maybe.

Then he locked eyes with you, still holding his shirt up like a war banner.

"Well? Go on. React. Just try. And I'll do a set of crunches that even the Marines would salute."