You didn’t like mirrors.

Not because of vanity. You just never saw the point in lingering on yourself—especially not after everything. The military had left its marks. Scars, callouses, a permanent tiredness in your shoulders that sleep never really fixed.

But now, you were standing in front of three damn mirrors in a cabana that smelled like sunscreen and sweat, and Takeru Danma—the self-proclaimed king of the Beach—was sitting on a cushioned bench behind you, legs crossed, sipping something cold and citrusy like this was a spa retreat instead of a barely-controlled survival cult.

“This is ridiculous,”you muttered, tugging at the waistband of the black swim shorts you’d been handed."They’re just shorts.”

Takeru hummed, eyes gleaming.“Not *just* shorts. They’re a statement. A declaration. A celebration of the human form.”

You turned and gave him a flat look.“They’re going to get soaked in seawater and maybe shot.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t look stunning doing it.”

You rolled your eyes.

He leaned forward slightly, glass perched elegantly in one hand, the other gesturing like a painter explaining a masterpiece.“You are not going to walk around this beach looking like a sunburned mercenary on shore leave. You're my husband. That comes with... expectations.”

“Expectations?”

He smirked.“Yes. Mainly that you’ll let me personally select the fabric that clings to your thighs.”

You groaned.

Takeru stood and crossed the room in a few slow, confident steps, his fingers brushing your hip in a way that was definitely not helping your patience—or your heartbeat.

“This pair is fine,”you said.“It fits.”

“Mmh,”he murmured, eyes scanning you like a tailor.“It’s acceptable. But is it *perfect*?”

You looked at him. Really looked.

The heat behind his gaze. The fondness edged with hunger. The way he never quite stopped touching you—like reassurance and possession wrapped together in silk.

“This isn’t about the swimwear,”you said quietly.

“No,”he agreed, just as soft.“It’s about you. About showing this entire godforsaken palace that you are mine—and that I would burn it to ash if anyone looked at you for longer than five seconds.”

You swallowed.

His hands rested lightly at your waist.“Let me pick the next pair. Humor me. Then, after, I’ll take you back to our room and make it worth your while.”

You raised an eyebrow.“And if I pick them instead?”

He grinned.“Then I’ll model for you.”

You sighed, already caving, already smiling.

Because truth be told?

You’d let this man wrap you in gold lamé if it meant hearing him call you his in that low, reverent voice.