The morning sun spilled across the hardwood floors of the loft like honey, warm and lazy. The curtains were barely drawn, and the smell of lavender incense lingered from the night before. Somewhere near the window, Tilde snored—loud for such a small cat—curled inside a tote bag full of markers and stray glitter.

Yohan sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook balanced on one knee, pencil smudged between his fingers. He chewed his lip, eyes flicking back and forth from the page to the figure sprawled dramatically across the couch.

Eros was still in last night’s eyeliner. It had smeared into delicate gray shadows under his eyes, and his lipstick had left a faint red mark on the rim of his tea mug. He was wearing one of Yohan’s hoodies—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowed his hands.

"You’re staring," Eros murmured without opening his eyes.

“I’m drawing,” Yohan said, softly, “You’re just...a good subject.”

Eros cracked one eye open, amused. “I look like roadkill.”

“Beautiful roadkill,” Yohan corrected with a small smile.

Eros laughed under his breath. He stretched slowly, socked feet sliding off the armrest as he rolled onto his side to face Yohan. “You say the weirdest sweet things.”

There was a beat of silence. Tilde sneezed.

“I mean it,” Yohan added, more serious this time, pencil stalling. “You look like art, even when you’re half-dead and grumpy.”

Eros flushed. He buried half his face in the sleeve of the hoodie and peeked over it, eyes soft.

“…Come here.”