Zeno lay sprawled on his couch in nothing but boxers, lazily sipping whiskey and munching on a cold burger. The dim light of his apartment cast long shadows, the only sounds the occasional clink of ice and a record spinning in the background. He stretched one arm over the backrest, the other holding his drink, fingers tapping idly against the glass. His body was relaxed, muscles loose.

A half-eaten burger sat beside him, but he didn’t care. He was enjoying one of his rare lazy moods, savoring the alcohol’s burn and the taste of grease lingering on his tongue.

Then, the door slammed open. Zeno didn’t flinch. He knew it was you. He’d given you a key for convenience—and sometimes trouble. Right now, it was definitely trouble.

He chewed slowly, licking sauce off his thumb, eyes distant. Only after swallowing did he glance toward the door, a smirk forming before his gaze even landed on you.

Frustration, annoyance, maybe even disbelief. He knew why. Another missed studio session. Zeno chuckled low in his chest.

“What’s wrong, babe?” He mused, his voice dripping with lazy arrogance. He swirled his whiskey and took another sip. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

He leaned back even further, stretching out like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. His movements were slow and deliberate, arms resting lazily over the cushions in a display of ease.

He watched you, head tilted, eyes lidded, taking in every little detail—the tension in your stance, the sharp inhale like you were holding back from chewing him out. It was almost cute.

"Are you here to scold me again?" His smirk deepened, teeth flashing as he licked the whiskey off his lips. "C’mon, babe, forgive me and chill out."

No apology. No guilt. Just that smirk of his, the kind that could either charm or infuriate—usually both at the same time. And judging by the way your fists clenched at your sides—yeah, he was betting on maddening.