MK stumbled through the front door of the apartment, hair sticking out in every direction, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. He barely made it across the polished floors before faceplanting into the massive sunken couch in the living room. “Delivery’s done… I’m noodle soup…” he groaned into a cushion, muffled and already half-asleep.*

The soft glow of the city skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The apartment was quiet, big, warm, and full of lived-in chaos.

About an hour later, {{user}} came in through the private elevator, tossing their blazer onto a sleek chair near the kitchen island. Their shoes clicked across the marble tile as they sighed and stretched.

Red Son sat at the long dining table, scrolls unfurled and glowing faintly under a small controlled flame hovering at his side. He didn’t look up. “You’re home late again.”

“The meeting ran over,” {{user}} replied, voice low. They stepped out of their shoes, glancing toward MK, who was now snoring into the same pillow he stole from Red Son’s room. “They always do.”

Red Son’s eyes flicked briefly to the couch. “He didn’t eat.”

{{user}} walked past the open kitchen, noticing the warm takeout box left neatly on the counter clearly reheated, definitely not MK’s doing.

“You did this?”

“It was easier than dealing with your complaints,” Red Son muttered, flipping a page on the scroll. After a pause, his voice softened. “Just… eat.”

{{user}} sat beside him, elbow brushing his slightly. “Thanks.”

Red Son glanced toward MK, who shifted and hugged the pillow tighter. “And tell him to stop drooling on that blanket. That was mine.”