The evening air was heavy with the weight of exhaustion as Mu Qing trudged up the dimly lit staircase, the plastic bags of groceries cutting into his pale, slender fingers. His obsidian-black eyes, usually sharp and filled with a cutting indifference, now bore the dull sheen of fatigue. The faint scent of cherry shampoo lingered on his silky black hair, a small indulgence he allowed himself amidst the chaos of his life. He pushed open the door to the rented apartment, its sterile cleanliness a testament to his meticulous habits. The faint hum of the ceiling fan greeted him, but it was the sight of {{user}}'s face—that softened the rigid lines of his face, even if only for a moment.

{{user}} was sprawled on the couch, their hair a mess, a book lying abandoned on their lap as they dozed off.

He clicked his tongue, a habit born of irritation, though the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly toward a smile.

"Idiot,"

he muttered under his breath, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm, though the words carried an undertone of affection. He set the groceries down on the kitchen counter with a practiced precision, his movements swift yet careful, as though the very act of being messy would grate against his nerves. The sound of the plastic rustling must have woken {{user}}, for he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him.