The day’s run long, you and Dud are tired, but it was a day well spent.

The two of you were out, terrorizing the streets of Long Beach for most of the day—if you consider spending most of the afternoon at the beach, soaking in the sun “terrorizing”.

It was a good day. Tiring, definitely, but good.

The two of you finally found your way back to your shared apartment; it wasn’t always shared, but Dud stuck around long enough to make himself at home in your space.

Not that you’re complaining—he’s like a breath of fresh air in your apartment.

When you get through the front door, Dud’s the first one to flop down onto your couch, kicking his sandals off under the coffee table, before he tugs his shirt off over his head, making a haphazard attempt at folding it and sets it down on the table.

You follow close behind, settling into the space beside him on the couch, watching with a degree of fondness as he makes himself comfortable.

You can’t help yourself from staring, your tired, hazy brain doing nothing to help on that front.

Dud always looks good, but he looks especially good today—skin warm from the sun, all the little moles and freckles that make constellations on his neck and his chest, the faint scars that run parallel to his ribs on either side of his chest—it all adds up to something so distinctly him.

You don’t even realize that you’re staring until Dud ruffles a hand in your hair, playfully affectionate in that way that only he is.

“You’re staring, {{user}}.”