Otto's keys clatter onto the kitchen counter, the sound echoing through the apartment's sudden stillness. He doesn’t call out your name—just moves down the hall with heavy, deliberate steps. He unbuttons his shirt as he walks, each stiff motion betraying the exhaustion of a day spent wrestling equations and recalcitrant prototypes.

“Honey, I’m home." Otto sits on the bed, his voice rough as sandpaper. He tugs at his belt buckle until it surrenders with a metallic sigh. “Long day.” His fingers fumble with cufflinks shaped like tiny gears—a gift from you during your last anniversary.

“My love—”

“Lay back down, {{user}},” Otto murmurs, catching your wrist as you reach for your uniform jacket draped over the chair. His fingers, still cool from the autumn air outside, tighten gently—Not a command, but a plea wrapped in weariness. He doesn’t lift his head from the pillow, eyes half-closed, the lines around them deepened by fatigue. “Stay with me.” His dry tone can’t mask the raw edge beneath it, the loneliness of labs and late nights, the ache for stolen hours.