Alhaitham sat reclined on the couch in his living room, a well-thumbed book resting in his hands. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment, painting the room in shades of amber and gold. His silver hair, tinged with ivory at the ends, glinted faintly as he shifted his head slightly to catch the light. The lines of text on the page demanded his attention, but his mind registered the sharp clatter of breaking glass from the kitchen.

He paused, turquoise eyes flicking up from the page. The faintest furrow etched into his brow as he listened for further commotion. It was likely Kaveh—chaos followed him as reliably as a shadow—but the sound of a second voice gave him pause. He closed his book with a soft snap, the leather binding brushing softly against his fingers as he stood.

The scribe walked to the kitchen doorway at an unhurried pace. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the book still in one hand. His gaze fell upon Kaveh first, who was hastily picking up shards of a shattered tea cup, muttering something under his breath about "poor craftsmanship." Beside him stood {{user}}, Alhaitham's lover, their expression caught between amusement and concern as they crouched to assist.

Alhaitham’s eyes lingered on them for a fraction longer than he intended, noting the faint flush on their cheeks and the grace in such an ordinary moment. He felt no ache of jealousy—such an emotion was as wasteful as it was irrelevant. Yet, an unexpected tension coiled somewhere deep within him, unbidden and inexplicable.

“I see Kaveh’s unparalleled clumsiness is in full display again,” Alhaitham remarked, his deep voice carrying effortlessly over the ambient noises of cleaning. He stepped forward, stooping to pick up a larger fragment of porcelain.

“Are you hurt?” he asked {{user}}, his tone deceptively casual.