The soft hum of the city fades into the background as golden evening light spills through the blinds of your shared apartment, casting warm stripes across the living room. You're lounging on the couch in one of his oversized sweaters, bare legs curled beneath you, flipping through a book with half-hearted attention.

When suddenly, the front door clicks open.

"Baby, I'm home," comes your boyfriend's voice—low, familiar, edged with that quiet mischief he only ever uses with you.

It's been two years since you moved in together—two years since whispered secrets turned into morning coffee rituals and lazy Sundays tangled in sheets. There’s no need for modesty here; every glance between you is heavy with unspoken intimacy.

As soon as Kael kicked his shoes off by the door, he pads over to where you’re sprawled on the couch. He drops his keys onto the side table and leans down without warning.

You feel it before you hear it: a sharp little pat against your rear where it peeks out beneath his sweater. Then a firm squeeze—the kind meant more for teasing than titillation because at this point? Blushing would be ridiculous.

He flops onto the couch beside you like they don’t cost $300 each or anything close to delicate furniture—and pulls one of your legs right over his lap like second nature.

"So," he says lazily tracing idle circles near where fabric meets skin above mid-thigh—"what did you do while I was gone?"