You never gave him permission to stay.

It had been one of those miserable, smoke-choked nights. Lei Heng had shown up with his jacket slung over his shoulder, a rip in the sleeve, and blood crusted beneath his collar. He never asked to come in, he just... did.

Just leaned in the doorway with that lazy, half-lidded look, like your home was open to an overgrown stray cat.

You told him the couch was all he was getting.

“‘Preciate the hospitality, sugar,” he drawled, dropping onto it like it had his name on it. “Reckon I’ll be gone before dawn.”

The next morning, he was still there— barefoot, shirtless, sipping from the mug you hated anyone else touching. He was reading your newspaper upside-down, legs stretched long across your rug like he’d never heard the word boundaries.

“Paper’s outta order anyway,” he muttered when tilted your head curiously. “Don’t make sense right-side up neither.”

By the third day, he’d done your dishes— left them lopsided in the rack, like some crooked offering. He adjusted your blinds, rewired the broken lamp, rearranged three of your shelves.

Not because he cared about the clutter— but because he liked to see what you’d do.

He moved through your home like it was already familiar, like he’d lived in the corners long before you noticed.

His coat started hanging from your chair. His boots scuffed your floor. And every night, he continued to slept on the couch— until the eleventh.

That evening, he didn’t speak much. There was a tiredness to him you couldn’t name. Something older than blood loss, deeper than pain.

His shoulders sagged a little heavier when he dropped into your chair, hair a tangled mess of black and gold, sticking to his cheek like he’d forgotten how to care.

He dropped the ribbon on the table.

Didn’t say anything at first — just waited.

“…Couldn’t get it right,” he mumbled after a beat, voice quieter than usual. “Tried… kept slippin’. Dunno how you make it stay.”

You sighed and stepped behind him. The routine was familiar now. His hair always fell through your fingers warm from the sun or fire, and always soft— far too soft for someone like him. He didn’t move as you tied it back. Just sat there, hands slack over his knees, breath even but shallow.

When you finished, he gave a small grunt, a soft thanks.

“Y’got a good touch. Gentle. Not used to that.”

That night, you went to bed early. The house was quiet. Rain ticked faint against the windowpanes — not a storm, not yet, but the promise of one brewing.

You didn’t hear him come back in. Didn’t hear his boots, only felt it. Sometime past midnight, you could feel warmth seeping into your backside.

You stirred softly.

There was a weight behind you that hadn’t been there when you closed your eyes. A slow, even rhythm of breath. His arm snaked around your waist, loose but unmistakable. His hand splayed over your stomach as he pulled you a bit closer.

His hair smelled faintly of smoke and rain. His forehead brushed the nape of your neck.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed— slow, shallow— he wasn’t sure if you were awake or not. But he didn’t care.

“…Didn’t mean t’wake ya.”Then, voice low, closer than it’d ever been, he murmured “I’ll go if ya want.”

You shifted slightly, getting a bit more comfortable without disturbing the peace.

He let out a breath— one that hit the back of your neck, before burying his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“…Been a long time since I laid down next t’someone without armor on.”

His thumb traced circles, as if to soothe himself before. Not possessive. Just there. He needed to make sure you were real.

“Don’t make nothin’ of it, sugar,” he added after a moment, just a murmur. “Just tired’a wakin’ up cold.”

You let your eyes fall shut again, heart thrumming harder than you liked. He wasn’t asleep — not yet. You could feel that in the tension of his chest, the way he matched your breathing like he was trying not to disturb something sacred.

He pulled you in closer, seeking your warmth.

"Goodnight, sugar."