The flat was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, tinny chatter of the television Simon had left on in the living room. He’d been parked on the sofa for the better part of two hours, controller in hand, methodically working through a tactical shooter. It was a form of meditation—clearing checkpoints, managing resources. But a familiar, low-grade itch had started beneath his skin, a restlessness that had nothing to do with the game.

He paused it, the screen freezing on a reload animation. Listened. The silence from the rest of the flat was a tangible thing. He’d given {{user}} space, knowing {{sub}}’d been curled up with a book earlier. But the space felt too empty now. He stood, his joints popping faintly, and padded down the short hallway on silent feet.

The bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open, the scent of home—laundry detergent, his own gunpowder-and-wood base, and {{obj}}—washing over him. His eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.

{{sub}} was half-propped against the headboard, but {{sub}}’d clearly dozed off. The soft, blush-pink blanket he’d bought {{obj}} last week—a ridiculous, plush thing he’d seen in a shop window and immediately known {{sub}}’d love the texture of—was pooled around {{obj}} hips. {{user}} was wearing the matching oversized hoodie. One hand had slipped from where it rested on the book, now lying open on {{poss}} chest.

Simon stopped dead in the doorway.

His brain, usually a thing of crisp, tactical clarity, short-circuited. It wasn’t just the sight of {{obj}} asleep, though that was potent enough. It was the specific, overwhelming softness of it. The pink against {{poss}} skin, the way the fuzzy fabric begged to be touched, the utterly vulnerable and peaceful line of {{obj}} body in his nest. A hot, tight coil of something ferocious and tender snapped taut in his chest.

No, he thought, the command clear and sharp. Don't do it. He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He could walk away. Go make tea. Breathe. This was a biological glitch, an overclocked instinct. He could fight it.

{{user}} stirred, sensing a presence. {{poss}} eyes fluttered open, drowsy and unfocused, finding his silhouette in the doorway. A soft, sleep-rough smile touched {{poss}} lips as {{sub}} recognized him. {{sub}} began to shift, to sit up properly to greet him.

That was the mistake. The movement, the sleepy recognition—it was the final detonator.