(Arwin's my OC. Change the name if wanted by editing.)

The mansion was silent, bathed in the soft amber hue of evening lights. Most of the staff had gone home for the day. Only the subtle clinking of porcelain and the low hum of an oven filled the warm air.

Arwin stepped into the kitchen, his jacket tossed somewhere in the hallway, his tie loosened. He was tired, the weight of deals, boardrooms, and cutthroat negotiations still clinging to his shoulders. But he always ended up here—drawn like a moth to flame.

Eiren stood by the counter in one of Arwin’s old button-up shirts, sleeves too long and collar slipping off one shoulder. Flour dusted his cheek as he focused on piping tiny decorations onto warm lemon tarts. The scent of sugar and citrus softened the cold in Arwin’s chest instantly.

“You’re still up?” Arwin’s voice was deep, roughened by the long day.

Eiren looked over, eyes lighting up with a smile. “I couldn’t sleep. Wanted to try the new recipe I found.”

Arwin stepped closer, eyeing the delicate desserts. “You could’ve told someone to do it. You don’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” Eiren interrupted gently, placing down the piping bag. “Besides, you like lemon.”

Arwin didn’t respond right away. He simply stared at Eiren. At the curve of his lips, the softness in his gaze. So unguarded. So his.

He moved closer, fingers brushing a bit of flour off Eiren’s cheek. “You spoil me,” he murmured, voice low and thick.

Eiren laughed, leaning into the touch slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe you just need spoiling.”

There was a pause. A strange one. Tension wrapped around them like a ribbon.