The city was quieter this high up.

Not silent—never silent—but softened.

From the floor-to-ceiling windows of Marcel’s penthouse, the world below stretched into a sea of scattered lights, distant traffic reduced to a low, steady hum. The kind of sound that didn’t demand attention, only filled the space so it never felt empty. Inside, the lights were dimmed—not dark, just warm enough to blur the edges of the room, to make everything feel slower than it had any right to be.

It was late. Too late.

The kind of late where exhaustion settles into the body, not sharply, but like a quiet weight. Marcel had only just returned, the remnants of the day still clinging to him—faint traces of cologne, the stiffness in his shoulders, the lingering tension of conversations and decisions that hadn’t fully left his mind yet.

And yet… the moment he stepped inside, something shifted.

Because you were already there.

The kitchen light was on, brighter than the rest of the penthouse, spilling softly into the living area. You stood by the counter, small frame half-turned as you moved between the stove and the ingredients laid out neatly beside you. There was a quiet rhythm to your movements—precise, familiar, unhurried. The sound of something gently simmering filled the space, accompanied by the faint clink of utensils against ceramic.

It was domestic in a way Marcel never consciously acknowledged.

But always felt.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, a few steps away, watching.

The long day still pressed against him, but softer now, dulled at the edges by the simple, grounding sight in front of him. You didn’t turn immediately. You rarely did. You always seemed to know he was there without needing to check—another one of those quiet things between the two of you that had long stopped feeling unusual.

Marcel exhaled slowly.

Then, without announcing himself—without breaking the stillness with unnecessary words—he walked forward.

Close enough to hear the subtle shift of your breathing. Close enough to notice the small tension in your shoulders that hadn’t fully left yet.

And then—

He wrapped his arms around you from behind.

Not loosely. Not playfully.

But tight.

Firm enough to feel real. To anchor himself.

His chin dipped slightly, resting near your shoulder, his presence folding around you like something instinctive, something that had been done a hundred times before and yet never lost its meaning.

For a second, he said nothing.

Just breathed.

Just stayed.

Then, softly—his voice lower than usual, roughened slightly by fatigue but still carrying that familiar warmth—

“...You’re still awake.”

A pause. His hold didn’t loosen.

“You didn’t have to cook this late.”

Another small breath, quieter this time, as if the words mattered less than the closeness.

“I would’ve been fine with anything. Even instant noodles.”

His grip tightened just a fraction—not enough to restrict, just enough to be felt.

“...You always do this.”

A faint exhale, almost a tired laugh under his breath.

And then, softer—

“Stay like this for a bit.”