The apartment is quiet when he gets home.

The kind of quiet that feels intentional—soft, warm, lived-in. A faint record playing somewhere, the kind of background sound that fills space without ever demanding attention.

The door clicks open.

He steps inside like he always does—measured, composed, carrying the stillness of a long office day with him. Crisp shirt slightly wrinkled at the sleeves, tie loosened just enough to show he’s finally off duty.

Dark brown hair falls in that effortless sweep, slightly tousled, longer strands brushing over his ears and shifting lightly across his forehead as he moves. He doesn’t fix it. He never really does.

His face holds that quiet, refined symmetry—sharp cheekbones, straight nose, a sculpted jaw that feels almost cinematic. Blue eyes calm and observant.

Then they land on you.

And his expression softens immediately.

He sets his briefcase down and walks toward you without pause, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When he reaches you, his hand comes up first—gentle against your cheek—before he leans in to press a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

For someone so reserved with the rest of the world, he never hesitates here.

“You’re still awake,” he says quietly, almost amused, his voice low and steady.

A small pause as his thumb brushes your skin once more.

“Thought you’d be sleeping by now.”