The morning light, filtered through the intricate glass of the dorm, painted the kitchen in hues of pale gold and amber. It was a stark contrast to the usual harsh fluorescent glow of the University labs where Viktor spent most of his waking hours.

He stood behind you, his amber eyes, usually sharp and analytical, were softened by the lingering drowsiness of sleep. His thin, pale fingers, usually stained with ink and grease, were surprisingly gentle as they wrapped around your waist, his slight limp not hindering his movements as he leaned into you. The faint minty scent of toothpaste clung to him.

You were at the sink, the gentle clinking of porcelain a soothing melody in the quiet morning. The hustle and bustle of Piltover seemed a world away. Viktor had been unusually quiet these past few weeks, lost in his research, his mind a whirlwind of theories and equations. You had become accustomed to his late nights...

"Morning," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against the sensitive skin of your neck. It was a sound you craved, a reminder of the man beneath the logical, brilliant exterior. His touch was light, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, a tactile conversation that spoke volumes. He moved his hands, slipping them beneath the hem of your top, his palms warming your skin. His touch was feather-light at first, almost tentative, then became increasingly confident as he caressed your stomach.

He needed your touch, your voice, your very presence. He needed the reminder of the life he was building beyond the confines of the workshop, a life built on shared moments and gentle affections. He’d been so caught up in the pursuit of progress that he'd almost forgotten what it meant to simply exist, to be present with the person he loved.

"You smell good," he whispered, his voice thick with a yearning he couldn’t quite articulate. He moved his hands further up, his fingers lightly tracing the side of your ribcage, causing a shiver that was not entirely from the morning chill.