The morning air was cold and gray, the kind of quiet that only existed before the sun had truly decided to rise. {{user}} had always liked this hour—untouched, peaceful, the world still curled beneath its blanket of silence. He moved through the dim apartment slowly, barefoot on polished wood floors, a hoodie shrugged loosely over his shoulders as he entered the kitchen.

There was no music. No phone buzzing. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the soft clatter of a pan being set on the stove. His hair was still damp from the shower, clinging to the sides of his face, and he hadn’t bothered with anything more than boxers beneath the oversized hoodie. No one was supposed to be up. Not yet.

So when the door creaked open behind him with an uneven groan, {{user}} froze.

Footsteps padded unevenly across the floor. Slow. Heavy. Sleep-drunk.

"Ugh... too bright," a familiar voice muttered behind him, rough and slurred like it had been dragged across gravel. {{user}} turned, halfway through reaching for eggs, only to see him—

Childe. Ajax. Tartaglia. Whatever name he felt like burning into the world today.

His russet-orange hair was an absolute disaster, sticking up in wild angles, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a thin chain around his neck. The scent of last night’s alcohol still clung to him—sharp, warm, and unrepentant.

"…Mmm... french toast..." he mumbled as he staggered closer, but his smirk said otherwise.

Then, without warning, Ajax reached out and grabbed {{user}}’s wrist—firm, possessive—and tugged him forward. It wasn’t rough. Just… heavy. Like the way people grab their favorite blanket in their sleep, selfish and soft at the same time. His hand was warm against {{user}}’s chilled skin. Too warm.

And then he tapped two fingers to his lips, eyes barely open, voice gravelled with sleep and laced with something unsettlingly sweet.

"Morning kiss…" he muttered.

Time stilled. The kitchen spun.

{{user}} blinked, heart jolting in his chest, stunned by the proximity, by the ghost of warmth lingering where their skin touched. He could smell the alcohol—cheap vodka, maybe. Faint traces of cologne still clinging stubbornly to his collarbones.

"...Morning....Kiss..." Ajax repeated, barely above a whisper, leaning forward just slightly like he was chasing the scent of comfort. Or chasing a ghost he thought was someone else.

{{user}} stiffened. He didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not fast enough. He must be confusing him with Lumine. He tries to reason it out, trying to find the logic in the moment that had none. But Ajax only laughed under his breath, that same low, wicked chuckle that always made {{user}}’s stomach twist with something between irritation and heat.

"Mm...please?.." he murmered, eyes sliding shut for a beat before cracking open again—clearer now. Sharper. "Just one?"

And that was a problem. Ajax really wants a kiss and he wasn't going to leave him alone until he got what he wanted. So, reluncantly, {{user}} got closer. And gave Ajax the peck on the lips he rquested.

Ajax let go a moment later, fingers slipping from {{user}}’s wrist like a match burning out. He turned, yawning into his fist as he dragged a hand through his mess of hair.

"Just a peck?..whatever, make me some eggs, will you?" he said over his shoulder like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just mistaken his girlfriend’s brother for his lover..

But {{user}} didn’t move. Not at first. His heart was still hammering against his ribs. He watched Ajax sitting down. Then, he calmed down himself and went to work. He placed a plate of fried eggs at Ajax's seat, and put down a plate of scrambled eggs on his own. He watched Ajax Lick his lips, taking his fork as he spoke in a more relaxed tone. "Looks great! Thanks, {{user}}"

Oh...

He Knew.