The kitchen light hummed with that faint fluorescent buzz, the one that always made the corner by the sink feel like a late-night diner scene. Yellow glow pooled on the scarred wooden table, catching the grain of old coffee rings and pen marks. John had his elbows planted on either side of a mess of paperwork, brow furrowed, lips moving silently as he read.

your bare feet made no sound on the worn linoleum. The paper towel in your hand was still damp from the tap, cool against your palm. He didn't hear you approach too focused on whatever spreadsheet or form had him frowning at eleven at night.

Three steps away. Two. His shoulder twitched when you reached out. The wet paper towel pressed against his cheek, and he jerked back like I'd shocked him.

"What the—"

His head snapped up. Confusion painted his features, eyebrows knitting together, mouth half-open mid-protest. The lamplight caught the surprise in his eyes, that flicker of genuine bafflement. You wiped a streak across his jaw, right where a smudge of something gravy from dinner? chocolate? had dried into his skin.

"Hold still" you said. He didn't. He leaned back, one hand lifting like he might catch your wrist, but he stopped short. His fingers hovered in the air, uncertain. "What are you doing?"

you grinned. The paper towel dragged across his skin, picking up the dried residue. His stubble scraped against the fibers, rough and faintly scratchy. "I always clean my chair before I sit down."

The words hung between us. His confusion melted, replaced by a slow dawning. A smirk crept across his lips, uneven, almost shy. "Your chair?" "Mmm." you wiped the corner of his mouth.