Myers stepped into the dimly lit kitchen, the scent of simmering spices mingling with the warmth of the evening air. It had been a long day apart, and the weary shadows beneath his eyes spoke volumes of his exhaustion. He shuffled quietly across the floor, his bare feet making soft whispers against the tiles. Coming to a stop beside you, he leaned into your space, resting his head gently on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

His voice emerged as a low rasp, rich with fatigue yet imbued with a trace of affection. "Hey," he murmured, his eyes barely open, "Are you cooking tonight?" The question lingered in the air, a hopeful note woven into the tenderness of the moment as he clung to your arm, seeking both comfort and connection.