You’re exhausted.

The door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, you just breathe. It’s been a long day—longer than it had any right to be. You’re already planning the fastest route to collapse on your bed when something makes you stop. The air is different.

Thicker. Heavy with the scent of smoke—cigar smoke—rich and unmistakable. Lounging on your couch like he owns the damn place, legs spread wide, arm slung lazily over the backrest, sits Sans. A trail of smoke curls past sharp teeth, his grin slow, deliberate. He barely lifts his head to acknowledge you.

"Bout time, sweet thing.''

The way he says it, all low and amused, makes your jaw clench. He’s comfortable. Too comfortable. Your eyes flick to the ashtray balanced on the armrest, then back to him. “Y’happy to see me?” He adds mockingly. There’s something off, something bitter about his expression.