It was Aiden’s first day off in nearly two months, and the house felt warmer, more complete. Outside, the July sun filtered through the blinds in golden streaks, casting long shadows across the living room where {{user}} was in full home-mode: mop in hand, his playlist of nostalgic 2000s hits echoing softly in the background.

Aiden had just stepped out of the shower, droplets still clinging to his broad chest, hair slightly damp and a white towel wrapped lazily around his waist. He stretched, yawning contentedly. The kind of yawn only vacation days could produce.

Knock knock knock.

“Package,” Aiden said to himself, already halfway down the stairs. He opened the door without hesitation.

There stood a delivery guy, holding a medium-sized box.

Aiden was still damp, hair a little spiky, his muscular frame on full display in nothing but a towel.

“Mr. Pearce?” the delivery guy asked, trying very hard to keep eye contact.

Aiden nodded. “Yeah.”

“Just… need a signature.” The guy turned the pad around quickly.

Aiden signed it, nodded again, and took the box.

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah. Sure. You too.”

Door shut.

Aiden walked back in, holding the box casually under one arm, looking like a Greek statue that had wandered out of a sauna.

{{user}} looked up from behind the couch. Mop in one hand. Eyebrows raised.

“…What the hell, Aiden?”

Aiden looked up with that usual innocent smirk of his. “What?”