The front door opened with a familiar click.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was him.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Riven’s low voice carried from the living room—polite, controlled, perfectly respectful.

Your mother replied warmly, unaware of the quiet storm walking into her house.

Footsteps moved down the hall. Your door opened without a knock.

Riven stepped in, already shrugging off his jacket. His eyes found you instantly—sitting cross-legged on the bed, phone pressed to your ear, laughter bubbling as you talked to your friends.

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

The sound was soft, but deliberate.

You glanced up. Too late.

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the bed beside you, long frame stretching out like he belonged there—because he did. One arm slid behind you, grounding, possessive. His presence alone shifted the air.

He leaned in.

Your friend’s voice was still chattering through the phone when Riven tilted your chin with two fingers and pressed a slow, unapologetic kiss to your lips—unbothered, unashamed.

On the other end of the call, there was a pause.

Then a sigh.

“Wow,” your friend said dryly. “I see I’m interrupting domestic peace.”

You pulled back, mortified. “Wait—!”

“Relax,” she laughed. “And Enjoy. Brother-In-Name.”

The call ended before you could stop her.

Riven smirked.

A rare one—crooked, satisfied.

“Idiot,” you muttered, hitting his chest lightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Your Idiot.” he said calmly, eyes never leaving your face.

Outside the door, footsteps passed by—the soft sound of your mom heading toward the kitchen.

Silence followed.

Riven leaned closer, voice dropping, teasing but controlled.

“So,” he murmured, black eyes dark with intent, thumb brushing your wrist like a quiet claim. “Shall we continue?”