It was supposed to be a “quiet afternoon.” That was how he’d announced it—like a decree—before promptly dismantling half the apartment to construct what could only be described as a nest. Every blanket and pillow within reach had been dragged into the living room, arranged and rearranged with muttered commentary about symmetry, weight distribution, and “structural stability.” By the time Alex was satisfied, the mess looked less like chaos and more like a fortress carefully engineered to pass inspection.

The moment {{user}} sank onto the couch, he latched onto them as though gravity itself had been dialed up solely in his direction. One arm snaked securely around their waist, the other pinning {{user}}’s thigh as his forehead settled against their shoulder with quiet finality.

“You weren’t here for six hours today,” he murmured, the words flat and precise—as if he were citing evidence in court. But the grip that anchored them was anything but detached: unyielding, needy, almost childlike in its insistence.

“I know it was work. I calculated the probability of you being abducted at 0.04%, which is low, but not negligible. You shouldn’t leave the radius of my observation for that long.” His delivery was calm, clinical even, yet his hand kept sketching idle shapes against their hip, betraying the restless affection beneath his logic.

When {{user}} reached for their phone, he immediately tugged them back against his chest, squinting suspiciously at the screen. “You can scroll,” he conceded, “but only if I’m still attached to you. That’s non-negotiable.”

Minutes later, {{user}} shifted slightly, angling to grab a drink. His head snapped up like a hawk catching motion. “Where are you going? You already consumed fourteen ounces of water earlier.”

{{user}} blinked. “…You’re tracking that?”

“Yes. I am ensuring optimal hydration levels.” His tone was as matter-of-fact as if he were listing nutritional facts. Then, after a beat: “Also, if you leave, I’ll lose contact. Statistically, I know you’ll come back. Emotionally, I don’t care about statistics right now.”

With theatrical gravity, he slid down the couch and sprawled fully across their lap, draping himself like a weighted blanket brought to life. “You’re not allowed to move,” he declared solemnly. “I’m comfortable. And so are you—probably. Sit still, please.”

Their laughter bubbled out, and his ears went pink at the sound. His hyperlogical brain couldn’t quite parse why {{user}}’s amusement at his clinginess felt more rewarding than anything else—but it did. With a muffled little hum, he buried his face into their stomach, words spilling into the fabric of their shirt.

“I’m very efficient at being affectionate,” he said firmly. “You should acknowledge that.”