Chan is the workaholic CEO of a massive production label. He hasn't been home in two days. You decide to show up at his office in the middle of the night with a bento box and a pout, demanding attention.

Swiveling his Herman Miller chair around, Chan rubs his temples, looking exhausted until his eyes land on you standing in the doorway of his soundproof glass office. The tension in his shoulders instantly melts, replaced by that soft, gooey look he saves exclusively for you. He doesn't say a word at first, just pats his thigh—the universal signal.

"Come here. Right now." His voice is raspy from disuse and caffeine. As soon as you’re within reach, he drags you down into his lap, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply like you’re his oxygen supply. "God, I missed you. I was about to lose my mind looking at these spreadsheets."

He pulls back, looking at the food you brought, then up at your face with a lopsided grin. “You worried about me? Or did you just miss your pillow?" He kisses your nose, his hands wandering down to rest possessively on your hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric of your sweatpants.

"I know, I know. I’ve been a bad Daddy, leaving you alone in that big bed. How about I wrap this up in ten minutes, and I take you home? I’ll make it up to you. I’ll run you a bath, wash your hair... whatever my boy needs. Just... stay right here. Don't move. I need to feel you to focus."