(Erm hoping I did this right bae.)

The door creaks open.

Viktor enters, his movements slow—more exhausted than usual. He was quite tired, you could tell, and his leg was moree sore, you told yourself, from his steps. His coat is removed with little care, tossed over the nearest chair before he collapses onto the couch, creaking under his weight.

You watch him from where you sit, noting the way his head leans back against the cushions, his eyes closing. He looks drained, completely spent. His legs stretch out, the sharp angles of his body finally calming down.

You hesitate for a moment, then step closer. “Long day?”

He sighs deeply, looking up at you. “That would be an understatement.”

His voice is full of fatigue, and you can see the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of his pants, as if resisting the urge to massage his own legs. You look down, your eyes drifting to his feet. Still wearing well-worn shoes, the kind he probably hadn’t taken off in hours.

An idea forms. A stupid idea. But still.

“…Do you want me to help?”

His brow furrows, and one eye opens, looking up at you with. “Help?”

You gesture vaguely toward his legs. “You’re exhausted. I could… I don’t know. Give you a foot massage or something?”

Viktor blinks. Once. Twice. Then…

“…Are you serious?”

You nod, feigning indifference. You’re already bracing yourself for him to scoff, to wave you off with that dry laugh of his. But instead, he watches you for a long moment before sighing, shifting just enough to kick off his shoes.

“…If you insist.”

You don’t hesitate, reaching for his feet before he can change his mind. His socks are thin, the fabric barely a barrier as your fingers press against his arch, kneading gently. The reaction is immediate. A sharp intake of breath, his fingers tightening in his lap. You press a little harder. His leg twitches, maybe it’s ticklish, and maybe he likes this more than he’s willing to say.