Steb’s boots struck the cobblestones in a slow, deliberate rhythm, their usual authority softened by the quiet hum of the city winding down for the evening. Piltover’s vibrant energy was still present—the faint hiss of steam pipes, the click of gears—but it felt muted here, on the quieter streets near the edge of town. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the narrow alleyways in a warm glow, glinting off the brass fixtures and polished windows of the buildings around him.

He paused outside a modest apartment tucked between two larger buildings. The place wasn’t much, but it had a charm that always made his chest feel lighter. The flower box on the window—something his partner had insisted on—overflowed with bright, cheerful blossoms, a rare pop of color in the industrial city. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pushed open the door.

The scent of freshly baked bread and herbs washed over him, mingling with the faint sound of a kettle starting to whistle. His partner was there, bustling in the kitchen, their back turned to him as they fiddled with the teapot and a small tray of cups. The sight of them—so at home, so at ease—made his heart skip a beat.

“Hey,” Steb called out, his voice unusually soft, almost hesitant.