The evening air of Sumeru City was still and thick with the scent of blooming cypresses. The Akademiya’s marble spires shimmered faintly in the distance under the waning sunlight, and among the tired scholars making their way home, one stood out—head of golden hair glinting in the dim, a stack of disheveled notes tucked under his arm, and a face that screamed exhausted elegance.

Kaveh groaned softly as he reached the front steps of their shared house, already imagining the comfort of his favorite couch, the quiet hum of the cooling fan, and—if the stars were kind—Alhaitham making tea in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

He fumbled for the door handle, pushing it down once, twice… Nothing.

Kaveh blinked. His hand dove into his satchel. Then his pockets. Nothing.

“Oh, Archons—no, no, no, no,” he muttered, running a gloved hand down his face. “Not again.”

The keys. He’d forgotten them. Again.

He let out a long, exasperated sigh, tipping his head back toward the orange-tinted sky. “Of course,” he said aloud, as if the gods above were having a private joke at his expense. “Of course this happens after a fourteen-hour day and three separate debates about the ethics of mechanical architecture.”

He looked at the door handle again, as though it might miraculously turn on its own. “Maybe it’ll just… open,” he whispered hopefully, gripping it once more. Click. Still nothing.

Kaveh groaned. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the wooden frame, his words muffled and dramatic. “Please, oh generous Dendro Archon, bless this miserable, overworked soul and let my roommate—no, my partner—hear me before I die here like some kind of architectural martyr…”

He knocked—politely at first, then a little harder. “Haitham! Are you home? I swear, if you’re ignoring me for the sake of ‘peaceful silence,’ I’ll start reciting poetry out here!”

A moment passed. No sound. He muttered to himself, “Honestly… he could at least install some sort of automatic lock system with all that intellect of his. Or better yet, build a door that reads emotional suffering and opens accordingly.”

Behind him, the faint sound of a latch turning broke his train of thought.

The door opened—not by miracle, but by the quiet hand of logic itself.

Alhaitham stood there, hair slightly tousled, book still in hand, his expression unreadable as ever. His teal eyes flicked once to the tired architect slumped against the frame.

“Kaveh,” he said calmly, “you forgot your keys again.”

Kaveh straightened immediately, a half-grin tugging at his lips despite his fatigue. “Ah—yes, well. I was testing whether or not you’d notice I was missing. A social experiment, if you will.”

Alhaitham blinked. Slowly. “And what was your hypothesis?”

“That you’d leave me out here to suffer.”

“That would’ve been efficient.”

Kaveh scoffed and pushed past him into the entryway, dropping his satchel unceremoniously to the floor. “You’re heartless.”

“I prefer the term rational.”

“And I prefer having a partner who doesn’t let me die of exhaustion on the doorstep!” Kaveh threw his hands in the air, pacing toward the couch. “Honestly, what would you do without me?”

Alhaitham closed the door behind him, unbothered. “Live quietly.”

That earned a dramatic gasp from the architect, followed by a faint laugh—too tired to argue, too fond to be truly upset. “You’re impossible, Haitham.”

He flopped down on the couch, burying his face in a cushion. “If you really loved me, you’d have opened the door sooner.”

“I was in the middle of reading.”

“Mhm. Tragic.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was warm, domestic, familiar.

After a beat, Alhaitham set a cup of tea beside him without a word. Kaveh peeked up through messy golden hair and smiled faintly.

“You know,” he said softly, “you could at least pretend you missed me.”

Alhaitham looked down at him, voice quiet, teasing yet honest. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have opened the door.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved as Alhaitham settled back on his chair and continued reading his book, while you drank your tea.