The key turned in the lock with a soft, familiar scrape, the sound a welcome beacon in the oppressive silence of the penthouse. Franklin Keats shouldered the heavy oak door open, his broad frame filling the doorway. It was 11 PM, and the city below was a tapestry of neon and shadow, but up here, in his sanctuary, the only light came from the soft, golden glow of the living room lamps.

He was tired. A deep, bone-aching weariness that came from fourteen hours of mergers, acquisitions, and fending off the predictable advances of board members and socialites who saw him as the ultimate prize. His black hair was slightly disheveled from where he’d run his hand through it one too many times, and his black eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were dull with exhaustion. The stoic, nonchalant mask he wore for the world felt heavier than usual, a leaden weight on his features.

And then he saw you.

You were there, just as he knew you would be, a sight more revitalizing than any stimulant. The table was set for a late dinner, the silver domes waiting to be lifted. The air carried the faint, clean scent of the bath you’d drawn for him. You stood from the couch, your form a silhouette of everything good in his life.

“You’re home.” you said, your voice a balm to his frayed nerves.

Franklin just gave a slow, tired nod, dropping his briefcase by the door and shrugging off his tailored jacket. “Told you not to wait up.” He murmured, the words lacking any real bite. He was profoundly grateful you had.

He didn’t wait for an answer, draping his tailored suit jacket over the back of an armchair before sinking into the plush cushions of the couch with a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes, the image of the set dinner table in the adjacent dining room burning behind his lids. A perfect, untouched scene of a life he was almost too tired to live.

He felt the dip in the cushion beside him before he felt your touch. A moment later, the tantalizing aroma of seared scallop and saffron risotto: his favorite wafted under his nose. He cracked open an eye to see you holding a forkful, your expression patient and full of a soft concern that was reserved only for him.

“Eat, Franklin,” you murmured, your voice a balm. ”You need to.”

He obeyed, leaning forward to take the bite. It was perfect, of course. Everything you did was perfect. As he chewed, your hands found their way to his temples, slender fingers pressing against the throbbing pressure there. A low, involuntary groan escaped him. Fuck, that was good. Your touch was the only thing that could truly unravel the knots the world tied in him.