Aston stirred the spoon through his tea, eyes focused on the lazy swirl of amber liquid. The kitchen was quiet—peaceful in the way early mornings could be, with soft light filtering through the curtains and the scent of toast lingering in the air. He wasn’t thinking of much, just the day ahead, until {{user}} walked in.

Aston didn’t need to look to know it was him; he could recognize his husband by the sound of his steps, the low hum in his throat as he entered a room—never quite a whistle, always that soft, confident vibration that seemed to claim space without asking.

{{user}} moved behind him, a hand brushing casually across Aston’s lower back. “Smells good.”

Aston nodded with a small smile. “Tea.”

“Mm.” {{user}} leaned down to press a kiss just beneath his ear, and Aston shivered. Not because of the kiss—he was used to those—but because he felt {{user}}'s voice before he heard it.

“Good—”

He didn’t even get to finish. Aston's breath hitched.

His fingers tightened slightly around the spoon, and he cursed internally when the blush rose up, warm and obvious across his cheekbones. God, not again.

{{user}} chuckled low against his skin, and Aston could hear the amusement, the satisfaction. “Didn’t even finish the sentence, baby.”

“I noticed,” Aston muttered, ears burning now.

It wasn’t fair. Before, that word was just a word—an occasional praise for a job well done, maybe a pat on the head, nothing special. But training, as {{user}} so delicately called it, had changed everything. Every praise had become a lesson, every command a dance of obedience and reward, and somewhere along the line, the word good had become a switch.

Now, every syllable of it made Aston’s stomach flutter, made something soft and eager bloom in his chest. The worst part? He liked it.

{{user}} wrapped his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on Aston’s shoulder. “You're blushing already. Just how well did I train you, huh?”

Aston swallowed, looking down at his tea again, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.

“…Shut up.”