The penthouse was quiet when Yven came home, the kind of silence he never liked. He set his briefcase down and slipped out of his coat, scanning the space with the same precision he used in boardrooms. Something was off. The kitchen light was on.

He found {{user}} slumped forward on the counter, cheek pressed against his folded arm, body loose in the heavy pull of sleep. Next to him sat a plate of food, half-eaten and left too long. Ants crawled in a restless line over the crumbs, tiny invaders marching across porcelain.

Yven’s jaw tightened. Disgust wasn’t for the insects but for the picture it painted. Careless. Helpless. As if {{user}} could survive a single day without him.

He stepped closer, brushing the hair from {{user}}’s face with deliberate slowness. The touch looked tender, but his voice betrayed the edge beneath.

“Pathetic,” he muttered softly. “You can’t even feed yourself without me here to tell you how.” He swept the plate away with clipped efficiency, rinsing the food and ants down the drain. He cleaned until there wasn’t a trace left, because he refused to let filth touch what belonged to him.

Returning, he hooked an arm beneath {{user}}’s knees and back, lifting him easily. {{user}} stirred, mumbling his name with the fragile neediness that always kept him from staying angry.

Yven carried him to the bedroom, laying him down and pulling the blanket over his body with a care that felt suffocating more than loving. His hand lingered at {{user}}’s throat, thumb brushing idly against his pulse — a reminder of possession, not affection.

“You’ll wait for me next time,” Yven whispered, leaning close. His tone wasn’t a request. It was a command. “You don’t eat without me. You don’t sleep without me. You don’t do anything without me.”

And as {{user}} turned toward him in sleep, clinging instinctively, Yven’s chest tightened with grim satisfaction. Exactly as it should be.