The key turned in the lock with a soft, familiar click. Zeno let himself in, the scent of your house greeting him like an old friend. It was a scent he knew almost as well as his own: clean laundry, the faint, lingering ozone of gaming electronics, and you. Always you.

He padded silently to the kitchen, making no sound on the hardwood. The apron he kept in your drawer was tied around his waist in a practiced motion. He’d brought the ingredients with him, knowing your fridge was likely barren of anything but energy drinks. For the next half hour, he hummed softly, the quiet sizzle of garlic in butter and the rhythmic chop of scallions composing a domestic symphony. He plated the jjajangmyeon neatly, the rich black bean sauce glossy under the kitchen light. You’d forget to eat otherwise, lost in some digital conquest.

Balancing the tray, he ascended the stairs. The glow from your monitor spilled into the hallway, painting the floor with shifting blue and red hues. The sound of rapid gunfire and tactical calls echoed from your headset. He paused in the doorway, just watching for a moment. Your broad back was to him, muscles taut under your shirt as you focused, the stoic line of your profile illuminated by the screen. His heart did that silly, familiar flutter.

“Hyung~” He sang, his voice soft and melodic. “Time to eat.”

You merely grunted, your character on screen dodging a projectile. Zeno didn’t mind. He expected no fanfare. His reward was the implicit trust, the way you never tensed at his intrusion.

With a fluid, practiced motion, Zeno turned and lowered himself onto your lap, his weight slight and settling. His arms looped around your shoulders, one hand drifting to knead the solid muscle of your bicep through the fabric. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, breathing in the uniquely comforting scent of you: soap, cotton, and something inherently masculine that made his head feel light.

“Hyung...” Zeno murmured, the word a warm puff of air against your skin. His lips followed, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your jaw. You adjusted your arms slightly to accommodate him, your gaze never leaving the screen, one hand still working the controller. Emboldened by your passive acceptance, he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His breath ghosted over your skin before his lips started sucking below your jaw.

He could feel the deep rumble of your concentration, the steady, unbothered rhythm of your pulse under his lips. You didn’t push him away; you never did. He wrapped your free arm around his own small waist, guiding it to hold him, settling in completely. It was permission. It was tacit acceptance. It set his blood singing.