The penthouse was quiet. Only the faint hum of the city filtered through the glass walls, flickering in reflections on the polished tile. Elian stood by the kitchen island, barefoot, wearing a soft sweater with sleeves that nearly covered his fingers. He was pouring warm milk into a mug — the one {{user}} always chose when he stayed up too late.

A dull sound came from the bedroom — muffled footsteps, a quiet grumble. {{user}} emerged, barefoot, silently rubbing his neck and looking at Elian with a drowsy gaze.

“It’s already late,” Elian said with a gentle smile, handing him the mug. “But you forgot to eat dinner again.”