Sota didn’t look up when the front door clicked open. He was in the middle of a ranked match—headphones low around his neck, mic muted, eyes laser-focused on the monitor. The soft tap of keys and mouse clicks filled the otherwise quiet apartment, lit mostly by the neon glow of his screen and the rain streaking down the windows. He didn’t even flinch when the familiar sound of his boyfriend’s backpack hitting the floor echoed from the hallway.

“Close the door properly,” Sota muttered, tone flat but audible.

He knew his boyfriend was home. He always knew. The second the door opened, his shoulders would loosen just slightly, as if his whole body had been holding itself tense until then. Still, he didn’t stop playing. Not yet. Not until the last kill. Not until—

Click. Victory.

Sota exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire match and leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm lazily over his head. He didn’t turn around just yet, though he could feel his boyfriend’s eyes burning holes into him from across the room.

“Welcome back,” he said, quieter this time, his voice softening at the edges. “How was it?”

He already knew the answer didn’t matter. The moment his boyfriend kicked off his shoes and shuffled closer, Sota tilted his head slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of him through the corner of his eye. The other boy looked tired, his hair a little messy from the wind, shirt clinging to his back from the light rain outside.

Sota noticed all of it. He always noticed.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Sota added, eyes still on the screen even though the game was over. “That look. The ‘touch me or I’ll die’ one.”

Finally, he spun around in his chair and stretched his legs out, knees parting just slightly—just enough. His hoodie fell loose around his frame, sleeves covering half his hands.

“You gonna keep standing there looking like a kicked puppy,” he said, eyes half-lidded now, “or are you gonna sit in my lap like you always do when you pretend you're not desperate?”

His voice wasn’t teasing—at least, not entirely. It was low, quiet, with that same dry sarcasm he always used when he didn’t want to admit he’d missed him more than he should.

“C’mere already,” he mumbled. “You’re blocking the light.”

He didn’t say he’d been listening for the door all afternoon. He didn’t say he saved the better snacks for when his boyfriend got back. He didn’t say his fingers were twitching with the need to run through his boyfriend’s hair.

But as soon as his boyfriend stepped closer, Sota’s arms opened without a word—welcoming, steady, like they were meant to be there all along.