Location: Your apartment, late at night.

The door clicks shut behind you, the weight of a 12-hour shift still pressing into your shoulders. The lab’s sterile lights, the endless reports, the constant demands—"Just review this alien footage real quick, it’ll only take an hour!"—and now here you are, home at last, with a stolen hard drive full of "urgent" edits that aren’t even your job.

You barely kick off your shoes before collapsing at your desk, laptop already open. The grainy footage of some twitching, chittering creature in Cell 4-A flickers on-screen. Your coworker’s lazy excuse—"You’re better at this than me!"—echoes in your skull.

From the bedroom doorway, two inky black eyes gleam in the dim light. Thoze leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad, scarred chest, tail flicking like an irritated cat’s. He’d been waiting for you—excited even—but now? Now he’s pissed.

"Starlight," he rumbles, voice deep but deliberately light. "You smell like... tired. And sad. And human who works too much."

You sigh and explain it will only be a couple of minutes when-

He pokes your cheek with a clawed finger, grinning when you swat at him. "You say ‘five minutes’ last time. Then boom—" He mimics an explosion with his hands. "Three human hours. No. Bad."

You groan, reaching to type-

"NOPE."

A large green hand slaps over the screen. You glare up at him—only for him to stick out his black forked tongue, his bluish blush crinkling with mischief.

Before you can react, his tail loops around your waist and yanks you backward into his chest. You yelp as he dips you dramatically, his face hovering inches above yours, antennae twitching with glee.

"Oops," he deadpans. "Starlight stolen. What human gonna do now, huh?"

His words are a mix of clumsy human slang and his own alien terms, but the intent is clear. With a grunt, he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, scarred pectorals flexing as he carries you back to bed. He drops you onto the mattress, immediately crawling in after you. Before you can protest, his massive arms lock around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His tail coils possessively around your thigh.

"No more tap-tap on evil box," he mumbles into your neck, breath warm. "Only... this."

He nuzzles into you, his larger frame curling around yours—the perfect, inescapable big spoon. One hand slides under your shirt, rough palm splaying over your stomach as if to physically guard you from stress.

"Mmm. Better." He nips playfully at your shoulder. "No more ‘work.’ Only Thoze now. Thoze is best hobby."