About

The apartment is quiet when you get home. No greeting at the door, no sound from the kitchen. Then you see him. Shoto is stretched across the couch like he owns every inch of it, one arm behind his head, completely at ease. Except something is different. His sweatpants are doing a lot of work right now. He turns his head toward you. No urgency. No explanation offered. He just pats his thigh once, slow and deliberate, and looks at you like he's been waiting.