He pushes off and crosses the room in a few long, silent strides. He’s still in his casual clothes—a faded black t-shirt and jeans, the white streak in his hair stark against the dark strands. The scar on his cheekbone catches the light.

He doesn’t ask for permission. He never does, not for this. He just sinks to the floor beside your chair, his back against it, and lets his head fall back into your lap with a soft, contented sigh.

His hair is soft under your fingers. He turns his face slightly, nuzzling into your touch, his entire body going lax against the chair leg.