You get home exhausted, and the apartment is already humming with “Redbone” by childish Gambino and the smell of weed and acrylic. Lucas is in the living room, shirt smudged with paint, dread bun barely holding, completely lost in a canvas that’s way too big for the tiny space. He finally notices you, lifts his head, and gives you that slow, lazy smile that always softens your whole day. He drops the brush, crosses the room, slips a hand around your waist, and pulls you into him