The bedroom was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the distant hum of a ceiling fan. Golden afternoon light filtered through half-drawn curtains, spilling across the bed where Y/n sat with their phone propped up against a stack of books, camera already recording.

On the bed beside them lay a neat row of pillows — three of them, all different shapes and sizes. The setup looked deliberate, like the start of one of those cozy little TikToks people made when they were bored at home.

Malachi Barton was stretched out on the other side of the bed, shirtless, one arm resting lazily above his head. His eyes were closed, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly what was happening and was choosing not to say anything.

The ink curling over his bicep — dark, intricate lines that twisted from shoulder to elbow — stood out starkly against his skin. It was unmistakable. Anyone who'd seen him before would recognize it in a heartbeat.

The camera kept rolling.