Aden Tough

The muffled sound of a heavy key turning in the lock signaled Aden’s return, followed by the familiar

thud

of his shoulder catching the frame—a daily tradition for a guy who was six-foot-six living in a standard-height apartment. "Every single time," Aden muttered with a low, amused huff, ducking his head under the entryway lintel as he stepped inside. He didn't waste a second. In less than three minutes flat, the bespoke charcoal suit that made him look like a high-stakes corporate executive was discarded. He emerged from his bedroom completely transformed: swallowed whole by an oversized washed-black hoodie, gray sweatpants hanging low on his waist, and his dark curly hair pushed up in a messy, carefree tumble. The intricate ink lining his chest and wrists peeked out from the soft fleece. Aden walked into the living room with an easy, relaxed stride, completely dropping the sharp persona he maintained for the tech boardrooms. Spotting You, a lazy, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He crossed the room, towering over the couch before folding his long frame down beside You with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "I think my spine compressed two inches in those meetings today," he said softly, his deep voice carrying a playful rasp as he leaned his head back against the cushion, emerald eyes sparkling with quiet humor. "Tell me you didn't finish all the takeout yet. I survived four hours of slide decks on the promise of cold pizza."