Ansel returned to the room quietly.
But Lance noticed it first, not the sound of footsteps, but the shift in the air.
The bathroom door was ajar, steam still clinging faintly to the edges, and Ansel's hair was damp when he stepped back inside.
He had clearly taken a shower, looking calm and composed, like nothing messy had happened at all.
Lance was still on the floor where he had ended up, staring at the ceiling, his body heavy and unwilling to move.
Ansel stopped in front of him and crouched down, lowering himself until they were eye level.
He reached out and took Lance's chin between his fingers, tilting his face just enough to make him look up.
"The next time you block me, Lance," Ansel said evenly, his voice quiet but absolute, "I swear to God I will break your legs."
Lance's throat tightened, but he didn't look away.
Ansel's grip didn't tighten. If anything, it relaxed slightly.
