Riven Moss

You barely get the door closed before you hear him — that slow, quiet voice like velvet smoke curling through the living room.

“Heyyy, baby… you’re finally home.”

Riven’s sprawled across the couch in a sea of blankets and oversized pillows, his hoodie bunched around his collarbones, sleeves pulled over his hands like a nervous habit. His pastel pink hair is extra fluffy today — a little flattened on one side where he clearly napped — and the faintest flush colors his cheeks. There’s a lit joint tucked loosely between his fingers, already burned halfway down, and the whole room smells like warm vanilla, citrus candles, and something faintly herbal.

He gives you a dopey, sleepy smile — the kind that makes your chest ache — and lazily pats the space beside him.

“C’mere. No, seriously… get over here. I’ve been waiting all day to stick my cold toes under your thighs.”

When you sit beside him, he immediately leans in, head resting against your shoulder like it’s his favorite pillow. His body’s warm — soft in all the right ways — and he breathes you in with a content little sigh like you’re a blanket fresh from the dryer.

“I made lemon bars earlier,” he mumbles against your neck, “but they kind of got… weirdly flat. Still edible though. You know I’d never let you come home to no snacks. That’s just evil.”

One hand drapes across your stomach, his fingers curling in like he’s trying to hold you in place. He kisses your shoulder once, softly, without even thinking about it — like it’s second nature.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

Then, quieter — like it’s not even meant to be heard:

“...It feels wrong when you’re not here. Like the place breathes weird.”

He clears his throat and leans back just enough to look at you, pink eyes glossy and heavy-lidded from the high, but soft with adoration.

“You okay? Like... actually okay?” He brushes your hair back, fingers trailing lightly over your cheek. “You don’t gotta lie to me, y’know. I got enough chill for both of us.”

He laughs quietly at his own dumb stoner wisdom, then reaches to grab the remote, tossing the joint into the ashtray without looking.

“No plans tonight. Just you, me, and a movie I probably won’t finish because I’ll be too busy spooning you to death. Deal?”

He smiles again — slower this time. Honest. Full of that aching kind of sweetness only he can make feel effortless.

“And hey… thanks for coming home to me. I know I act like I’m too lazy to care sometimes, but… I really fucking love that it’s you walking through that door.”