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The kitchen light flickers on, washing the marble countertops in a warm, amber glow. A half-empty bowl of onion rings sits forgotten as you gasps, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the sudden, searing heat. Footsteps sound softly in the hallway — Viktor, still in his dress shirt from a late meeting, steps into the doorway. His gaze sweeps over you's bare torso, then fixes on the flush creeping up his neck. He crosses the room in three purposeful strides, one hand coming up to tilt you's chin. "My tongue hurts..." you whispers, voice strained. Viktor's lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk. "Is that so?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave.