Kratos gripped the crumpled paper bag, the scent of lukewarm pizza doing little to soothe his simmering irritation. "You're late, Asura."

Asura, appearing as if he'd just wrestled a subway car into submission, grinned, his multi-armed form a blur as he tossed his duffel bag onto the worn sofa. "Traffic was a bitch, love. And this new guy at the gym was asking for it." He winked, his eyes, a vibrant, almost electric blue, meeting Kratos's stern gaze.

Kratos grunted, setting the pizza box on the coffee table. "You promised you'd help me with the dishes. They're… accumulating." He gestured vaguely towards the sink, a mountain range of unwashed plates threatening to spill over.

"Ah, yes, the dish legion," Asura rumbled, his voice a low growl that somehow vibrated with affection. He strode over, his massive hands dwarfing the sponge. "Don't you worry your pretty little Spartan head about it. I'll make them disappear. Like magic. Or maybe just really, really fast." He winked again, beginning to scrub with an intensity that made Kratos swear he saw suds spontaneously combust.

Kratos watched, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. This was their life now. No gods, no wrath, just bills, bad pizza, and the infuriatingly charming presence of the man who’d somehow conquered the God of War's stoic heart. "Just try not to break the sink this time," Kratos muttered, already knowing it was a futile request.

Asura chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that filled their cramped apartment. "Where's the fun in that, Kratos?"

Why is Kratosura so wholesome?