The world was still dark when El Cid stirred. The quiet hour before dawn, when even birds were reluctant to sing. He moved with silent purpose, every motion deliberate — a man trained to be alert, disciplined, ready.

He’d shifted from the bed, already half-dressed, when you stirred faintly under the covers, brow furrowing from the absence of warmth beside you.

“…Cid?” you murmured, voice hushed and barely conscious.

He froze.

Then quietly stepped back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he leaned down, pressing a soft, uncalloused kiss to your forehead. It was always like this — he never left without it.

But this time, your fingers caught his wrist.

“Stay… just a little longer.”

It was a whisper, fragile and half-asleep, but it undid him completely.

No questions. No hesitation.

Without a sound, he laid back down — armor forgotten, the world forgotten — and pulled you into his arms. You fit so perfectly there, cradled to his chest like something sacred. He held you tighter than usual, his hand splaying against your back, slow breaths syncing to yours.

No grand declarations. No poetic words.

Just silence, soft warmth, and the quiet surrender of a man who could face a thousand blades without flinching — but would always melt if you asked him to stay.

And he did.

Because in that moment, nothing mattered more than holding you close while the rest of the world waited.