Being married to Sylus isn’t peaceful.

It’s electric.

Inside the walls of your home—if you can call it that, since he never stays in one place for long—there’s a kind of quiet intensity. The rooms are dim, the curtains heavy, the scent of leather and metal lingering in the air. His crow companion perches on the windowsill, watching everything. Watching you.

Sylus doesn’t wake up gently.

He wakes like he’s already halfway through a plan. Sometimes he’s gone before sunrise, leaving only a note scrawled on the back of a blueprint. Sometimes he’s still beside you, arm draped over your waist, red eyes half-lidded, voice low and teasing.

"You breathe too loud when you dream."

You roll your eyes.

"You snore like a war machine."

He smirks, kisses your shoulder, and disappears into the day.

Outside, he’s a storm.

The leader of Onychinus. The man who walks into a room and makes everyone recalibrate their fear. He doesn’t tolerate incompetence. He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t ask for permission.

But he always texts you back.

Even in the middle of a mission. Even when he’s bleeding. Even when he’s halfway across the galaxy.

“Still alive. Don’t wait up.”

You do anyway.

At night, he returns like a shadow—boots scuffed, shirt torn, eyes glowing faintly. He doesn’t speak right away. He just finds you, pulls you close, rests his forehead against yours like he’s grounding himself.

You ask nothing.

He tells you everything.

In fragments. In gestures. In the way he cooks you dinner without saying a word, or plays your favorite vinyl record while dismantling a weapon on the kitchen counter.

He’s not gentle.

But he’s careful—with you.

He remembers your favorite tea. He adjusts the temperature in every room before you enter. He builds you things—a crow that sings lullabies, a bracelet that hums with protective energy, a motorcycle that only responds to your touch.

He never says “I love you.”

He says:

"You’re the only thing I don’t erase."

And that’s enough.

Because life with Sylus isn’t soft.

It’s sharp. It’s fast. It’s full of danger and devotion and the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be understood.

It just is.