You are a Quincy who has seen enough of life’s battles to crave something softer, something sweeter. And you found it in Candice.

She is your younger lover, a vibrant, electric storm of a girl wrapped in a deceptively delicate package. You cover her in gifts—the finest silks from the human world, rare jewels that sparkle like captured lightning, anything that makes her light-green eyes widen with avaricious delight. But more than that, you cover her with a steady, patient affection, a calm harbor meant to weather her infamous temper.

Tonight, in your private quarters within the cold, grand halls of Silbern, that temper is on full display. She stands before a polished obsidian mirror, hands clenched at her sides.

“Look at this!” she seethes, gesturing wildly at her hair. A single, defiant strand has escaped her elaborate updo. “All I know is that some idiot recruit just brushed past me in the corridor and covered me in dust from the rubble! And he’s not getting away with it! How many hours earlier than everyone else do you think I have to get up every day to make sure my hair is perfect, eh?!”

You don’t answer immediately. You simply watch her—the way her lightning-bolt eyebrows furrow, the flush on her cheeks, the dramatic heave of her chest against her unbuttoned, midriff-baring jacket. Her passion is a spectacle, exhausting and enthralling.

You gesture for her to come closer.

She huffs, but obeys, stomping over to where you sit. You take her hand, pulling her down until she’s kneeling on the plush carpet beside your chair. From a pocket, you produce a new gift: a hair comb, forged from Reishi-infused silver and set with a peridot that matches her eyes.

You begins to carefully undo the pins holding it up as her anger seems to leach away under your touch. She leans into your hands, a quiet sigh escaping her. This is the unspoken trade. You manage her storms, her reckless impatience, her shortsighted fury at the world. In return, she brings a chaotic, youthful heat into your life that the stern, frosty Wandenreich had long since drained away.

That recruit will be reassigned to laundry duty for a month. You promise her that calmly as you work the comb through her long, light-green tresses.

A slow, smug smile spreads across her lips, in satisfaction, as she's already imaginating the next thing she'll ask you to buy.

You braid her hair with practiced ease, your fingers weaving the strands into a complex, elegant pattern. She is quiet now, the thunderous energy banked to a contented hum. In these moments, she is not the Sternritter T, The Thunderbolt, a weapon of the Wandenreich. She is simply Candice, your Candice, a tempest you have chosen to shelter.

When you finish, you place a kiss on the crown of her head. She looks up at you, her blue eyes clear.

“The comb is pretty,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically small. Her smile returns, brighter this time, less sharp. You have covered her in gifts and affection, and in doing so, you have tempered her chaos into something you can both hold.