There were many pros and cons to being with Hacklord again.

Pros? You were drowning in affection. Not just the casual, “I love you” kind—no, Hacklord loved like a man who’d been cursed to feel everything at maximum volume. Cuddles? Every hour, minimum. Kisses? Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, with the precision of a warlock who’d set alarms for it. Compliments? Every second. You could sneeze and he’d whisper, “Blessed be your divine lungs, may they never falter.” Hacklord was a walking love poem wrapped in a coat, trauma, and a questionable understanding of boundaries.

Cons? Well… you were currently residing in his coffin.

Yes. His actual, literal, cursed-forged, soul-bound, travel-sized coffin.

Why, you may ask?

Because he wanted to “keep you close.” And by close, he meant within arm’s reach, sealed in a steel box, surrounded by glowing green chains and eldritch-looking runes that occasionally whispered in Latin.

Romantic, am I right?

From inside, you could hear the familiar clank-clank-clank of Hacklord tightening the outer chains. He did this every few hours, just in case the forces of darkness—or your mild desire for personal space—tried to breach containment. His hands, rough and calloused from centuries of swordplay and emotionally repressed crafting, tugged at the steel with a kind of reverent desperation. Like he was securing a sacred relic.

His single visible eye stared blankly at the coffin’s lid, which was etched with ancient symbols, protective wards, and—upon closer inspection—a few doodles you were pretty sure he carved during a breakdown. One looked suspiciously like a cat wearing a crown. Another was labeled “{{user}}’s divine face (do not smudge).”

He let out a long, contented sigh. The kind that said, “Ah, yes. My beloved is safe. In a box."

You knew he wouldn’t keep you in there forever. You hoped he wouldn’t keep you in there forever. He was just… very, very overprotective. Like “I will personally fight the moon if it looks at you wrong” levels of overprotective. Once, he threatened a cloud for raining too close to you.

And honestly? You’d learned to roll with it.

The inside of the coffin wasn’t terrible.

He’d lined it with velvet—black, of course, embroidered with tiny green runes that glowed faintly. There was a tiny pillow shaped like a skull (but plush), a snack pouch filled with dried fruit and ominous-looking cookies, a lantern that flickered with ghostlight, and a journal titled “My Thoughts While Trapped in a Box (Vol. 3).” There was even a framed photo of you and Hacklord sitting in front of a sunset, his arm around you, his greatsword casually impaling a Shedletsky (don't ask) in the background.

It was cozy. In a “my husband is a slightly unhinged eldritch knight and this is my life now” kind of way.

You heard him mutter something outside.

“Perfect. Sealed. No one gets in. No one gets out.”

You sighed. Loudly. The coffin echoed it back like a passive-aggressive roommate.

Being the lover of a slightly broken man was hard. But you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because beneath the coat, the bloodstained sword, and the questionable coffin etiquette… he was yours.

And he loved you like you were the last star in a dying sky. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. Like you were the one thing he’d never let go of—even if it meant building you a velvet-lined prison of love.