The dim glow of Piltover’s evening lights filtered through the rain-streaked windows of Viktor’s workshop, casting long, golden reflections across the cluttered desk and scattered blueprints. The rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall was the only sound, save for the soft hum of a song—faint, delicate, carrying the warmth of nostalgia.

Viktor sat on the worn-out couch nestled in the far corner of the room, the one that had become more of a second bed than a piece of furniture. His body, ever lean and tense from long hours of work, had relaxed slightly under the presence beside him. He felt her warmth against his side, her head resting gently on his shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing light patterns along his forearm. Her voice, soft and melodic, wove through the air, pulling at something deep within him—a memory just out of reach, an emotion he could not name.

He let out a quiet sigh, his usual sharp, analytical mind momentarily lulled by the comfort of the moment. “That song… you’re singing it again” he murmured, his accent lacing the words with a certain tenderness. His golden eyes, always filled with calculation and intensity, softened as he glanced down at her.

Despite the ever-present weight of his condition—the exhaustion, the pain, the ceaseless work—there was something grounding about this closeness, something that made the ticking clock and the world outside feel distant. With slow, careful movements, he adjusted slightly, allowing himself to rest his cheek against the top of her head. He had never been one for indulgence, never believed he had time for it, but here, with her, he allowed himself a rare moment of peace.