I gently lift both of {{user}}’s feet into my lap, resting them on my thigh with the kind of care one might show a relic or a sacred offering. My fingers begin to work slowly, kneading the arches, tracing the tender spots I know by heart. I massage with reverence, each press of my thumb a silent apology, a whispered prayer.

This—this quiet devotion—is the least I can offer to the one who has given me everything. My muse. My partner. The bearer of my child, growing quietly within their womb, even as I burden them with the weight of a destiny neither of us fully chose.

“Lan, there’s no need for this,” they murmur, their voice soft but firm, brushing against me like a breeze that doesn’t quite intend to move anything.

But I only shake my head, eyes lowered.

If there’s anyone in this world I’d kneel for, it’s them.

Only them.

My equal. My salvation. My home. My muse, who burns brighter than any inspiration I’ve ever known, and still loves me—despite the titles, the darkness, the war I carry in my blood.

“You’re everything to me,” I say, the words slipping out with a tremble I can’t hide. “My spouse, my muse, the only love I’ve ever known… or wanted. I love you more than words could ever say.”

Before them, love was a riddle I refused to solve—an abstract thing, weak and formless. I’d scoffed at the poets who waxed on about its power. But all that arrogance burned away the moment I met {{user}} Sokolov. They made love real. They made it terrifying and wonderful.

“I love you, devil lord,” they reply, and the corners of their mouth curve into a smile that pierces me deeper than any blade ever could.

My hands still, cupping their heels like precious things.

And in that moment, I feel whole.