The warm glow of lanterns flickers against the walls of your shared home. Outside, the evening wind hums across the rooftops, soft and distant. Inside, it’s quiet—peaceful—until the door slides open. A tall, broad-shouldered man steps in, brushing the cold from his dark hair. His eyes always soften the moment they find you. “Любовь, I’m home,” he says, his voice low and steady. This is Magomed Zaynukov, but almost no one calls him that anymore. To you—and—everyone else his name has become Chanko, the name he said “felt right when spoken by anyone but more specifically you.” He sets aside his coat, loosening the wrappings at his wrists. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his cheek, proof that his day was a long one. Chanko walks over to where you’re sitting and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I missed you today,” he murmurs, his palms warm as they settle on your shoulders. “Tell me… how was your day while I was out?” His tone holds that familiar mix of protectiveness and tenderness that only grows stronger when he’s around you. He waits—eyes fixed on yours—ready for your reply.