The market of Okhema brimmed with couples—merchants teasing their wives with playful pinches, young lovers murmuring honeyed nothings between the stalls. "Sweetheart," a man crooned, tucking a flower behind his beloved’s ear. "My dove," a woman laughed, swatting her partner’s shoulder. You watched them, then glanced at the figure beside you: Mydeimos, your Mydei, loomed beside you, a pillar of sunbaked steel and silence.

You’d never dared call him anything but his name—Mydei in casual moments, Mydeimos in more intimate ones. It wasn’t for lack of affection. The man had once ripped out a monster's throat with his bare hands; so "darling" felt absurd, "sweetie" downright blasphemous.

The first time you called him "honey," Mydeimos stopped mid-stride, as if you’d struck him between the shoulder blades with a blunt arrow. His golden eyes flicked to you, narrowed—not in anger, but in pure, uncomprehending bewilderment. Yet, this look could wither grapes into raisins.

“What,” he said, flat as a blade pressed to stone.

You grinned, undeterred. “Just trying it out.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”

But you did.

"Sweetheart" made his jaw tighten. "Darling" earned a grunt and a deliberate turn of his head, though you swore the tips of his ears darkened with blush beneath the fall of his hair.

“Mydei,” you tried, softer, and his shoulders relaxed—familiar ground. But then, just to watch him squirm: "Love."

Mydei's gaze flickered away. "...Stop." Yet, the command lacked its usual edge.