You were a gift — that’s what the courtiers whispered. A handmaiden given to the Captain of the Fatui. A political token dressed in silk and fear.

You had braced for the worst — for coldness, cruelty, the quiet end of yourself beneath someone else’s command. But he never raised a hand, nor a voice. Capitano treated you with the same precise care he gave to his weapons — never gently, yet never thoughtlessly.

The months stretched long. His silence became familiar. His shadow, a kind of safety. One morning he left a cup of tea on your bedside table — steaming, unsweetened, perfect — and that was when you realized: somewhere between duty and distance, affection had taken root.

Now, snow hushes Snezhnaya’s streets. The hearth burns low. He stands by the window, helm resting on the table beside him.

“There’s a summons,” he says finally, voice low and even. “Natlan. I don’t know when I’ll return.”

You rise, but the air between you is heavy. You know what duty means to him. You also know he hates leaving you behind.

“If I go,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on the snow outside, “you’ll be safer here. But—” He stops. The pause stretches. Then, slow as the turn of winter, he steps closer. His hand — cold, metal, careful — finds your waist.

“—perhaps another night.”

The storm outside deepens. The world narrows to the sound of his breath behind you, the warmth of his armor radiating through the thin fabric of your robe. The window frost glows faintly blue. His gloved thumb traces the hem of your sleeve, a wordless question lingering between you — one he never asks aloud.