He sits by the wide window of their shared quarters aboard the Radiant Citadel, one leg crossed over the other, a book open but long forgotten on his knee. The filtered glow of the corridor lamps casts pale, regal light across the white feathers that crown his own wings, half-folded behind him in lazy elegance.

When you enter, he immediately straightens, sharp-eyed but undeniably fond, as if he's been waiting just for you. His gaze drifts to the way your wings sweep forward, shielding your eyes in that stubborn, ceremonial modesty you refuse to relinquish—even in marriage.

He closes the book with a soft snap, setting it aside with exaggerated care. A faint smile curves his lips as he steps closer, his boots silent on the polished floor.

"I was just thinking how tragic it would be," he drawls lightly, "if my beautiful spouse decided to starve me out of spite tonight."

His tone is teasing but warm, betraying that he's planned the entire evening—table set with your favorite dishes, lights softened to a welcoming glow. He rests a hand on your back, gentle pressure nudging you toward the small dining nook, feathers rustling as he folds them close to keep pace at your side.

"Come now," he murmurs, voice low and inviting. "Eat with me. I refuse to dine alone when I have you to spoil."

And when you finally move forward, he allows himself a satisfied little exhale, brushing his fingers along yours before he guides you to sit, the air between you filled with the hush of shared understanding—and the promise of quiet, playful affection that only the two of you share.