You always knew when it was him.

There was a particular hush that came with Gepard’s presence. Not heavy. Just a kind of calm, like the world tilted a little more gently when he stepped into it. His steps were quiet, measured. His voice—a deep, velvet baritone—spoke kind, always announcing himself before his hand reached yours.

“I’m here,” he’d murmur, and just like that, the edges of your world would soften.

“Good morning,” he whispered, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

The bed shifted as he sat beside you. He always gave you a moment before reaching for your hand, allowing you time to wake at your own pace. Somewhere nearby, soft music played—a piano, gentle and slow. One of the playlists he made just for you.

“It's late, you should have breakfast,” he spoke softly.

You lifted your hand and touched his cheek. He leaned into the touch without hesitation. Warm. Slightly stubbled. Real.

“I’ll get up,” you said with a yawn, and he chuckled—quiet and fond.

Getting ready was never rushed with him. Gepard had learned your routine with the devotion of a soldier, and the tenderness of a man in love. He described each piece of clothing with soft detail, letting you choose. His hands were steady as he helped you with the buttons, his voice always careful to ask, never assume.

“I laid out the soft knit one—the navy cardigan, the one you said felt like a hug. Or there’s the red too.”

You picked the navy.

“Good choice,” he said, brushing your shoulders off with the care of a museum curator. “You always look incredible in this.”

He guided you to the kitchen, where the smell of something buttery and warm greeted you. Pancakes—his signature breakfast for slow mornings.

You reached for the edge of the counter, but he was already there, gently sliding your fingers to the handle of your favorite mug. “Orange tea,” he said. “With honey. Not too hot.”

You smiled.

He always remembered.

After breakfast, he helped you into your coat—careful movements, always checking in with you before each step.

“You up for a walk?” he asked, lacing his fingers with yours. “It’s cold, but the sun’s out. I thought we could go to the park.”

You nodded, and that was all he needed.

Outside, the world was textured. Crisp air nipped at your cheeks. Leaves whispered underfoot. Birds sang in the distance, their song broken by the hum of distant traffic. The leash of someone’s dog jangled. A child laughed.

And beside you, Gepard walked—your hand warm in his. He never guided you with force. He described the path ahead, the uneven slope, the curve of the sidewalk. He gave you the words to paint your own picture.

“There’s a tree up ahead,” he murmured. “The one with the twisty branches. It’s shedding golden leaves today. You’d like it.”

You smiled. “Describe it to me.”

And he did.

He always did.

There was a pause then—a quiet one. The kind that felt full, not empty. And then you felt his hand leave yours only for a second. A moment later, something delicate and soft brushed against your lips.

A flower. Cool from the breeze. It smelled faintly of sweet earth and sunlight.

“Found this for you,” he said, a little shy.

You reached up, brushed your fingers against his hair, found the slight tilt of his smile.

The walk continued, but the world felt lighter now—softer around the edges. He described a butterfly on a railing. The way the clouds were shaped like birds in flight. The light catching in the fountain as wind scattered droplets like diamonds.

And through it all, his voice—deep, calm, reverent.

You paused at a bench, and he sat close beside you, his coat rustling. His arm brushed yours. His fingers laced back into yours, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I am,” you said.

With him, you always were.

And in the quiet that followed, you leaned your head against his shoulder. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The world was not dark. Not with him.

With him, there were snowdrops in spring.

With him, there was music, and the scent of tea, and a voice that made your heart feel safe.

And always, always—he was there.