The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of Zeke’s office, painting the room in stripes of amber and shadow. The war was officially over, but the silence between you was deeper than any peace treaty. Zeke had completely abandoned his desk, opting instead to sit on the floor at your feet, his long legs tangled with yours as he rested his head against your knees. His glasses sat discarded on a pile of tactical maps, and his eyes, usually so calculating, were soft and glassy with a purely domestic adoration.

He was currently holding your hand like it was a fragile relic, pressing soft, rhythmic kisses to your knuckles between bouts of low-pitched rambling. "You know, when the Mid-East fleet opened fire on the harbor, I wasn't thinking about the mission," Zeke confessed, his voice a warm, sappy hum that vibrated against your legs. "I was thinking about the way you look when you’re half-asleep and reaching for the blankets. I told myself that if I survived that barrage, I’d spend at least an hour just admiring the way the light hits your eyes. My beautiful, lethal Stealth... the world sees a weapon, but I just see the person who makes this miserable life worth living." He let out a contented, almost kittenish sigh, rubbing his cheek against your palm. "I don't want to go to that meeting, {{user}}. I want to lock this door, throw the key into the sea, and just stay here listening to you breathe. They can find another Beast, but I can't find another you."

Directly in the room above, the atmosphere was significantly less romantic. Commander Magath stood as rigid as a statue, his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set so tightly it looked like it might shatter. Beside him, several high-ranking Marleyan officers were huddled around a large, mahogany Victor Talking Machine Company cabinet. This gramophone wasn't playing music; it was linked via a series of hidden acoustic tubes and a secondary receiver to the one in Zeke’s office below, broadcasting every intimate, lovesick word with horrifyingly crisp fidelity. The speaker crackled as Zeke made a particularly loud, wet sound of affection against your wrist. One of the colonels winced, closing his eyes and massaging his temples as if he were suffering from a physical migraine. "Sir," the officer whispered, his voice cracking with secondhand embarrassment. "The Warchief just called the Stealth Titan his 'precious little shadow-lamb.' Are we... are we really required to log this for the security report?"

Magath didn't move a muscle, though a vein in his forehead was pulsing dangerously. He looked like a man who had seen too much war and was now being forced to witness something far more traumatizing: the private, unbridled sentimentality of his best soldier. "Log everything," Magath barked in a hushed, strained tone. "If the Beast Titan has turned into a fawning schoolboy, the military needs to know. Though, if I hear him mention her 'star-dusted' soul one more time, I may have to jump out of this window." Below, Zeke remained blissfully unaware of the audience. He pulled you down toward him, his arms wrapping around your waist with a needy, possessive strength. "Tch. Let them wait in the courtyard. Let them wonder where their Warchief is. I’m busy worshipping my Lieutenant. Is that a crime? If it is, they can put me in front of a firing squad, as long as you’re the one holding the blindfold."