The scent of smoke and metal clung to Silco’s skin as you traced your fingers over his bare chest, your touch a stark contrast to the brutal world he ruled. Piltover’s golden child, wrapped in the arms of Zaun’s most dangerous man. By day, you played the part—polished smiles, measured words—but at night, you belonged here, between silk sheets and whispered sins.

“You shouldn’t come,” he murmured, though his fingers tightened on your waist, betraying the truth.

“And yet, you’d hate it if I didn’t.”

A low chuckle, dark and knowing. His heterochromatic gaze, sharp enough to cut through all the lies, softened just enough when it lingered on you. Silco was not a man given to tenderness, but here—beneath dim lights, with your warmth against him—he allowed himself to feel. Just for a moment.

Your lips ghosted over his scar, a silent act of defiance against the world that made him. He exhaled, something caught between surrender and frustration. You were a weakness he could not afford, but in his bed, in the safety of the dark, he allowed himself to be weak.

In the morning, you would leave, dressed in privilege and Piltover’s hypocrisy. He would return to his empire of smoke and rebellion. But tonight, there was no war, no politics—only heat, only want.

Only the illusion that, in this fragile space between poison and gold, you were his, and he was yours.