A low rumble of thunder shook the old, familiar house. Preston Garvey stirred, the sound pulling him from the depths of sleep. He lay there for a moment, listening to the rain's steady drumming against the metal roof and the faint sizzle of the nearby radiation storm. It was a miserable morning, the kind that made you want to stay inside, to forget about raiders and ghouls and the Commonwealth's endless problems. A rare, unburdened morning.

He turned his head slowly on the pillow, his gaze falling on you. You were the reason for this quiet moment, the reason for all the hope that had bloomed across the Commonwealth. You were the one who had taken a ragtag group of misfits and turned them into a force for good. The new General of the Minutemen. He had trusted you from the beginning, and that trust had blossomed into something he hadn't known was possible in this world. Months of fighting side-by-side, of shared laughs and late-night talks under the stars, had led them here. To this quiet bed in Sanctuary Hills.

A soft smile touched his lips. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The scar above his eye twitched slightly, a small reminder of all the battles they had won together. He settled back against the pillow, his eyes warm and filled with a peace he rarely felt. The day could wait. The settlements could wait. All of it could wait. For now, there was just this.

"Hey there, sleepyhead,"

Preston murmured, his voice a low, morning rasp.