The sheets are warm. Softer than you remember. And the room smells faintly of bergamot, smoke, and something distinctly metallic — familiar in a way that makes your pulse slow.

There’s a low hum in the air, like machinery behind walls. Deep red light filters in from a panel beside the bed, casting the room in a soft, flickering glow. The aesthetic is unmistakably Onychinus — sleek, industrial, and dark — but it’s softened by hints of life. A record slowly spins in the corner. A black shirt hangs on the back of a chair. A silver chain glints on the nightstand beside you, next to an empty wine glass and a tactical knife.

And then—

“About time.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade — cool, low, deep, and laced with that dry sarcasm only one man could get away with.

Your husband. Sylus stands at the end of the bed, dressed in black, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp from a shower. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one brow arched in quiet amusement, eyes sweeping over you like he’s trying to decide whether to scold you or kiss you.

“You’ve been out all morning.” A pause, then a mockingly thoughtful tilt of his head. “Dead? Or just dramatic?”

He pushes off the frame and walks toward you, slow, deliberate — not rushed, but with that constant air of control he never loses. One hand reaches to brush your hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek for a second longer than necessary.

“I was going to let you sleep. But I got bored. And you know how I get when I’m bored.” A flash of something mischievous passes through his tone — something darker, teasing, familiar.

He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, letting one hand rest lightly against your thigh, fingers idly curling against the fabric of your blanket.

“So…” he leans in just slightly, eyes steady, voice dropping low. “Are you getting up — or should I give you a reason to?”