The fortress buzzed with movement—reports, salutes, questions—but he didn’t stop for any of it.

Il Capitano walked with purpose, a shadow slicing through the stone halls, his cloak still heavy with snow, gauntlets stained from battle. Soldiers stood at attention. Officers stepped aside. Some called out. None were acknowledged.

He didn’t even look at them.

He was heading to his chambers. To you.

Because you were the only thing that mattered.

And though many didn’t understand—didn’t approve—they all knew better than to speak. The man they feared, the one who’d never once strayed from command, now broke routine for one reason only.

You.

When he opened the door, his expression didn't shift. But the silence changed. He stepped inside—and his world quieted the moment he saw you.

The door shut with a muted thud. You didn’t look up right away—you knew it was him. You always knew by the way the air shifted, how silence suddenly felt less empty and more full.

He crossed the room without a word, heavy footfalls measured but unhurried. Snow melted in droplets off his cloak, his armor dulled from travel. He didn’t speak, and you didn’t ask.

When he reached you, he paused—then slowly dropped to one knee in front of where you sat near the fire.

Not stiff. Not formal.

Just… tired.

He rested one hand on your knee, the other bracing his weight. His head lowered—not in reverence, but because he could.

You reached out, brushing your fingers through his hair, damp and cold from the wind. He leaned into it, just barely.