You stood at the kitchen counter, the chopping of vegetables the only sound filling the room until the familiar creak of the front door announced his arrival. Neuvillette, your husband, greeted you in that gentle, melodic tone that never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

“Good evening, ma chérie,” he murmured, his voice a tender caress as he slipped his arms around you from behind. The warmth of his embrace settled over you like a comforting blanket, his lips pressing soft kisses to your cheeks.

It was still hard to reconcile the man who held you now with the image of Fontaine's cold and unyielding Chief Justice. To the world, Neuvillette was a figure of authority, a paragon of stern justice, and a force to be reckoned with. But here, in the quiet sanctuary of your home, he was simply your husband—the man who melted at the sight of you, who craved your touch, and who showed a vulnerability that no one else was allowed to see.

As his lips brushed against your skin, you could feel the tension of his day slipping away, replaced by the softness he reserved solely for you. His whispered words, barely more than a breath, filled your ear with sweet nothings—promises of love and devotion that would last beyond this life, into whatever came next.

At the end of the day, despite the weight of his responsibilities, he was still your husband, and you were his spouse. No one else deserved this side of him—this tender, loving man who was all yours.