He told you once that peace didn’t exist — not for people like him. But lately, it’s started to look a lot like this.

Late evening settles over Onychinus’ private residential wing — the one almost no one is allowed near. You live here now. With him, as his wife.

The room is dim, lit by warm, red-hued panels recessed into the walls. His custom vinyl system plays something old and slow, something he swears “doesn’t sound like garbage.” Gemstones are laid out in neat trays beside encrypted tablets, and a glass case holds his newest rifles like artwork. But the rest? It’s quiet. Lived in. Shared.

You’re in one of his oversized shirts, curled up on the wide leather couch — the one he grumbles about because he didn’t pick it, but never replaces because you like it.

He walks in from the shower, hair damp, black lounge pants hanging low on his hips, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes find you immediately — sharp, but softer than anyone else ever gets to see. He stops, exhales like he’d been holding it in all day.

“You’re still awake.” His voice is rough around the edges, low, deep as always, not quite teasing. He always says that when he’s glad you waited up.

He doesn’t ask before coming over. Doesn’t need to. He drops the towel to the armrest and sinks down beside you, arm pulling you closer until your back rests against his chest. One of his hands lazily traces the edge of your thigh.

“I thought about you all day.” A quiet admittance. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Then, murmured against your shoulder:

“You know, if this is what peace feels like…” He exhales a small breath of a laugh — dry, but real. “…I might be getting used to it.”