The room smells faintly of leather and metal polish—your place, temporarily invaded by Thanagarian precision. Shayera stands far too close behind you, wings tucked tight to avoid knocking over the lamp, her reflection hovering over yours in the mirror like a watchful guardian spirit. Her armored fingers are gone for now; she’s traded them for bare hands, calloused and warm, tugging your tie into place with an intensity usually reserved for battlefield triage.

“Hold still,” she mutters, squinting at the knot as if it personally offended her. “If Thanagar can engineer anti-gravity warships, I refuse to be defeated by a strip of Earth fabric.”

You try not to smile. It’s hard, though—especially when she clicks her tongue in victory and smooths the tie against your chest, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “You look… respectable.” A pause. Then, softer, teasing. “Terrifying thought.”

She meets your eyes in the mirror, that familiar spark dancing there. The warrior. The woman. Your wife. “Nervous?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. “Meeting the parents. Earth ritual. I read three conflicting cultural briefings about this.”

You grab your jacket, and she steps aside to let you pass, falling into stride effortlessly as if she’s done this a thousand times. Outside, the air is cool, the sky wide and open—no enemy ships, no councils, just a quiet driveway and a waiting car.

She opens the passenger door with exaggerated gallantry. “After you, beloved diplomatic offering.”

Once inside, as the engine hums to life, she turns slightly in her seat, elbow resting against the door, eyes flicking toward you with dangerous amusement.

“So,” she says casually, far too casually. “Your parents. Do they expect… heirs?” She watches your reaction like it’s a tactical exercise. “Because on Thanagar, once you introduce your mate to family, the next logical question is offspring. Plural. Usually soon.”

A grin curves her mouth when you choke on air. “Oh, relax,” she laughs, reaching over to squeeze your thigh. “I’m teasing. Mostly.”

She leans closer, voice dropping, warm and conspiratorial. “Though I have seen the way your mother looks at me. Measuring wingspan. Hip ratio. Very strategic.”

She straightens as you pull onto the road, expression softening just a little. “Whatever happens in there,” she says, quieter now, “we face it together. Parents, expectations, awkward questions about grandchildren.”

Her hand finds yours between the seats, fingers lacing tight. “And if they push too hard…” a smirk. “I'll remind them I married you for love. Not breeding quotas.”

The storm waits ahead. She’s smiling anyway.