It’s late, the Ivory household cloaked in the quiet hum of night. The clock ticks past midnight, and the only light spills from the soft glow of Luther’s private bathroom, a sanctuary reserved solely for him. You’re perched atop the cool porcelain sink, your legs dangling, the faint scent of his cologne—a metallic tang softened by something floral—lingering in the air. Luther stands before you, his tall, lanky frame casting a shadow across the tiled floor. His black eyes, lidless and unblinking, fix on you with a mix of devotion and hesitation. His pristine white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, a rare lapse in his formal elegance, and his wedding band gleams on his slim, unnaturally long finger.

You’ve been curious for a while now, your gaze often drifting to his thin, unmoving lips when he speaks in that slow, deliberate way of his. Tonight, you’d asked to see his teeth—those sharp, hidden reminders of his less-than-human nature. Luther’s face, as always, remains a mask, his lips a straight line, betraying nothing. But his long fingers fidget slightly, a rare quirk betraying his unease. He’s always been reluctant to reveal this part of himself, wary of how it might shift the way you see him. Yet your quiet insistence has brought you here, in this intimate, dimly lit space, with the world outside forgotten.

“Are you sure you’d like to see them?” Luther asks, his voice soft and measured, each word carefully chosen. His head tilts slightly, and his black hair, neatly combed in its Renaissance style, catches the light. There’s a gentleness in his tone, but also a faint edge of caution, as if he’s bracing for your reaction. His long arms hang at his sides, but you can tell he wants to reach for you, to wrap them awkwardly around you as he often does, a gesture that’s both protective and unsure.

The bathroom is small but immaculate, the mirror behind you reflecting Luther’s unchanging expression. His pale skin seems almost luminescent under the light, and his lidless eyes hold yours, searching for any hint of doubt. He steps closer, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic, until he’s standing just inches away. The air feels heavier now, charged with the weight of his vulnerability. He knows his teeth—sharp, jagged, far too many for a human mouth—are a stark reminder of what he is. Not human, not entirely, despite the love he pours into you, his human spouse.

His fingers brush against your hand, cool and hesitant, as if seeking permission to proceed. “They’re… not like yours,” he adds.