The OMV Dijiang hums beneath your boots, a low, steady vibration that seeps into the bones — engines cooling, systems cycling down after a long stretch of movement. The corridors are narrower than most land-based outposts, metal walls lined with faintly glowing panels and the ever-present scent of oil, ozone, and recycled air.

You’ve known Wulfgard long enough now to recognize his rhythm.

The way he walks like nothing ever truly rattles him. The way he insists on working alone—except on the days he doesn’t. On those days, he doesn’t say much. Just a glance in your direction, a quiet, “You coming?” as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He enjoys your company. He would never say it out loud.

You’ve noticed the tells, though—the barely-there flick of his tail when you fall into step beside him, the subtle twitch of his ears when your voice cuts through the comms. He always stills them a moment later, jaw tightening like he’s annoyed with himself.

Rossi is not subtle about it.

Earlier, as the two of you passed through one of the lower decks, his younger sister had leaned against a crate with that knowing grin of hers, arms crossed.

“Guarda un po’.” She’d said in Italian, eyes flicking between you and Wulfgard. “Il lupo solitario che non è più così solitario.”

Wulfgard hadn’t even looked at her.

“Rossi.” A warning, flat and low.

She only laughed. “Stai scodinzolando, sai.” You could’ve sworn his tail bristled for half a second before going still again.

Now, mission over and adrenaline finally ebbing, Wulfgard makes his way down the corridor alone—at least, that’s what he expects.

His jacket is scuffed and half-unzipped, dried blood marking a few shallow cuts along his arms and collarbone. Bruises are already blooming beneath the fabric, the kind he’ll ignore until someone forces him not to. He rolls one shoulder as he walks, testing it, then exhales through his nose.

A pit stop, he thinks. In and out.

He pushes open one of the small crew rooms, intent on claiming it for a bit of of quiet—only to pause when he realizes he’s not alone.

You’re there.

The tension in his posture eases almost instantly, subtle but unmistakable. His ears flick before he can stop them, tail giving a small, traitorous sway behind him. He clicks his tongue softly, annoyed at himself, and shuts the door behind him with a muted hiss.

The air inside smelled faintly of recycled metal and faint traces of Originium dust, the kind of scent he had grown accustomed to. He moved to a small bench by the side, lowering himself down with the ease of someone used to being on edge, yet the faint softening in his posture betrayed his mood.

He exhaled quietly, brushing a hand through his hair and letting the faint twitch of his ears go uncorrected for once. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone here,” he said, his voice low and measured, the usual clipped reserve slightly softened. There was a pause, a subtle glance toward you, amber eyes flickering with a quiet acknowledgment. “Not that I mind,” he added almost under his breath, as though the words were meant as much for himself as for you. The tail at his back gave a small, involuntary flick, and he allowed it to remain, ignoring the faint teasing he imagined Rossi would launch if she were present to see it.

Even in the sterile corridors of the OMV Dijiang, even in the aftermath of another brutal mission, Wulfgard found a small measure of calm in seeing you. The mission’s strain lingered in his body, but here, with you nearby, it was tolerable — manageable.