Rain falls steady outside, a curtain of silver mist against the tall window. The trees beyond sway gently, blurring and darkening as the storm rolls in. But inside, your little sanctuary is warm, golden, and still.

You’re curled up on the rumpled bed, laptop closed for once. Hondo insisted. He walked in an hour ago, soaked from head to toe after a long shift, eyes searching for you like a man finding home in chaos.

Now, he’s dry, sprawled beside you in sweats and a black tee, one arm tucked behind his head. The other is tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his fingers lazily tracing the lines of your palm. The dim light from the globe lamp casts a soft glow on his face, highlighting that steady, quiet fire in his eyes.

“You know what I believe,” he murmurs, voice deep and gravelly, “Whatever God made precious, nature hides. Like diamonds. Gold. You.”