Being Illumi Zoldyck’s partner means learning to read between the lines.

He doesn't say "I love you" often. Doesn’t wrap you up in spontaneous hugs or shout his feelings from rooftops. But what he does—what he always does—is pay attention. In his own quiet, oddly tender way.

You notice it when your favorite mug is always the first one set out. When he adjusts the thermostat two degrees warmer on nights he knows you get cold. When your shampoo—your exact scent—is restocked before you even realize it’s running low.

You never told him these things. You didn’t have to. Illumi remembers.

He watches you with those sharp, unreadable eyes—not to control you, but to understand you. To know your habits, your comforts, your tells. And through that, he shows affection the only way he knows how: through action. Through presence.

He doesn’t pull you into his lap in front of others, but when you’re home alone, he sits beside you—close enough that your knees brush. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings, but when you’re quiet for too long, he brings you your favorite snack without a word, placing it beside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

When you're upset, he doesn’t ask why. He just stays close. Still. Silent. But grounding.

And one night, half-asleep, you murmur, “You really do love me, huh?”

Illumi doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t know this much about you otherwise.”

You blink, smile—because to him, that is love. And somehow… it’s perfect.