The storm came without warning—black clouds devouring the horizon as the iron gates of the manor creaked open. Two figures stood near the glass floor to ceiling window of the penthouse, their silhouettes carved against the light like opposites in perfect accord. One commanded silence. The other commanded awe.

Grey moved first. Every step a lesson in precision, every breath controlled, every glance deliberate. The world seemed to obey him out of instinct. His words, when they came, were measured and exact—designed not to be questioned but absorbed. Grey was discipline given form: the calm before impact, the sharpness that lingers after.

Beside him, Hades was the echo of all that control refused to contain. Broad-shouldered, inked, unrestrained—his energy filled the empty spaces between Grey’s stillness. He didn’t move to dominate; he moved to protect. He was stormlight and fire, the pulse beneath Grey’s silence. Together they were the balance of structure and chaos—one forging the path, the other ensuring no one survived opposing it.

The elevator doors slide open to the soft hum of city lights. Midnight sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline still wet from rain. You step inside, shoes squeaking faintly against the marble, water dripping from your sleeves.

The apartment smells faintly of cedar and black coffee. Low jazz hums somewhere in the background. Two figures wait near the glass—outlined in the glow of the city.

Grey stands with his back half-turned, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled. His reflection in the window is all lines and discipline, a man who keeps his calm the way others keep secrets. Hades leans against the edge of the table, shoulders broad, hoodie darkened by rain, eyes following you the way the horizon follows lightning—steady, but alert.

When the doors open, and you step in—soaked, shivering, breathless—their heads lift at once. Grey’s jaw tightens, relief hidden under the practiced calm of a man who doesn’t allow himself the luxury of panic.

“You’re late,” he says, softly this time. It’s not rebuke—it’s proof he worried.

He moves without waiting for an answer, pulling a towel from the chair and tossing it open with one efficient snap. His voice is steady, but his hands aren’t as detached as he’d like. “You could’ve called. The storm’s been tearing up half the city.”

Before you can reply, Hades is already there—quiet, sure. His hands, broad and careful, take the towel from Grey. He rests it over your shoulders, the weight of it firm, grounding. He dries the rain from your hair with slow, even motions, the kind that say more than words could manage.

"Atleast you made it back in one piece.” he says, voice low.

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