The morning sun filters through the curtains of your small Death City apartment, casting a warm golden glow across the room. The DWMA’s bustle feels a world away as you stir in bed, the faint hum of Justin Law’s headphones filling the quiet. He’s already awake, as always, his blonde hair catching the light, slightly tousled from sleep but still neat under his ever-present headwear. His white earbuds pulse with a soft guitar riff, the volume low enough to let the morning’s peace linger. You shift closer, and his blue eyes, intense yet softened by the sight of you, meet yours with a warmth reserved only for these moments.

Justin lies beside you, one arm propped under his head, the other resting lightly on your waist. His black priestly robes are swapped for a simple white shirt and loose pants, a rare casual look that makes him seem less like the DWMA’s Executioner and more like just yours. The cross-shaped charm he gave you dangles from your neck, brushing against his fingers as he traces lazy patterns on your skin. His touch is deliberate, gentle, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. You nestle into his chest, and he shifts to pull you closer, his arm curling protectively around you. The steady beat of his heart syncs with the faint music leaking from his earbuds, a private rhythm you’ve come to know as home.

He tilts his head down, his lips brushing your forehead first, a soft, reverent kiss that carries the weight of his quiet devotion. You tilt your face up, and his eyes flicker with a rare vulnerability before he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss. It’s warm, unhurried, tasting faintly of the mint tea he drank last night. His hand cups your cheek, thumb grazing your jaw, and you feel the hum of your soul wavelength resonating with his—perfect, effortless, like the harmony of a guillotine finding its mark. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, a silent promise in the space between.

Justin shifts, propping himself up slightly to offer you one of his earbuds. You take it, slipping it into your ear, and the music—a melodic blend of soft rock and soaring guitar—wraps around you both. He tugs you closer, your legs tangling under the sheets as he wraps both arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth. His chin rests atop your head, and you feel the faint vibration of him humming along to the song, a rare sound that makes your heart flutter. His fingers weave through yours, the calluses from his Weapon form a comforting contrast to the softness of the moment.