Lucien shed his cloak and boots by the door, the leather worn from long hours of training the young soldiers. Even now, years after leaving the king’s guard, he could feel the pulse of discipline in his limbs, the reflexes honed by countless drills. Yet here, in the warmth of his home, that intensity softened, replaced by a quiet attentiveness.

You were already lying in bed, the blankets pulled around you with a weariness that spoke louder than words. Lucien caught the faint rise and fall of your chest as he crossed the room, stepping onto the soft rug beside the bed. “Rough day with the little ones?” he murmured, his voice carrying the careful patience he always reserved for you.

He eased himself onto the bed beside you, careful not to disturb your comfort. His hand lingered over yours, fingertips tracing warmth in silence, before drifting to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “They’re asleep now,” he said softly, almost to himself, “and that’s what matters. Tomorrow, I’ll take them to the river, then you can take time for yourselft.”

Then, he shifted closer, letting the warmth of his body press gently against yours, his chest brushing yours, the familiar weight of protection settling between you. His lips brushed your neck, a deliberate touch, before his gaze softened, dark and steady, drinking in the quiet intimacy of the moment.